Curing Done-itis

For the past few months, I've been working with small groups of first and second graders, helping them to learn the ancient art of storytelling.

I call it storytelling, and not simply writing, because writing, at least in school, has been reduced all too often into a boring, drill and kill skill. Being able to turn that skill into a story, however, is an art (plus, kids are much more excited to learn "storytelling" than plain old "writing.")

I started with Mensa for Kids' storytelling packet. I turned their introduction article into a video, then played Robert Munch reading his Paper Bag Princess.

The kids were hooked.

We practiced our voices and movements, then learned about the story mountain (and I mentioned they would learn later it's called the "plot diagram.")

Finally, time for the writing. I found "Yolanda the Yarnspinner" in the Primary Education Thinking Skills books. She talks of using "colorful language" to tell a good story, encouraging kids to use words like "billowing" and "sparkles."

I turned them loose with sentence starters: "The baby cried" and "The dog barked."  

Then came what I had been afraid of.

"I'm done!" one munchkin announced, about 5 minutes into her writing. "Me, too!" another exclaimed.

I had to act fast.

"Oh, my friends," I announced in a dramatic voice. "I think you have that disease. That terrible disease."

I shook my head.

"What disease?" one asked, completely hooked.

"Done-itis," I pronounced. "You think you can rush and rush and yell 'I'm done!'"

I hammed it up. "I'm done! I'm done!" I yelled in silly voices.

They giggled.

"Do you think Robert Munch -- the guy who wrote the Paper Bag Princess -- rushed through his story and yelled 'I'm done!'"

"Noooooo," they chorused.

"Nope," I agreed. "Or do you think he wrote, and he thought about it, then wrote some more, then thought some more, then wrote again -- and finally, finally, after lots and lots of work, he leaned back, smiled and nodded, and announced, 'Yes, I am done.'"

They nodded. Yup, that's exactly what he must have done, they concluded.

"So, my friends," I asked. "Are you really done? Or do you still have more thinking to do?"

They smiled and turned back to their writing, and for another ten minutes (an eternity in a 6-year-old's world), my room was silent as eight little hands put pencil to paper. I got stories of alien mothers and snowman babies, robbers and werewolves.  Stories they were proud of. Stories they were excited to share. Stories that they knew they had put some hard thought into -- and stories that, when they were done, were really, truly done.

On the Nature of Paradigm Shifts and Control

   I am a really impatient person.
   If I see a cool idea, or a lesson that I think will work really well with my students, I want to try it RIGHT NOW.
   This has led to some spectacular successes (see the robot dinosaur).
   And some spectacular flops.
   But I keep trying, because I am not afraid of risks. I am not afraid to try something new. And sometimes, in my heart of hearts, I get really frustrated with people who are.
   That's when I have to remind myself -- often multiple times -- of what is in my circle of influence.
   It's part of Covey's 7 Habits -- your circle of concern is everything that you worry about. At work, this usually revolves around adequate differentiation for my gifted students. But I cannot walk into every teacher's classroom and demand immediate change (although I sometimes fantasize about this).

   Instead, I have to figure out what is in my circle of influence -- what can I realistically do to affect that which is in my circle of concern?
   First and foremost, I had to get involved. In her blog, Tamara Fisher wrote "If you're not at the table, then you're on the menu." So I joined committees, and leadership teams.
   This week, I got the chance to have a big impact on my circle of concern. At one of the meetings, we began talking about how to keep the momentum going for the Leader In Me on our campus. It was decided that next year, we would roll out the new "Habit 8" -- the habit about finding your voice, and your passion.
   I waited, baited breath, for a chance to speak. Because I had a COOL IDEA. One that I would love for us all to do RIGHT NOW.
   My moment came.
   "Um, have you guys heard of Genius Hour?"
   Based off of Google's 20% time for independent, autonomous projects, schools across the nation have been jumping on the Genius Hour idea. Basically, you dedicate one hour per week to independent, self-chosen research. Your students can learn about anything they might be passionate about, from robotics to fashion design to the Mona Lisa.  My third, fourth and fifth graders are all wrapped up in their Genius Hour projects (more on that next week), and I think it would be an amazing thing for our campus to implement next year.
   I'm really hoping -- fingers crossed, toes crossed, even eyes crossed -- that my suggestion takes off. Because it would lead to big change -- paradigm-shift type of change -- on our campus, and for our kids.
   But I can't control that. I can only influence, a little at a time.
   I really need Master Yoda.

Learning to Facilitate

You know you've done something right as a teacher when seven 8-year-old boys come into your room right after recess, see a stack of books and say "ooooh, research!"

My second graders have officially begun work on their LEGO robot dinosaur project. I introduced them to robotics using LEGO's WeDo robots. They took to it like little ducks to water -- or rather, like little pterosaurs to the sky.

To help the project along, I asked our librarian for any books she had on the subject. This being an elementary school, she provided us with a pile of dinosaur books. I spread them out on the table, and had planned to have the kids look at the pictures, pick out the dinosaur they wanted to build, and move on from there.

Here's where the magic happened.

First, they each grabbed a book or two, and curled up somewhere quiet. (A bookworm myself, I have lots of reading nooks around my room in the form of carpets, floor pillows and a big comfy papasan chair.) Then one of them says, "Mrs. Z, can I get some Post-its to take notes on what I'm reading?"

Well, if you must.

He passed sticky notes out to all the rest, and I set the timer for 15 minutes, figuring they'd be ready to move on after that. 

The timer went off, and a collective groan went around the room. "We need more time! Please!" 

Well, ok then.

They started to get excited about what they were reading, and began pointing it out to the other boys. "Did you know dinosaurs are still alive today? Birds are living dinosaurs!"

Then my chattiest one piped up -- "Guys! Guys! We need to be quiet, and take our notes so we can read as much as possible, and we'll share it after!" 

"Oh, yeah yeah yeah." And they settled down.

Well, alrighty then.

Seven boys. After recess. My squirlliest group every week. 

Silent. Reading. Taking notes.

Because they got to choose. They own this project in a way that makes them intrinsically motivated to do their very best on it.

Sometimes, as a teacher, your job is to teach. But sometimes, you get to learn. And today, I learned a very big lesson in facilitation. Over the last few years, I had given my boys the tools -- they knew how to take notes, and group them afterwards into categories. And they had the confidence to look at a pile of books and decide what they wanted to do with it. 

They didn't need me to be the boss today.

So I stepped back, mentally chucked my lesson plans out the window, and curled up with a dinosaur book myself.

"Did you know....?"

Sure, Guys, We Can Make a Robot Dinosaur Out of LEGOs...

   A few months ago, I was having lunch with my second graders (I do this with every GT group, every other week). 
   And I asked them, "What ideas do you have for our next project?"
   "Oooh! We should do dinosaurs!"
   "Robots!"
   "Learn to blow stuff up!"
   "Basketball -- we should learn about basketball!"
   "LEGOs! I love to make stuff with LEGOs!"
   I took a deep breath, preparing to settle them down a bit, when one of the boys (it's an all-boys group), piped up. "Guys, guys -- we can make this a win/win."
I sat back in my chair and listened as this 7-year-old negotiated a project that every single kid was on board with.
   "We can make a robot, out of LEGOs, in the shape of a dinosaur -- and it can throw a basketball!" he said. (You will notice that even the 7-year-old knew the blowing-stuff-up option was a no-go.)
   "Yeah!" "Yeah!"
   Then seven sets of big eyes turned to me. "Can we do that, Mrs. Zepeda?"
   And I was so impressed at the level of conversation, and their use of Covey's 7 Habits to listen and negotiate with each other, that I said,

   "Sure, guys, we can make a robot dinosaur out of LEGOs."

   Now, to figure out how...