First encounter/Made a difference

My first encounter with a book report:

My older sister is three years my senior, and, as such, she reached all of the major developmental milestones before me. This provided fodder for her relentless teasing, and fueled my dogged commitment to keeping pace with her. She learned how to tie her shoes when she was six. Shortly thereafter I learned to tie my shoes. She learned how to read when she was six and a half. Thus, I started reading when I was about three and a half years old. So, I can't really remember the first children's book I read on my own.

I do, however, remember my first book report. I was five years old, and it was the summer before I entered second grade. Now, I don't know who suggested it, but my mother and stepfather, who were clearly desperate for some downtime, decided to assign us a book report (it was not optional). So, my sister and I foraged for some books. Although we never had a great deal of children's books in the house, because of our transitory lifestyle, we were able to locate three or four chapter books and one or two, of what I considered at the time to be, "baby books." Now, I might've chosen a chapter book, as I had just begun reading short chapter books on my own, but I reasoned that the shorter the book was the shorter my report would be; so, I settled on "Grover Goes to School," a Sesame Street book about a blue furry monster going to Kindergarten, and struggling to please everyone. It was a tale fraught with self-discovery and destined for a happy ending. After reading the book I asked my sister "What's a book report," but, of course, she refused to explain it to me. I asked my mother, but the instructions I received were obscure. So, I just rewrote the story word for word (talk about copyright infringement) put my name on the paper, and titled it book report. Then, I handed it in proudly. After reading what I'd written my stepfather handed it back to me and told me that I should have explained the story in my own words. Then, he told me to do it again. I was really miffed and I wrote something really snazzy like: "Grover goes to school. This is a story you can read if you want to it is on the bed in the room." I got in serious trouble. The end.

A story that affected my life:

I am not really a sentimental person. Don't get me wrong I get sad, but not sloppy, crying, hysterical sad. That said, the story I'm about to relay about a book that made a difference in my life should hold that much more credence. When my mother was in the army she would jog to keep physically fit, and she'd drag us along for company. We'd jog four or five miles along the army training courses, typically located in the barracks (we must have been the most physically fit children ever). My sister, more so than I, hated these jogs, but my mother would often ply us with the promise of a story. My mother is a great storyteller, but she's an even better singer. So, sometimes she would sing us spirituals, folk-songs, etc. All of which recounted folk-tales and fables. Here is my account of how one of these folk stories, impacted me as a child.

"Pad, pad, pad" our footsteps were muffled by snow. My mother was jogging steadily several feet ahead of me, and I was waiting for her to start. Although my sister had refused to come, I had agreed because my mother had promised to sing the song to me, again, and after several minutes of steady progress I felt obliged to remind her of this. So, I pulled up beside her, I was running to keep pace. She noticed (thank goodness) and slowed down to accommodate my jogging stride. "Sing it again," I huffed, "you promised."
She baited me "I did say I'd sing, but I didn't say which song I'd sing."
I was unrelenting "You knew which song I wanted to hear, and a promise is a promise!"
She rewarded me with the song. She sang in a haunting voice:

Two little children, a boy and a girl,
Set by an old church door.
The little girl's feet were as brown as the curl
That hung from the dress which she wore.
The boy's coat was faded and [torn];
A tear shone in each [his] eye[s].
"Why don't you run home to your mama?" I said,
And this was the maiden's reply:

Chorus: "Our mama's in heaven; they took her away,
And left Jim and I all alone.
We came here to sleep 'til the close of the day,
For we have no mama at home.
We can't win our bread-- too little," she said.
"Jim five years, and I'm only seven.
There's no one to love us and Papa is dead,
And our darling mama's in heaven."

"Our papa was lost out at sea long age;
We waited all night on the shore.
For he was a life-saving captain, you know.
But he never come back any more.
Then Mama got sick; angels took her away,
Away to that home warm and bright.
'They'll come for my darlings,' she told us, 'some day.'
Perhaps they are coming tonight,"

"Perhaps there's no room tonight," she said,
"For two little ones to keep."
Then placing her arms around little Jim's neck,
And kissing him. They...fell asleep.
The sexton came early to ring the church bell,
And found them beneath the snow white.
The angel's made room for two orphans to dwell
In heaven with mama that night.

Afterwards she looked over expectantly, as if prepared to answer all of the same questions I had asked her before. However, there were no questions. I said nothing, because my breath had begun to hitch and burn in my chest. I stopped running, and stood where I'd stopped doubled over and gasping for air. After several long moments I let out a wail of abject horror.
"What's wrong, baby" my mother asked wrapping me up in her arms. She might have been talking to me for several moments before I screamed, but I had been too preoccupied to notice. I sobbed inconsolably for several moments before I finally managed "It's not fair! It never changes. No matter how many times you sing it, it never changes."
"What never changes sweetie" she asked clearly confused.
"The end. They always die in the end."
My mother did her best to explain that it was only a story, that not all stories end happily, etc. Weeks before, when I'd first heard the song, I had been forced to confront my own mortality, and more disturbingly I had suddenly realized that my mother would die too. So, I had begun to pray, and I felt relatively certain that if I could bring the orphans from the song back to life through prayer this would somehow forestall the Grim Reaper altogether. That night I realized that death is the end, the final end, and that eventually death would claim everyone much as it had the two little orphans. I haven't come to a more significant realization than that.

About the song:

There have been many different musical adaptations, and the theme of orphans falling to rot and ruin is a common theme in literature (e.g. "The Matchstick Girl"). Personally, I count this as a folk-song/story and it has indeed appeared in many folk tale collections.

Blog Post 1

Yeah, creative post title... I know! Well, let's dive right into it:

I have always been alert to the racism, sexism, classism, etc. that underlies every facet of life. Mainly because I was raised by very progressive minded multiethnic parents who understood the importance of alerting me to the stereotypes and generalizations I would constantly be barraged with as a economically disenfranchised minority female. As a very young child I was confronted by these realities on an almost daily basis; you see, my stepfather was a 6'4 inch African American male. My mother and I, generally, cannot pass for African American, and as a result stereotypes and generalizations colored all of our social interactions. For example, when my stepfather and I were out people would "discretely" quiz me on our relationship "So you're out with your..." "Are you in any trouble..." and (dropping all pretense), "Do you know this man?" Occasionally, we were subject to overt racism. For example, I might make a new friend in school, and lose that new friend the first time my stepfather came to pick me up from a play-date. Bear in mind that I was raised on military bases overseas and in the United States, and in a bygone era to boot.

Spurred by the harsh realities that our unorthodox upbringing exposed us to our family had an amazing open-dialogue concerning racism, sexism, and classism in society. In hindsight I am truly amazed at the quality and depth of discussions we were carrying on as a family. For example, I remember receiving a Kid Sister doll when I was six years old. A doll who was billed as an African American doll (for a change), and holding a discussion about the texture of the doll's hair. I also distinctly remember driving through an urban area and counting the number of liquor store and cigarette advertisements. Then, comparing that number with the number in a suburban area. I remember seeing Sambo images, and discussing the implications of this kind of political posturing. Further, I remember having a frank and open discussion of the "N Word," Africans as chattel, and slavery in America.

All of this is to say that I know that texts are not neutral, I've always known it, and I believe that it is imperative that educators take an active and challenging approach to reading. It is of the utmost important that teachers empower their students to question and critically analyze texts; so, students develop an awareness of the relationships between texts, language, power, social groups, and societal practices.

Through this class I hope to learn how to encourage real curriculum in my classroom. I have had some success, and I am eager to experience more. This past year my students read A Chair for My Mother, and we talked about how fires can affect individuals, families, and even communities; at which point, one of my students made the connection I was hoping for, and he mentioned the fire that destroyed our local library. Thereafter, all of my students discussed how they had experienced the fire, and as our discussion progressed the students became motivated to help rebuild the library. In this manner, the HULA HOOPS FOR HOPES fundraiser was born. The students piloted, advertised, and sponsored this fundraiser. The proceeds were donated to the Georgetown Library Fund.