Teaching Shakespeare

We just finished up our short story unit with a classic "The Great Rat Hunt" (When I Was Your Age, Volume I) by Lawrence Yep. After Thanksgiving we begin our Shakespeare Unit, which is exciting for many reasons. Come on, who says Shakespeare can't be fun? In my classroom, we raise the Globe Theater's imaginary roof and fling insults like macaroni in a food fight. Keep in mind we only read an abridged version of A Midsummer Night's Dream. There are times when I bust out the original gangster and copy pages from it.


Ten Shakespeare Side-Splitters:

1. Shakespearean insults (poisonous bunch-back'd toad!)
2. Discussing Black Death (aka The Plague)
3. Acting out scenes from Bottom and "the actors"
4. Writing a letter from Puck's point of view
5. Elizabethan garb fashion show
6. Guessing which one of the Shakespeare likenesses is accurate
7. Sword fights
8. Making up names and words
9. Writing a letter from Shakespeare's point of view
10. Creating alternative forms of entertainment (like seeing a play!)

Until this year, the sixth grade has performed Midsummer every spring. But in the last ten years or so, our school has doubled in size and we've outgrown the production. It used to be that every sixth grader had to participate. Then we started running out of parts and jobs for everyone. There's only so much you can do with 100 sixth graders, and only so many fairies can be onstage at once. Plus, the actors and five or six teachers were working through lunchtime for two and a half months, just to pull off a decent performance.

What if Shakespeare would've written about gangsters? Now that's entertainment!

P.S. This Zemanta feature has a mind of its own. It's really pissing me off. Hey, blogger brains! Get it right, for Shakespeare sakes!

A Quick Post

It's a boy!

From the Classroom

Me: "Did you ever have a special object or toy that eased your troubles?"

Girl: "I had an imaginary friend named Ghostly the Ghost. He played with me when I was lonely. But I couldn't see him, because he was a ghost."

My inner thought: "You can't see him because he's imaginary."

Me: "If you couldn't see him, then how did he make you feel less lonely?"

Girl: "By his words."

Me: "So you could hear him, but you couldn't see him?"

Girl: "He was a chatty ghost."

My inner thought: "So, in reality, you didn't have an imaginary friend, you were hearing voices."

Me: "You hear dead people."

ERB Week - Bubbles, Bubbles, and More Bubbles

For those of you who clicked on the title because you thought ERB was kin to HERB, as in the green stuff you smoke, you're going to be disappointed by this post. ERB stands for Educational Records Bureau, a standardized testing organization. This is the week when I get to read lame instructions that make me sound like a robot, and sixth graders get to fill in bubbles until their eyeballs bulge. In short, sixth graders lose a lot of class time with yours truly. So the momentum and continuity of our short story unit disappears like a Hemingway manuscript.

Currently we're reading stories from the anthology When I Was Your Age. This volume features autobiographical stories from Katherine Patterson, Susan Cooper, Laurence Yep, and Avi, just to name a few. The stories are short but powerful and elicit emotion from students. Can I ask for anything more?

No. I can't. But then ERBs roll into town every November, and most of the flare vanishes. It's tough to spark 11 and 12 year-olds after two hours of testing each morning. It can be done, but it takes a lot of nudging and inspiring. Guess that's why I get paid the big bucks, but it doesn't always work.

While students lean over their #2 pencils, I walk around a little, sip coffee at my desk, and post "You have ___ minutes remaining" on the white board. One thing I try not to do is type, because when a room is quiet, keyboards somehow amplify themselves. So that means no writing or editing or blogging. I do other things though. And here they are, in no particular order:

1. grade papers

2. read books (see far right for current selection)

3. plan ahead (when not procrastinating)

4. read blogs and leave quiet comments

5. eat (something with no loud, crinkly wrapper to peel away)

6. highlight random things I think are important (but they're not)

7. read first chapters on Amazon (the Look Inside feature is brilliant, I often buy books based on reading the first several pages)

8. file papers (a real snoozer)

9. delete useless emails

10. daydream

I only do 1-9 when I'm not doing #10.

At the plate: Al Capone Shines My Shoes, by Gennifer Choldenko

On deck: The Evolution of Calpernia Tate, by Jacqueline Kelly

In the hole: The Year the Swallows Came Early, by Kathryn Fitzmaurice

Cleanup Hitter: I am a Genius of Unspeakable Evil and I Want to be Your Class President, by Josh Lieb

Writing: After your comments on first chapter, shortened it and changed to present tense. I've used my colleagues and gathered books and other resources on birding. The bibliography for this novel might be longer than the first chapter. All helpful resources, even if not used directly. Thanks again for your comments!

Running: 3 miles on Sunday, gets dark early here, hate running in it.

House hunt: still looking.

Casey's Redemption Song

I've always liked Ernest Lawrence Thayer's "Casey at the Bat" but I can never get over the ending. For those who haven't read it, you can read it here. I get that the ending is natural and that it teaches quite a bit about life and failure. After all, baseball is a game of failure. If you bat .300, you're an all-star. That's 3 hits out of every 10 at bats. Thirty percent downright sucks in any other world, but not baseball. For the record, I don't like rhyme. Sometimes it's necessary or the poem doesn't read well. So this is my rebuttal to Thayer's classic, rhyming in all its glory.

Casey's Redemption Song

The Mudville nine were down ten runs and didn't have a chance,

With one out to give, they hung their heads like vanquished champs.

Most had parted for their cars, kids threw popcorn on the grounds,

For on this day, boos and jeers were about the only sounds.

From the dugout came the Mudville lead-off, another out for sure,

But when he swung at pitch two, the ball sailed high and pure.

With one to spare and nine runs behind, the Mudville crew was down,

The next bloke rapped his bat, and the ball flew to another town.

After two solo shots, the fans sensed their team's fate,

And more disappointed men and kids headed toward the gate.

The next three Mudville batters singled hard to right,

It seemed a magnet on the wall, just beyond the outfield light.

With the bases loaded and a stick walking toward the dish,

The sparse voices began to shout, "We want Casey, that's our wish!"

On this day, Casey was not near the rack of ash and wood,

He was in the bullpen, warming up his left arm good.

With the bases juiced, Stick fought off six before he let one go,

The ball sailed in the gap, between outfielders Manny and Moe.

Moe chased with vigor, and Manny slacked behind,

The bases cleared, but still down five were the Mudville nine.

From behind the dugout, three kids yelled and cheered for more,

They refused to see their heroes settle for the door.

Having scored five, the Nine neared the dugout step and began to encourage their mates,

Five more runs they needed, without one batter falling on his face.

Another Mudville slugger walked toward the ump, catcher, and plate,

Would he be the one to decide the Mudville fate?

With one hearty swing and two more to go, Flake stepped outside the box,

I should lay one down, he thought, I'm as quick as a red-tail fox.

The next pitch came, and Flake laid down a perfect ten,

He ran to first with all his might, and slid to safety on his chin.

A few yells echoed throughout the empty park,

The sun was leaving, and upon the Nine was the shadow of the dark.

Another slugger danced in the box, waiting his turn to be the last,

But like the others on his team, he refused to go without a final pass.

On the first pitch, Flake took second and eyed Slapper who stood on third,

After that, the Dancing Slugger hit one that was absurd.

The ball launched into dusk, disappearing at an alarming rate,

It went so high the fielders engaged in serious debate.

With two outs, Slapper and Flake ran home without a single care,

And Dancing Slugger flew around the paths as fast as he could dare.

Slapper and Flake scored two, and Slugger added another,

After the change went on the board, the ball plunked down between Moe and his brother.

Down only two and still holding the rope,

The Mudville manager called the pen and summoned his mighty hope.

"Get Casey ready!" he shouted through the phone,

"We have a chance and he's our last bone!"

Casey threw and threw until he was loose, he'd be ready if he got a shot,

For the Mudville nine there was no choice, he was the only arm left to rot.

Worried and stiff, the pitcher threw four straight outside the zone,

The ump called four balls and said, "Number Nine, you may walk to first alone."

With a mate on first, Lead-off blasted one through the hole,

Short and Third dove hard, but couldn't come up with the ball.

With two on base and two runs to tie, the next winger came to hit,

But before he dug in, the manager came out to chat with the ump for a bit.

The manager waved at the pen and signaled and spat,

Soon out walked the former slugger Casey, carrying his mighty bat.

The ump whispered to the manager, "You'll be forced to France!"

The manager shrugged, "I like Casey, he deserves another chance."

On his way to the plate, there were three shouts for "Mighty Casey!" throughout the den,

For the three behind the dugout believed the nine would win.

Casey cleared the box with his spikes and dug them in the dirt,

If he went down on three again, boy how it would hurt.

He eyed the pitcher, who held the ball with a tight grip across the laces,

While the Mudville dugout and the three behind watched with frozen faces.

The pitcher threw number one, and down the pipe it came,

Casey swiped and missed, with no one else to blame.

A man on first, a man on second, all for Casey to plate,

If he didn't do it this time, the fans would surely hate.

Number two danced and swirled toward home and wouldn't hold still,

The curve was Casey's weakness and he couldn't see the pill.

Casey swung and missed and completely lost his foot,

When he rose from the dirt, his mouth was full of chalk and soot.

Casey brushed off and gripped his bat with all his strength and might,

He gritted his teeth and said a prayer, wishing to have good sight.

His Mudville mates couldn't watch strike number three,

So they all turned away and pretended not to see.

Casey dug in and set his feet; he tapped the plate with his powerful lumber,

In the dugout the manager hung his head, looking pale and somber.

The pitcher wound, the three behind the dugout sang, the ball came screaming home,

Casey took his inward turn and set to rap his bat through the zone.

His legs stretched tight, his arms unfurled, and his head stayed on plane,

The bat flung neatly through the zone, creating a hurricane.

Leather struck lumber, ball struck bat, the sound echoed for years,

The Mudville nine had come back, there would be no dreadful tears.

And to this day, only Casey knows what happened and how it sized,

The ball soared far beyond the fence, because he swung with open eyes.

From the Classroom

Me: "You have a day all to yourself. Write down a to-do list. You can do anything, but you must keep it realistic. No trips to Mars."

Boy: "Okay, I'm going to start with a healthy breakfast because I've been trying to eat healthier. Bacon and pancakes will do."

____________________________________

Me: "In what ways have you used your imagination to ease your troubles?"

Same boy as above: "When I was little, my mom put blow-up dinosaurs in the yard and I would pretend I was hunting dinosaurs."

Another boy: "Today, I ease my troubles by looking at the truth and thinking of practical ways to overcome it."

Me: "Pipe down, Aristotle."

Matisse on the Loose

I went to an author signing today at my local Barnes & Noble. The author was Georgia Bragg, and she was signing her debut middle grade novel Matisse on the Loose (Delacorte). A friend/colleague of mine is a childhood friend of hers, and he was kind enough to introduce me to her. Georgia was busy talking with family and friends but took the time to briefly discuss her road to publication with me. Also, she was at the SCBWI conference in August. Didn't see her, but nice to know someone else who will, more than likely, be attending next year. It's always great to meet local authors, especially ones who write middle grade fiction.

Georgia offered to talk to me further, so I'll be in touch with her sometime soon. Maybe I can score a short interview for the blog. We'll see.

Off to read Matisse on the Loose...

WIP -- Bird-Man Street (MG novel)

I'm in a bind. Not like a foreclosure or bankruptcy kind of bind, but a literary bind, from a writer's POV. I've started my second middle grade novel, but I have no idea if it's any good or if it's working or not. My critique group looked at it several months ago and was kind of like, "eh." They offered some good feedback and, of course, I trust their opinions or I wouldn't be involved in the group. But since many of us--bloggers and others--have formed a tight online community, why not take advantage of it. So I'm asking for your opinion. Your brief opinion. If this first chapter isn't working, I'll try again. If it is working, I'll keep going. Your comments can be as short as "WORKS" or "DOESN'T WORK." It's up to you. I've written more than this, but, as you all know, the first chapter, the jumping off spot, is most important.

Note to respectable readers: I take pride in my work but I'm not, by any means, overly sensitive when it comes to constructive criticism. I teach creative writing and dish it out every day. It would be contradictory of me to be averse to feedback, don't you think? So there is only one rule here: BE HONEST!

Note to potential literary thieves : I don't really care about posting or not-posting work on the internet. If you want to steal this chapter, go ahead. You still have to write the rest of the novel. Good luck with that. Plus I've got a hat full of other ideas I can use. You don't.

BIRD-MAN STREET

Chapter One

I remember the first time I saw a bird-man.

How do you forget something like that? It's like the first time you hear your parents arguing or the first time you see a red-tail hawk rip a field mouse to shreds. At first it shocks you. Then time goes by and you keep thinking about it, and the more you think about it the more it makes sense. And before you know it, the thought is bouncing around inside your head like an annoying song in music class and eventually you just accept it because there's nothing you can do to get rid of it.

That's exactly what happened to me when I saw King Bird-Man for the first time.

It all happened a year ago, the week of my twelfth birthday. I say all because there's a lot more to it than just a bird-man sighting.

I was at the sink washing dishes after supper. It's one of my chores, but I don't mind it. That way Mom doesn't have to do everything by herself. I turned off the water and threw the sponge in the sink. "I'm going for a ride!" I yelled.

Mom was folding laundry in the living room and watching TV. Her hand was covering her mouth and her eyes were watery. She was watching one of those cheesy talk shows. The kind where everyone sits in a half circle and the special guest shrink tries to fix your family while the audience watches like it's some kind of weirdo circus act. Mom cries when she watches those shows. She says they get to her. But I'm not stupid. They remind her of Dad. Everything reminds her of Dad.

"Be home by dark, Eddie!" she said.

I grabbed my bird journal and nocs (binoculars) off the hook by the front door. I tucked the journal in my backpocket, slung the nocs around my neck, and the screen door slammed shut behind me. If you're a birdwatcher like me, it's important to never leave home without these things. You never know when a golden eagle or a peregrine falcon will pounce on a rodent and rip it to pieces right in front of your eyes. And if you're not prepared, you won't be able to document the whole incident. And then no one will believe you ever saw it. If you want to be a real birdwatcher, if you want to be taken seriously, documentation is the most important part.

You see, I like birds, but not just any old birds. I could care less about sparrows and songbirds and robins. They fly around and chirp and sing and poop on windshields. I like real birds. Raptors. The birds with laser eyes and sharp beaks. I mean, who really cares about bright-colored feathers and annoying sing-songy chatter? That's all girly stuff.

With my nocs strap criss-crossed over my shoulder, I hopped on my silver Predator bike and took off down the street. Sometimes I patrol the neighborhood like a sheriff. Mom says I get it from Grampa. He used to take me and my cousin out in the country in his police cruiser and let us blare the sirens so the whole world could hear, when really no one could hear anything because we were in the middle of nowhere.

But this time I wasn't keeping watch over our neighborhood. I was headed for the house down the street. When someone moves to a town like West Plains, they need to be checked out. Small towns run a certain way and if people don't fit in then, they just may have to leave. Grampa told me that once while we were eating burgers. After he finished talking, he coughed a bunch of times and then took off for the bathroom. A couple weeks later, his emphysema got real bad. A couple weeks after that, he went to sleep and never woke up.

I turned the corner and skidded my bike to a stop in front of the house. A UHAUL truck sat in the driveway. It was supposed to be white, but it was so dirty it looked like someone had dumped a bag of charcoal over it.

I walked my bike low into the ditch and set it down. Dad bought me that bike at Dan's Sporting Goods. I remember the day I got it like it was yesterday. I took an hour to pick it out, but Dad never lost his patience like Mom does. When I told him I wanted the silver Predator, he just nodded quietly. At the counter, Dad scribbled on a check, ripped it out, and handed it to me. I took the check and stared at it. One hundred and forty-nine dollars was the most money I'd ever held in my hands.

In the driveway two moving guys unloaded a couple of boxes from the UHAUL. They were pretty big guys who looked like bodyguards or pro wrestlers. Once they were inside the house, I crept through the side yard and snuck around back. I tried my best to be quiet. The last thing I needed was my new neighbors catching me snooping around their new house.

A tall fence stretched all the way around the backyard. I'm five-foot four and a quarter, so by standing next to it I could tell it was at least eight feet tall. I needed something to stand on but all I found was a couple of toy trucks and a rubber snake, all stuff the Lathams had left behind.

"Caw—Caw!"

"What the--?" I said. I ducked and covered my head. When I first heard the noise I thought something prehistoric, like a giant pterodactyl, was attacking me. I knew if I looked up it would be hovering over me like an alien spaceship, ready to grab me by the neck.

The sound happened again. This time I could tell it was coming from behind the fence, somewhere in the backyard. I had to find a way to boost myself up to see what it was. A bunch of trees surrounded the house, but none of them had branches low enough to climb. There was one thing I had overlooked. A half-deflated basketball. It was the same ball I used to whip Timmy Latham's butt in HORSE every day after school.

I picked up the ball, dropped it next to the fence, and stood on top of it while holding onto the top of the fence for balance. I raised up on my toes and pulled myself up, like I was doing a reverse pull-up in gym class. It was enough to barely see over the fence. The backyard was smaller than I remembered. It was empty except for a covered porch and a bright pink shed in the far corner.

I could only keep my eyes above the fence for a few seconds at a time, then I had to lower my feet onto the basketball to rest my arms. When I did that, the basketball squished under my weight and kept moving back and forth, so I kept a tight hold on the fence for balance.

The screen door under the covered porch creaked and opened. I did another pull-up to see who was coming out of the house. It was a dark-skinned man with silver hair and a long beard. But that wasn't the weird part, not even close. A giant parrot was standing on his shoulder. It was the biggest bird I'd ever seen. Red feathers covered its head, a yellow band wrapped around its stomach, and the wings were bright blue. Its long red tail feathers pointed straight down and its beak looked as big as my fist. You only see these kinds of birds in three places: books, the jungle, or the zoo. And since the closest jungle is in South America, maybe Mexico, and the closest zoo is three hours away in Cincinnati, I didn't have much experience with parrots. But thanks to the Encyclopedia of Macaws in the West Plains Middle School Library, which has my name listed on the checkout card three times, I knew the bird was a scarlett macaw.

The dark-skinned man offered the macaw his gloved hand and the bird stepped off his shoulder strap. Underneath the shade of the covered porch, he unhinged the door to a wire cage and set the macaw inside. It stepped onto a long skinny bar, where it perched next to another bird that looked exactly like it.

My arms began to shake so I lowered myself onto the basketball. I shook out my hands one at a time to get the feeling back in my arms and then took a deep breath and did reverse pull-up number three, which was more than I had ever done in gym class.

The screen door squawked and opened again. The first thing to come outside was a pair of long tan legs. The girl's hair was long and dark and it brushed the end of her back. Her short blue dress made her look as tall as a high schooler. But I've seen the zits of high schoolers who ride the bus, and her skin was too perfect for her to be that old. I immediately hoped she was in middle school. She didn't have to be in seventh grade, just middle school. That would work just fine.

The girl said something to the silver bearded man but the only word I understood was papa. Papa turned to her. He gestured with his hands while mouthing a few words, but no sound came out of his mouth.

My arms began to tremble and my grip weakened. It took all my strength just to keep my eyes above the fence. I was about to lower myself onto the basketball again when a big yellow dog came sprinting around the corner of the house. It was barking and growling. Its long hair flapped up and down and so did its lips. It ran toward me and knocked the basketball out from under my feet, which left me holding onto the top of the fence with my feet dangling in the air. The dog growled some more and pulled at my shirt. At the same time, one of the macaws screamed, "Intruder! Intruder!... Intruder! Intruder!"

At the same time, the girl and Papa turned and looked at me.

With everyone looking at me and a big hairy dog pulling at my shirt, I didn’t know what to do. But it didn't matter, because that's when my hands slipped off the fence. The last thing I remembered was staring up at a cluster of dark stormclouds while falling backwards towards the ground.

Halloween + Bonus Material

Who hands out bookmarks on Halloween? Especially ones with dogs on them. Dogs looking up at the camera with round, sad eyes. Dogs looking for homes. Dogs looking for love. Not just bookmarks, but ones that solicit. Ones that try to make you feel guilty. Talk about a real downer. At least the lady handed out candy along with it. Unfortunately, the bookmark went straight into the trash. It wasn't even a good bookmark. It was flimsy and cheap and probably had a few misspellings on it. There was definitely a punctuation error in there somewhere.

So Wife and I took Blondie trick-or-treating last night. She was a princess. Not a name brand princess like Snow White or Sleeping Beauty or Cinderella. There's nothing wrong with that, but I'm kind of proud she went the independent route. She was a pink princess. Princess Blondie. But Wife and I have come to call her Ice Princess, because she never smiles for pictures. She can be laughing and stirring it up and dancing around the house and as soon as the camera's power button turns green, she turns to ice. Staid. Like Skeletor. Like Gargamel. Like the greatest of all cartoon villains.

Highlights from Ice Princess's loot:

1. Reese's
2. Snickers
3. Tootsie Pops
4. Smarties (classic)
5. Twizzlers
6. Kit Kat
7. Halloween Tattoos (I'm typing this with a vampire on my right hand)
8. Junior Caramels (who knew?)

Downers:

1. Bookmark soliciting help from qualified would-be dog owners
2. Individually packaged breath mint (probably taken from restaurant)

Not a lot of downers. That's a good thing. I mean, when you're two-and-a-half it's hard to cover a lot of territory.

At the plate: Just finished reading Operation Redwood (not impressed, more on that later)
On-deck: Paul Michael Murphy's YA manuscript (Up North) & another friend's adult manuscript (The Great Quiet of Nothingness)
In the hole: Click - various authors

Writing: middle grade manuscript done and with a handful of agents. MG novel #2 not sticking. Starting something new. Something blue. Something void of flu. Something worthy of being number two.

Running: 3 miles this afternoon (wow, that hurt)

Grading: desk is clear, grades are in, comments are written (but need work)

Child #2: On the way. April.