Sam Swope





Sam Swope



Average rating: 3.92 · 845 ratings · 157 reviews · 7 distinct works · Similar authors
I Am a Pencil: A Teacher, H...

3.95 avg rating — 339 ratings — published 2004 — 5 editions
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The Araboolies of Liberty S...

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4.33 avg rating — 153 ratings — published 1989 — 7 editions
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Gotta Go! Gotta Go!

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4.11 avg rating — 144 ratings — published 2000 — 4 editions
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Jack and the Seven Deadly G...

4.17 avg rating — 24 ratings — published 2004 — 2 editions
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The Krazees

3.48 avg rating — 31 ratings — published 1997 — 4 editions
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Foras-da-lei barulhentos, b...

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3.48 avg rating — 1,114 ratings — published 2005 — 14 editions
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Katya's Book of Mushrooms

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4.45 avg rating — 20 ratings — published 1997 — 3 editions
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“The beauty of inflections Or the beauty of innuendoes, The blackbird whistling Or just after. I begged him, “Miguel, write! Write something! Try!” He hadn’t written a thing for months, he rarely had his homework, and in class he couldn’t sit still. Miguel was immensely confident, capable of unusual, interesting thought, yet lazy and disorganized, angry and socially awkward. He often drew while other children wrote, but he wasn’t very good at it, and what he drew upset me. “May I see?” Miguel had scrunched his drawing in a corner of the page. It was typically sloppy and mostly indecipherable. There were scratchy men with limbs that didn’t bend, and there were guns and bombs. At least he had a bird, an eagle decently drawn, but even it was bleeding from the heart. There were blotches of explosion and lots of smudgy death, not the joyful ruin happy children draw, no flashing zigzag lines and gaudy color. “Oh, Miguel,” I sighed. “Why are your pictures always so violent?” He smiled, happy to be noticed, and continued drawing. We had had this conversation many times before. “It worries me, Miguel. It makes me feel like you’re not happy.” “Oh, I’m happy, Mr. Swope. I just like drawing violence, that’s all.” I knew him well enough to say, “This picture makes me think you’re going to grow up and be a mass murderer, Miguel, and I think you can do a little better than that.” Miguel giggled as he kept on drawing. “Do me a favor. Stop drawing and try to write. Write at least one way of looking at a tree, okay? You can do this.” “Okay,” he said, and cheerfully pulled out his writing folder. It grows big but he is small although big things are happening inside.    MIGUEL There are no euphonies here, and even though his poem isn’t perfectly clear, it has some interesting innuendo going on, a lot of promise. I gave it a Good!!! But it’s hard to know what I responded to—the poem itself, or the boy behind it; my student as he was, or as I wanted him to be.”
Sam Swope, I Am a Pencil: A Teacher, His Kids, and Their World of Stories



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