A Beatitude in a Microcosm: the DC Book Tour 2016
Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.
I experienced this beatitude in a microcosm last week during a writer's workshop.
His name wasn't Mateo, but he was a student at Redland Middle School in Gaithersburg, Maryland. He was in seventh grade, was tiny (like my main character Tully), and spoke English as a second language. Based on what I saw, Mateo didn't want to be in a writer's workshop that day.
Last year I requested, as I usually do, students "self-select" to join the writer's workshop. That way they've shown a level of commitment to me that they will be positive workshop participants. They've said, "I want to write," and they expect to do so in the workshop. Self-selection is better for them and more manageable for me, I felt, but Mateo may have changed my mind.
It didn't start well. Mateo struggled through our first exercise - developing a list of "writing territories," places that you can go as a writer. I gave examples, students shouted out a few, and then most students dove in to their own lists. Mateo scribbled a few oversized doublespaced words into a blank notebook. Then he began tapping his pen. I walked over and asked him, "What's your favorite sport, Mateo? What do you like to do? That's a whole territory that you can write down!" He shrugged. I hovered over him patiently and expectantly. He tried to catch someone else's eye who might think the situation funny, but not finding anyone else for help, he wrote a few more words to satisfy me. "Soccer. My house." I wandered off.
The next time I saw him he had found something better to occupy his time -- getting his pen stuck in the leaves of a potted plant that hung over his desk. I walked over to him as he tried to extricate the pen.
Top left: the offending plant.
"The pen's stuck in the plant! Check it out!" he exclaimed in an excited whisper. It was a magical moment for him, of course. I could see it in his eyes. What better excuse NOT to write. Even nature itself was trying to keep him from doing anything productive. Meanwhile several students shared their writing territories in hushed tones. They couldn't wait to start their stories while Mateo enjoyed his vegetative hijinx.
These scenarios always make me sad rather than angry. How many times in life do we busy ourselves with pointless distractions and miss an opportunity to achieve our full potentials? How often did I do that in 7th grade? It's not the disobedience that bothers me. It's the missed opportunity. At any rate, Mateo's teachers didn't notice or seem alarmed. After he finally extracted his pen from his plant ally, he wrote down a few more words. Four words, while many of the other students now had half a page full. I walked away and said a brief prayer for him, not knowing what else I could do.
This was most of the rest of the workshop for him, even after they started "exploring one of their territories" (aka starting a story). Mateo's pen did many things, but between getting stuck in the tree and tapping his neighbor, it did little else until I walked over to him again. Sometimes I would let this slide and focus on other more engaged students, but I didn't want to give up on little Mateo. He reminded me too much of me, too much of Tully. He reminded me I was here to do the hard, right things and not the easy things. Thinking of his name, remembering his first language wasn't English, I didn't want to give up on this little wandering sheep. God called us to find little fellas like this. Just like he found me, he found us. So I wandered back to Mateo, and finally found something useful and honest to say.
"Mateo, I know this isn't easy," I said. "It's normal for this to be hard and uncomfortable. It's tempting to just be silly and not try this, but you know what? You can do this. I believe in you. I can see in your eyes that you're a smart boy with lots of energy. So will you try? You might surprise yourself. I know you can do it. I know you can. I know."
Mateo put his head down for a moment and looked at the scribbled words. I walked away and hoped for the best, working with a few other sheep who were running headlong in the direction they were supposed to go. Supposed to go? No, these are their stories. They choose the direction. This is where the sheep analogy breaks down.
Just like the Redland's teachers broke down my perception of what my writer's workshops are supposed to be. As the students continued writing, I figured out why the teachers had hardly noticed the goofy, distracted Mateo. One of them pointed to a boy who had been writing almost the entire period. I'd said very little to him. "You see Alex. He's usually been suspended from school by this point in the day. Look at him!" I had hardly noticed the boy, but Alex poured himself into his work. Little Mateo goofed and struggled on, but Alex amazed them with his effort. That's when they helped me realize: I envisioned a perfect workshop with every participant completely engaged, but this one student's efforts were a more perfect result than I could have foreseen or hoped for. I'll take something done well over something that appears perfect any time. I'm not sure I could have said that before this workshop.
We wrapped up with a Q&A on writing. They had a few questions, and most of them looked like they'd enjoyed the fifty minutes we spent together. The bell rang. My last morning session ended.
Alex shifted out of the room before I met him, but not Mateo, the little goofball. He stopped in front of me.
"Thanks." Goofy Mateo stuck out his hand gave me a firm handshake. Then he pulled out the bookmark I gave him at the beginning of the period. It was now slightly mangled. "Uh, would you sign this?" he asked me.
"Sure," I said. "Did you get some writing done?"
"I did," and he showed me half a page. Then he waved good-bye on the way out of the room.
I'm not the hero in either of these scenarios, traveling to distant schools and doing particularly amazing things. No, this vignette shows what happens when students have the space and the support they need to succeed. Not every student will finish the story they began in the workshop. Not every student will take me on the challenge to write twenty minutes every day and share their work with friends. I'm okay with that because on this day, these two students, who probably mourn the beginning of a school day, found joy, comfort, and fun in the midst of it. It was worth crossing the country with a backpack full of bookmarks to meet these two boys -- Mateo who shook my hand and Alex who didn't get an in-school suspension by noon.
-A
I experienced this beatitude in a microcosm last week during a writer's workshop.
His name wasn't Mateo, but he was a student at Redland Middle School in Gaithersburg, Maryland. He was in seventh grade, was tiny (like my main character Tully), and spoke English as a second language. Based on what I saw, Mateo didn't want to be in a writer's workshop that day.
Last year I requested, as I usually do, students "self-select" to join the writer's workshop. That way they've shown a level of commitment to me that they will be positive workshop participants. They've said, "I want to write," and they expect to do so in the workshop. Self-selection is better for them and more manageable for me, I felt, but Mateo may have changed my mind.
It didn't start well. Mateo struggled through our first exercise - developing a list of "writing territories," places that you can go as a writer. I gave examples, students shouted out a few, and then most students dove in to their own lists. Mateo scribbled a few oversized doublespaced words into a blank notebook. Then he began tapping his pen. I walked over and asked him, "What's your favorite sport, Mateo? What do you like to do? That's a whole territory that you can write down!" He shrugged. I hovered over him patiently and expectantly. He tried to catch someone else's eye who might think the situation funny, but not finding anyone else for help, he wrote a few more words to satisfy me. "Soccer. My house." I wandered off.
The next time I saw him he had found something better to occupy his time -- getting his pen stuck in the leaves of a potted plant that hung over his desk. I walked over to him as he tried to extricate the pen.
Top left: the offending plant."The pen's stuck in the plant! Check it out!" he exclaimed in an excited whisper. It was a magical moment for him, of course. I could see it in his eyes. What better excuse NOT to write. Even nature itself was trying to keep him from doing anything productive. Meanwhile several students shared their writing territories in hushed tones. They couldn't wait to start their stories while Mateo enjoyed his vegetative hijinx.
These scenarios always make me sad rather than angry. How many times in life do we busy ourselves with pointless distractions and miss an opportunity to achieve our full potentials? How often did I do that in 7th grade? It's not the disobedience that bothers me. It's the missed opportunity. At any rate, Mateo's teachers didn't notice or seem alarmed. After he finally extracted his pen from his plant ally, he wrote down a few more words. Four words, while many of the other students now had half a page full. I walked away and said a brief prayer for him, not knowing what else I could do.
This was most of the rest of the workshop for him, even after they started "exploring one of their territories" (aka starting a story). Mateo's pen did many things, but between getting stuck in the tree and tapping his neighbor, it did little else until I walked over to him again. Sometimes I would let this slide and focus on other more engaged students, but I didn't want to give up on little Mateo. He reminded me too much of me, too much of Tully. He reminded me I was here to do the hard, right things and not the easy things. Thinking of his name, remembering his first language wasn't English, I didn't want to give up on this little wandering sheep. God called us to find little fellas like this. Just like he found me, he found us. So I wandered back to Mateo, and finally found something useful and honest to say.
"Mateo, I know this isn't easy," I said. "It's normal for this to be hard and uncomfortable. It's tempting to just be silly and not try this, but you know what? You can do this. I believe in you. I can see in your eyes that you're a smart boy with lots of energy. So will you try? You might surprise yourself. I know you can do it. I know you can. I know."
Mateo put his head down for a moment and looked at the scribbled words. I walked away and hoped for the best, working with a few other sheep who were running headlong in the direction they were supposed to go. Supposed to go? No, these are their stories. They choose the direction. This is where the sheep analogy breaks down.
Just like the Redland's teachers broke down my perception of what my writer's workshops are supposed to be. As the students continued writing, I figured out why the teachers had hardly noticed the goofy, distracted Mateo. One of them pointed to a boy who had been writing almost the entire period. I'd said very little to him. "You see Alex. He's usually been suspended from school by this point in the day. Look at him!" I had hardly noticed the boy, but Alex poured himself into his work. Little Mateo goofed and struggled on, but Alex amazed them with his effort. That's when they helped me realize: I envisioned a perfect workshop with every participant completely engaged, but this one student's efforts were a more perfect result than I could have foreseen or hoped for. I'll take something done well over something that appears perfect any time. I'm not sure I could have said that before this workshop.
We wrapped up with a Q&A on writing. They had a few questions, and most of them looked like they'd enjoyed the fifty minutes we spent together. The bell rang. My last morning session ended.
Alex shifted out of the room before I met him, but not Mateo, the little goofball. He stopped in front of me.
"Thanks." Goofy Mateo stuck out his hand gave me a firm handshake. Then he pulled out the bookmark I gave him at the beginning of the period. It was now slightly mangled. "Uh, would you sign this?" he asked me.
"Sure," I said. "Did you get some writing done?"
"I did," and he showed me half a page. Then he waved good-bye on the way out of the room.
I'm not the hero in either of these scenarios, traveling to distant schools and doing particularly amazing things. No, this vignette shows what happens when students have the space and the support they need to succeed. Not every student will finish the story they began in the workshop. Not every student will take me on the challenge to write twenty minutes every day and share their work with friends. I'm okay with that because on this day, these two students, who probably mourn the beginning of a school day, found joy, comfort, and fun in the midst of it. It was worth crossing the country with a backpack full of bookmarks to meet these two boys -- Mateo who shook my hand and Alex who didn't get an in-school suspension by noon.
-A
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