Literacy Now

Poetry has been described by Laurence Perrine, the author of Sound and Sense: An Introduction to Poetry, as a language that “says more and says it more intensely than ordinary language.” When engaging with poetry, meaning should be the most important aspect, followed by elements and devices. Poems selected for children should let them think and “be” more to create a knowledgeable experience for them, with the expression of intense feelings and ideas, and with particular attention paid to diction, imagery, sound, metaphor, theme, rhythm, and rhyme. But, in all of their complexity, poems can also introduce students to basic realities of life through attractive language and imagery. When children become interested in poems, strong messages and morals can be explained and discussed to nurture young minds.

Three things are evoked when a poem is brought to a reader’s mind: images, emotions, and concepts. Though educators often focus on images and emotions conceptualized by poetry, they frequently miss opportunities to introduce young students to realities of life. Sadly, many children will not get this exposure elsewhere, so their curiosity must be nurtured by educators who may be the only people who will truly prepare them for their future life. Although children have no fear of exploring, teachers must equip them to do so safely.

Children must be able to enjoy the poem for what it is on the surface and also understand the strong messages hidden in the language. They must be given equal opportunities to understand the “inside-out idea” in the content of the poem and gain meaning with more detailed study of the text itself. Because poetry uses such colorful language, a reader usually becomes and remains excited and open to learn grand ideas that may be helpful to his or her life. 

I remember making a group of third graders aware of their surroundings by using Jeannie Kirby’s poem “I Wonder.” This poem explores the many questions of a curious child and was used to answer my students’ many questions about nature. Instead of looking at repetition and rhymes among other poetic elements, I first engaged students in understanding the content of the poem, which led to discussions that, in turn, led my students to better understand the world around them.

I also engaged my students in the poem “Alligator” by Grace Nichols. This was a tremendous session. Students explored the poem, which spoke of the “slushy” river where alligators were found and what children should do if they ever see one. By the end of the discussion, and of the lesson overall, students were able to say how careful they would be when going home from school (not stopping by rivers and damps); students also created warning posters as a class activity and pretended to place it at the slushy river to warn persons of the dangers of the alligators. This poem allowed students to understand safety, and I know they will apply this knowledge to alligators as well as other creatures. I am sure that because of the lessons learned through poetry, students will be better able to understand and know how to act in situations because of the experiences they have read about. The vivid language used in poetry is a great tool for bringing realities to life.

When teaching curious children the realities of life through poetry, it must be established that not everything they see or hear is true. Children must know it is good to question content and that they should not hastily act on anything, including what they read. Curious children especially at the pre-operational and operational stages must be steered in truth, as they are still unaware of many realities of life. Because of the captivating language and rich dynamics, poetry is a great vehicle that moves children from fantasy to reality; poetry is, therefore, a dynamic tool for teaching curious children. As the French poet Anatole France said, “The whole art of teaching is only the art of awakening the natural curiosity of young minds for the purpose of satisfying it afterwards.”

Marique Daugherty is a language and literacy specialist from Jamaica and was recently honored as one of ILA’s inaugural “30 Under 30.” She is currently teaching in London.

"The most important thing you will do this year is read," I told my students on the first day of school. I looked at their dubious faces and promised, "You will love it."

True to my word, we spent an inordinate amount of the school day immersed in texts. We read newspapers, novels, poems, songs, math problems, comic strips, and recipes. We read aloud and silently, we read in groups and individually, we read with partners in our class and we ventured to lower grades to read with buddies. Before long, of their own volition, students were reading at lunch, at recess, on the subway platform while waiting for the train and on the subway itself while en route to field trips. 

A fellow straphanger, upon noticing half the train filled with kids absorbed in books, once observed, "Your students love to read!" 

"Damn straight," I said proudly. "Eat, sleep, read, baby."

My first year of teaching, I decided nothing I did with my students was more important than reading. Students who read better wrote better, had stronger vocabularies, had deeper analytical skills, and performed better in other subjects, including math. Given that the majority of my students was below proficiency in reading, I was determined they leave my room at the end of the year significantly stronger and loving to read. I reasoned that if they enjoyed reading, they would be motivated to continue to read long after they left me, and if they continued to read, they would continue to grow in proficiency and that this improved ability to read would further nurture their vocabularies, writing skills, performance in other subjects and, more important, their opportunities in life. When people questioned the amount of time and energy I was dedicating to establishing a culture of kids who were absolutely obsessed with reading, I resolutely said, "It's a matter of life and death." 

OK, so maybe that was a tad dramatic, but I needed to get the point across that giving kids as many minutes a day as possible to read was massively important. The Alliance for Excellent Education recently published a report finding 60% of fourth and eighth graders in the United States have “reading issues.” With daunting statistics like this in mind, I cofounded an ed tech company with a K–12 literacy app so even more schools could replicate the literacy best practices I'd honed in my classroom. Yet although I've zealously extolled the virtues of reading for over a decade now, I never stopped to contemplate the critical role of literacy in my own life until very recently.

Six months ago I was diagnosed with invasive ductal carcinoma, doctor speak for malignant breast cancer. I have no family history, I do not carry the gene, I exercise, I eat well, I floss my teeth, I am a good person—I help kids read better, dammit! Yet at age 33, after only recently becoming a new mom to a beautiful baby girl, I discovered a lump in my left breast, and it was cancer. So what did I do? Well, first I cried. A lot. And then I got down to business and started reading.

I immediately researched my diagnosis and its treatment options. I learned about lumpectomies and mastectomies and reconstruction and radiation and chemotherapy and hormone therapy and recurrence. When my breast surgeon asked me, "What do you want to do?" I confidently told her, "I want a double mastectomy with reconstruction." I knew without a doubt this was the best course of action for me. When I met with my oncologist, I was equally confident. Sure, she had loads of medical training, but I was a Google genius. I’d decoded my pathology report prior to the appointment and thoroughly understood my cancer. I was not intimidated by the fancy words she used because those words were now also part of my vocabulary. When she told me I would need chemotherapy, I was saddened, but not shocked. I understood that because of my age and because of the nature of cancer in general and breast cancer in particular, I had a higher chance of recurrence in the future. When it came time to pick my chemo cocktail, I understood which one was best for me and felt secure in that choice of treatment. 

We so often think of literacy as the ability to read a passage and answer multiple-choice questions, to write a college essay, to apply for a job, to pull a lever in a voting booth, but how often do we think of the role literacy plays in our health? Because I am literate, I could own and understand my diagnosis. I could self-advocate. I could navigate the overwhelmingly complex healthcare system in the United States—the preapprovals, deductible requirements, out-of-pocket responsibilities. I could harness the organizational aptitude required to maintain order during a wildly disorderly time in my life.

Never did I imagine that my fervent belief in literacy would someday save me. Now I think about my own child, all the children I once taught, and those I'm reaching through my company, and I know lives are being saved in more ways than are conceivable. Reading is fundamental and foundational to learning and life requires us to be learners every single day. Consider the importance of literacy in your own life and the times your ability to read damn well empowered you. Now consider the implications for your classrooms, schools, and districts. Are you empowering your children to be literate beings?

Jessica Sliwerski is cofounder and Chief Academic Officer of LightSail Education, a literacy software company dedicated to improving reading outcomes for all children. She is an educator with K-12 teaching and coaching experience, a literacy specialist and former school administrator. Jessica lives in Brooklyn, NY, and enjoys reading, traveling and yoga.

I’m exhausted.

School is a world of pretests, quizzes, chapter tests, unit tests, essay tests, performance tests, and even fitness tests. We’ve now added methods of testing we call formative assessments, interim assessments, summative assessments, performance assessments, common assessments, and diagnostic assessments. We give assessments using rubrics, checklists, and even check-brics. We give paper-pencil and online standardized tests, norm-referenced tests, criterion-referenced tests, and benchmark tests. Students answer using constructed responses, essays, and technology enhanced items.

I’m developing assessment blindness. Text exhaustion. No. 2 pencil calluses.

While back to school shopping this fall, I noticed a set of No. 2 pencils on sale labeled, “Perfect for Standardized Tests!” Really? What about, “Perfect for writing poetry!” or “Perfect for jotting down ideas!” or “Perfect for logarithms and algorithms!”?

I don’t remember a time when I wasn’t taking, giving, researching, or writing assessments of some kind. When I’m not doing these tasks, I’m analyzing test results, disaggregating data, or being developed professionally in the newest test format. Assessment can be invaluable or useless, and the range in between is wide.

It’s overwhelming.

Old-timers in my family will tell you there are three ways to get your car fixed: Quickly, cheaply, or well. You can pick only two. If you need your car fixed quickly and cheaply, it won’t be done well. If you need it done cheaply and well, it won’t be quick. You get the idea.

I’ve found the same to be true of reading assessment. Some assessments are quick to administer; some provide reliable, consistent, and measureable results; and some provide information useful enough to guide classroom instruction. Very rarely can you find assessments that provide all three. Toss in the need to assess students with an authentic task and without the use of a timer, and the number of choices decreases dramatically.

The car repair analogy works well for assessment. If an assessment is fast and reliable, it is often standardized and less likely to provide results useful to classroom teachers. Any assessment that provides a result of single number (or letter) in a range is unlikely to give a teacher insight into individual instructional needs.

If an assessment provides useful diagnostic and instruction-altering feedback, it requires a great deal of time to administer. Analysis takes time. Kids are complicated. My questions are, “Would you rather kids were testing or reading? Would you rather spend money on test prep manuals or classroom libraries?”
Or, this: “How much instructional time are you willing to sacrifice?”

I have a strong memory of a test I would consider fast and reliable: the yearly trek to the gym for fitness testing. (I can still smell the sweat, tension, and embarrassment hanging in the air.) The gym teacher would assess our strength; boys did pull-ups on one side of the gym while girls performed the flexed arm hang on the other. While the boys were grunting, gasping, and counting the number of times they could pull their chins up over the bar, the female gym teacher held her stopwatch and counted how many seconds each girl could keep her chin hovering above the bar while her feet dangled below. (At the time, I never thought to question why boys needed to have enough strength to pull themselves up into the boat or over an obstacle, while girls merely needed the ability to dangle there until help arrived.)

I think we could now label that test a “moderately authentic performance task with a differentiation component.”

Did that test inspire me to get stronger? Was I suitably inspired to sprint out to the playground monkey bars and build my arm-hanging stamina? Not one bit.

I can’t help but wonder, if I, myself, am exhausted and overwhelmed with testing, how do our students feel? “Test fatigue” has become a commonly heard phrase in our schools.

Does the testing inspire our students to work harder, become smarter, read more, or build their skills?  Not very often.   

So here’s my final question: Is it worth it?

Julie Scullen is a former president of the Minnesota Reading Association and Minnesota Secondary Reading Interest Council and is a current member of the International Literacy Association Board of Directors. She taught most of her career in Secondary Reading Intervention classrooms and now serves as Teaching and Learning Specialist for Secondary Reading in Anoka-Hennepin schools in Minnesota, working with teachers of all content areas to foster literacy achievement. She teaches graduate courses at Hamline University in St. Paul in literacy leadership and coaching, as well as reading assessment and evaluation.

I’ve carried four backpacks.

My first, la mochila azul, was given to me in elementary school. I had little-to-no homework in it, but it carried words that weighed me down like bricks. Bastard—my father walked out when I was 2. Abandoned—my mother left me in México when I was 5 to cross that border to, one day, make a home for all of us in the United States.

Years later, I reunited with mom and met a new father, a man I desperately wanted to hate because he was not my papá. This new father used his sense of humor to ease the pain, of heart and belly combined. I remember enjoying dumpster diving amid trash and feces to look for cans and cardboard because he made it a game that we could play. “Pobrefication,” he’d said in broken English, diagnosing our economic situation. We escaped to a world of “Ricolandia” where we dined at imaginary restaurants passing the “greipoopon,” even if we were really in a Compton alleyway digging amid trash for cans. We’d raise just enough, by selling cans and well-stacked cardboard, so that we could taste a little bit of meat once a month at the local taquería. The other days we wined and dined on gourmet meals that mom cooked up making “a dollar out of 15 cents.”

Home—in the United States—meant never getting to keep a friend, constantly moving to dodge immigration and high rent. On three occasions, mom was deported. Each time, I’d cry myself to sleep thinking mommy would never return. This second backpack no longer carried just words, now it helped me “handle it.” It carried rubber cement glue and a plastic bag. That glue’s chemicals danced in a plastic bag that I’d place over my head to numb me to sleep and knock out from feeling as if my heart would rip out of my body.

Escape—there were many of those. “Handling it” wasn’t all bad, though. At times, I cried myself into a stupor remembering the pueblito where I was uprooted from, but could still exist with the power of a pen:

there's a place on an unpaved road called memory
where having "nothing" becomes a blessing,
and in that place callous hands salt tortillas
and Holy Ghost believers crawl
adorned with crowns full of thorns.

These words would tear (llorar) onto a napkin, practically writing themselves, and later a teacher would call them poetry. I’d write under the riverbed for months, years. Who knew writing could provide a release, an escape, a potential path towards healing?

Hitting helped. I’d hit the daylights out of baseballs and became a great batter. But it certainly didn’t start out that way. This hidden talent came from ticking off my little league coach as he’d say, “Just bunt the ball will you?!” After three quarters of a season on the bench I had enough. I took a shot. I swung, ever so awkwardly, and pounded the ball to deep right field. I hit it so hard that I fell to the floor. All I could hear was screams of, “run, run, run.” So I ran, to batting cages, to poetry events, to anywhere that would help me find my hidden talents so I, too, could exist with purpose.

It was there in that third backpack that I found not just a pen or a bat, but also Grandma Socorro’s picture. Torn edges, a black-and-white staged photo from the 1940s, of a stoic woman, failing to capture her vibrantly colorful spirit, serving as a reminder of lessons unlearned. I can still hear her whistling “La Prieta Negra,” as she boils water for “te de yerba buena” to help me relax. She’d stretch out her droopy arms, God manifest, and I knew that once again there was refuge in her loving embrace. It was there I found peace.

When she passed, the woman who helped raise me became a megaphone in my ear. “Por algo sobreviviste, por algo estas aquí. ¿Que aprendiste?” (You survived and are still here for a reason, what have you learned?) Although she was the one with cataracts, it was I who couldn’t see. Her death was like laser surgery to my vision. I found a metaphorical box labeled “hidden gifts.” With new eyes, I could see:

My father leaving, a blessing, he stopped hurting us.

My mother’s deportations, a blessing, I learned that nothing can stop us.

Digging through the photos of my mom I found a warrior who fought like hell to dodge immigration, a grandmother who survived revolutions in México, and it is they who gifted me the will to deal.

My life’s calling, that fourth backpack, made me a street pusher, dumpster diver, sniffer of pain, and hidden gift finder, in a school setting with a formal title of “teacher”:

There’s no branding or lining kids up
there’s no Mr. Cruz, just césar
no memorizing the 38th president
merely asking kids to observe 38th avenue

i ask questions
make students feel comfortably
uncomfortable

i start with me
where am i from
opening my own wounds
most with little to no prodding

if i want them to open up
i take that first step

I ask youth
to consider that the ‘downest’
homegirl on the block
may be grandma

then I deal

I slang hope
harder than corner(ed) drug pushers deal dope.

I teach.

With everything I have, by observing what kids carry, what they show and what they hide.

I pay attention to their first backpack.

I notice when they act disposable, disengage to numb the pain, how they graduate into coping.

With time, exploration of self, and an “I’ll-take-a-bullet-for-you” love, I help them see what’s already inside of them, their gifts, talents, and resiliency.

If I can help a young person explore his or her life’s calling, my job is done. That doesn’t make me exemplary or revolutionary, but merely blessed to carry a lot, and privileged to pass it on.

César A. Cruz has dedicated his life to fighting for justice, from marching 76 straight miles to hunger striking for 26 days. He was born in Guadalajara, Jalisco, México and migrated to the United States at a young age with a single mother and grandmother and grew up in South Central Los Angeles. César graduated from UC Berkeley with a B.A. in history and has been an educator for 20 years, most recently serving as Dean of Students at Arise High School in Oakland, CA. He cofounded the independent school, “Making Changes,” out of his home, and has sought to create autonomous education spaces. He has overseen the Homies Empowerment Program serving trauma impacted/gang involved youth in Oakland. He is the author of two books, Revenge of theIllegal Alien and Bang for Freedom. Currently, he has completed the second year of a doctoral program in Educational Leadership at the Harvard Graduate School of Education. Last summer, he served as the Assistant Dean of Harvard University’s Secondary Schools Program. During the third year of his doctoral program, César joined the staff of Homeboy Industries and will conduct a 10-month residency at Homeboy Industries in Los Angeles. At Harvard, he is part of a great teaching team that has officially brought Ethnic Studies course to HGSE. Amid all, he is proudest to be a husband, and father of three children: Olin, Amaru, and Quetzali.

Fish in a Tree. Lynda Mullaly Hunt. 2015. Penguin.

Note: Fish in a Tree is the 2015 Global Read Aloud selection.

Grades: 4–6

Summary

“Seven schools in seven years, and they’re all the same.”

Sixth grader Ally works very hard to keep a secret, even landing herself in the principal’s office repeatedly rather than explaining what she’d rather hide. At the start of the novel, Ally doesn’t know that she has dyslexia. All she knows is that letters dance on the page, dark words on white paper make her head ache, and even a simple homework assignment takes hours to complete. Certain that no one can help her, Ally remains silent about her struggle and believes the words she hears from her classmates: “Freak. Dumb. Loser.”    

When Ally’s teacher Mrs. Hall goes on maternity leave, Mr. Daniels steps in. Dubbing his students “Fantasticos,” Mr. Daniels soon demonstrates his knack for seeing each student’s unique gifts. Though the road is sometimes rocky, Ally begins to trust her new teacher and his offer of help.

Mr. Daniels shows Ally that she has value in their classroom community, and her confidence increases. Armed with skills to begin coping with her dyslexia, and joined by friends Keisha and Albert, Ally learns that she can not only survive sixth grade but also thrive as she starts to find happiness and “a special Ally-shaped place in the world.”

Cross-Curricular Connections

English/language arts, social studies/history, science

Ideas for Classroom Use

“My very educated mother just served us nachos.”

Many of us grew up learning the planets via a mother who served “nine pizzas,” not “nachos.” Pluto may no longer be a planet, but the recent New Horizons fly-by has proven that—like Ally—it may be different but it certainly not less than. Explore this rockstar dwarf planet to gain insight into the fascinating diversity that exists within our solar system.

“And remember: Great minds don’t think alike.”

Walt Disney, Albert Einstein, Jennifer Aniston, Henry Ford, Leonardo Da Vinci, Whoopi Goldberg. Mr. Daniels discusses these figures from history with his students and reveals to them that many believed that they had dyslexia. Research the contributions of these and other great minds who thought differently.

“How are things? More silver dollar days or wooden nickels?”

Analyze the use of symbols, comparisons, and allusions. Coins play an important role in Ally’s thinking about each day and connect her to both her brother and grandfather. Alice in Wonderland references abound, and Ally uses frequent “like” comparisons to describe her state of mind. Trace these writer’s moves and their effects throughout the novel.

“...open up those notebooks now and add your first entry. And make it… you.”

Mr. Daniels offers his Fantasticos a safe space to write with very few rules and requirements, and these journals also serve as a way for him to communicate with and support his students. Get students started with their own journal writing (or blogging) with some of the following prompts:

• “Everyone has their own blocks to drag around. And they all feel heavy.”
• Different isn’t necessarily better or worse.
• Great minds don’t think alike.
• What’s your passion? What are your strengths?
• Albert sees Ally. Who sees you?

“I see a mind movie of me…”

We experience this story from Ally’s point of view, with insights into her thoughts, understanding of what she conceals from others, and glimpses at the mind movies that play out in her head. Explore how the story might change if the point of view shifts. Rewrite a scene from another character’s perspective to see how things play out from Keisha’s, Albert’s, Mr. Daniels’s, or even Shay’s point of view.

Additional Resources and Activities

Lynda Mullally Hunt’s Official Webpage: The site includes an author bio in addition to an excerpt from Fish in a Tree and information about author Skype sessions and visits.

The Global Read Aloud Website: “One book to connect the world.” The Global Read Aloud aims to connect students all over the world through the common ground of a shared text, and Fish in a Tree is one of this year’s selections. Platforms for connection include Twitter, Skype, Google Hangouts, Kidblog, Edmodo, and TodaysMeet. Visit the site to learn more about Global Read Aloud activities, and use the Connections Wanted form to find other teachers and classes with whom to connect.

Overcoming Dyslexia, Finding Passion: Piper Otterbein at TEDxYouth: Like the novel’s main character, Piper Otterbein struggled in elementary school and was diagnosed with dyslexia in middle school. Desiring to move past her frustrations and struggles, Piper focused instead on her strengths, including the arts.

Thrively: Every student has unique strengths and passions. Online tool Thrively can help students (and us) discover what those strengths and passions are and offer ideas for helping them to thrive. The site’s Strength Assessment is particularly helpful, and the resulting Strength Profile offers guidance for unlocking each child’s potential.

Laren Hammonds has been a classroom teacher since 2004, working with students in grades 7–12. She currently spends her workdays with eighth graders at Rock Quarry Middle School in Tuscaloosa, AL, and every other moment reading books and seeking out adventures with her preschool son Matthew and husband Erik. A two-time graduate of the University of Alabama, she holds a master’s degree in instructional technology and is currently pursuing National Board Certification. Her professional interests include the intersection of video games and literacy, cross-curricular collaboration in secondary schools, preservice teacher support, and the impact of classroom design on student learning. Find her on Twitter and Instagram.