Me me me meme
me gets me news from a meme
You you you youth
you ignore the truth
We we we Westerners
we look like misinformed questioners
Me me me meme
open the economy
You you you youth
keep hanging out in groups
We we we wealthy
don’t care if the masses are healthy
Me Me Me Me
and
You You You You
and
We We We We
are fucked.
When it’s time to Kneel, Keep in mind how black men Kneeling in peaceful protest made you feel.
When it’s time to Kneel, Keep in mind how history Kindles and spins a white, privileged wheel.
When it’s time to Kneel, Keep in mind how mothers Keening over their murdered black sons’ graves is real.
Because it’s never time to kneel on a black man’s neck on the asphalt. It’s not their fault.
Because when are you going to stand up instead of just kneel?
Because it’s time for you to stand up, Neil.
Stand up, Neil.
I don’t know who or what to believe anymore
so I’ll just put My trust in youtube folklore
the experts are crooks
who want Me to read books
and wear a mask
what an unpatriotic task
you can’t tell Me what to do
because I’ve got google and it knows more than you
I’ll keep My gun on My hip
and call you a dip shit
for believing in science
screw your feminist liberal defiance
you can’t tell Me what to do
because I’m a man and will always know more than you
everything will go back to the way it was before
just go ahead and reopen the economy’s door
because your life doesn’t matter as much
as Me being able to get a decent haircut and such
you can’t tell Me what to do
because I will never let you forget that I know more than you
On an indigo whim,
she sweeps her soul into sunshine and turpentine,
whispering its bouquet to the wind.
It butterflies like dandelion fluff,
parachuting on the breeze.
While teasing the ground,
with ambrosial and noisome sounds,
it harmonizes into hymns of him–
a heady elixir that grieves the miles, the years, the bigger picture–
and lands on his sleeve.
He breathes in her song, her scent–
what went wrong and what it all meant–
and breathes out: I was never enough.
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com
Psssttt. Here’s a secret. This English teacher hates Romeo and Juliet more than the Montagues and Capulets loathe each other. (I know. Gasp. Shocked emoji face. Call Karen in HR and fire me right now.) And because it’s entrenched in the freshman canon, I will never escape its overtly romantical clutches as long as I am teaching English I.
Why do I hate Romeo and Juliet and teaching it?
And while I do lather on the Romeo and Juliet hate thick, I love teaching it for almost the same reasons I despise teaching it.
What are some texts you hate but you have to teach? I’d love to hear! I’d also love to know why and what you do to combat your hate to make interesting lessons.
(Also, another shocker, I’m not a huge fan of To Kill a Mockingbird—but that’s a whole other blog post.)
begin with the end in mind, AKA backward design
Common Core and 504
ELL, STEM, and IEP are not absentee (But if they were, you’d have to let them make up the work, for sure.)
collaborate and debate
Claim retired, and its replacement is assertion; try teaching that to little persons.
rigor
response
reflection
rubric
will point you in the right (write?) direction
facilitate with fidelity; provide actionable feedback . . . (but don’t call in sick unless you’re having a heart attack)
Is your summative assessment warm or cold? (Grab a blanket–so we’re told.)
flip the classroom; personalize learning (to get their brains churning)
What’s the objective?
Does it align with the standards?
How does the curriculum get them college and career ready?
Scaffold.
Differentiate.
Rigor.
Peer conversations.
Rigor.
Text complexity.
Rigor.
Rigor.
Rigor.
Build relationships.
Rigor.
One to one.
Rigor.
Lexile.
Rigor.
Rigor.
Rigor.
Rigor.
TRIGGER WARNING
The kids still find it boring.
And by week’s end, the only buzz words we care about are Tito’s, tequila, and Tanqueray (with honorable mentions to happy hour and chardonnay).
Photo by Daria Shevtsova on Pexels.com
What does ulcerative colitis feel like? Here’s my best poetic attempt.
twisted under blankets to smother
the bushfire
raging through the
death adder
hissing
flicking its forked tongue
fangs
puncturing smoke and blaze
scarring its wake vermilion, bitter, black
sloughing its cinders
a phoenix-masked ouroboros
twisted under fire blankets aching for the rain
As always, invisible illness only remains invisible unless we talk about it. I hope all my fellow chronic pain sufferers find their rain soon.
English class will never be baseball.
Cracking open a book can’t compete with the crack of the bat and the crowd’s cheers for you.
Fumbling through Homer’s The Odyssey will feel more like fumbling a grounder in the bottom of the ninth during a tied game than hitting a homer to win it all.
Throwing words around with a pen and paper to write an essay will never rival throwing warm-up pitches in the bullpen.
The thunk of the catcher’s hand pounding his mitt between curveballs and changeups will never sound like “The Secret Life of Walter Mitty” nor The Catcher in the Rye.
Wry puns and satire will never play hardball in your playbook. Three strikes you’re out and triple plays are more important to you than the rule of threes and idioms.
Sliding into second and shaking hands at the game’s end will never be sliding into the second act of a Shakespeare play.
And that’s just fine, sluggers, because English class isn’t supposed to be baseball, but the real MVPs and big leaguers value both.
Photo by Matthew T Rader on Pexels.com
you’re the apple of my eye phone the best pal I’ve ever known
olive you so much that I’ve lost the common touch I’d rather touch my screen than plum give two shoulder shrugs about my hygiene let alone being publicly seen
yore the apple of my eye phone the best pal I’ve ever known
when I’m in the driver’s seat I don’t need my eyes on the road because I’m gazing at my lap typing in my passcode and texting eggplant emojis to my bestie sorry about not paying attention at that last red light don’t get testy btw thanks for the courtesy honk I was ordering personalized t’s from etsy
your the apple of my eye phone the best pal I’ve ever known
I no longer care about capitalizing letters punctuation or spelling correctly scrolling through facebook is more compelling than peeling pineapples for a crisp confusing sentences are the new who dis and peals of laughter dissolve into the will o’ the wisps
yore I meant your dammit autocorrect you’re the apple of my iPhone the best pal I’ve ever known
