Poet. Know it.

We've just finished a poetry unit, a solid three weeks of study and self-expression. Here, the middle school all does poetry at the same time, so that we can end with a poetry extravaganza (very generously termed a "slam"). This Thursday, the top three poets from grades 6-8 (as voted by their peers and a panel of judges) will take the mic and give it their all. The whole middle school will be encouraged to wear black in a massive attempt to truly get their Beat on. Cigarettes dangling from limp fingers are strictly forbidden. Berets are optional.

Many teachers resist teaching poetry because, really, who knows anything about it? Others who DO teach poetry write tracts in educational journals about how academically rigorous and challenging it should be, so if you're circling up the kids and telling them to write about their feelings, you are surely 1) an ignoramus and 2) irrevocably damaging young minds.

I personally prefer the stance of Stephen Fry, one of those very cool British actors and comedians who are also erudite writers. In his book The Ode Less Traveled (highly recommended, go buy it now), he insists that people do need to be taught how to write poetry AND that anyone is capable of doing so. To prove his point, he starts off the book with a series of iambic pentameter exercises. It sets my language-nerd heart aflutter.

It's also a mindset that makes it fun to teach poetry as opposed to stressful or stressfully unstructured. Kids learn tools to help them write strong verse and then are encouraged to try it out. They do so with varying degrees of comfort and finesse, but it is the rare and grumpy child who simply refuses to try. Poems are short, which makes them less threatening than an essay or narrative. It's easy to start again...and again...and again...And once you start, who knows down what roads poetry may lead you.

Case in point: my students this year appear to be a well adjusted, chipper bunch. We had a rollicking debate about whether the word "fart" consitutes an onomatopoeia. We went outside and described what we saw. We examined common symbols, practiced alliteration and had what I thought was a high-school-level discussion of e.e. cummings's classic "maggie and milly and molly and may."

They then proceeded to write the most dismal, gut-wrenching, raven-quothing poems featuring death-bed scenes, spectral possession, murder in the night and the agony of lost love. And, lest you think otherwise, this was weeks before the English department decided on the Gothy/Beatnik dress code for the poetry slam. When we talked about trees and flowers being common symbols for life, I had no idea how many bouquets of dead and dying foliage I'd be sorting through when the final portfolios were turned in. I blame the Twilight series. Or else there is a darkside to Abu Dhabi I have yet to discover.

Poetry is also democratic in that teachers are often no better at it than the students. I wrote a few of my own poems during the lengthier workshop times in class when I resolutely refused to answer any questions in the hope of fostering self-reliance. Suffice it to say, my own verse (which will never be featured here) was much less preciously dreary, but no less laborered. Writing poetry is hard. Writing good poetry is almost impossible.

Then why do we make kids try it, year after year? Isn't it just a bit antiquated, like typewriters, landlines and cursive? And who actually writes poetry anymore? If you're not a spinster living in New England or a hermit on a hilltop or fluent in the latest lit-speak, what right do you have to pen a verse?

My sister has a friend, Midwestern and happily married, who had a book of poems published in her 20s, so, yes, people still write poetry. But even if you don't, you have to admit that poetry is special--and necessary in its specialness. There are things a poem can say that prose never could. There are elements of the human experience that cry out for a couplet or a metaphor, rather than a staid sentence. Which is why poetry is a force in so many cultures--much more of a force than it is in ours. Here in the UAE, in fact, there is an "American Idol" type show called "Millionaire Poet." Arabic poetry, written almost exclusively by men, is considered one of the most virile things a guy can be good at around here. And one kid told me that the Koran even rhymes (in Arabic). A Google search confirms this, but I'll need many more lessons with Madame L to be sure.

When was the last time you read a poem? Wrote one? Do you have a favorite? Feel free to comment here...

Arabia of ريتشيل

When I was in Istanbul in June 2007, I visited the Topkapi Palace, as most tourists do. It's a beautiful example of Ottoman architecture nestled on a hillside behind Hagia Sophia. My favorite part of the whole experience was seeing the scrolls of sultanic declarations and edicts, many of which were written in the most beautiful script imaginable. The sultan's name in particular was rendered enormously in stunning calligraphy at the top of every lengthy decree (many 4-5 feet or more). Who needs a laundry list of flowery adjectives and trumpety honorables and venerables when you can write your name like that?

I will never be a royal calligrapher, but I love the fact that I can now (very, very slowly and with lots and lots of looking at my cheat sheet) write whole words in Arabic. I fantasize about the day when I'll dash off whole sentences without even looking. Alas, that day will be far in the future.

Arabic is written right to left like Hebrew and other Semetic languages. Its alphabet has 28 letters that correspond to specific sounds. There are also 14 other characters to signify vowels and indicate pronounciation. (K and I have yet to learn these.) Each letter is written differently depending on whether it appears at the beginning, in the middle or at the end of a word. Arabic is such a fantastically lovely written language because of the way the letters join and flow across the page. The thing is, some letters connect; some (the sound "ra" at the beginning of my name, for example) never link up and always appear solo no matter where they land in a word. The appearance of letters, especially in the middle of a word, changes completely to my novice eye. More shapes to be memorized, more frantic peeks at the cheat sheet.

ريتشيل

Check out my name in Arabic! (Cool, huh?) This version has the "t" and the "sh" sound to make our "ch" sound, which doesn't exist on its own. I usually write it just with the "sh" sound (which is the character with the three dots on top) for a more Frenchy transliteration. It's not that I don't want to write more letters--it's because I think of myself as Rachelle in a foreign language since my second language has been French for so long.

Workaday Arabic writing (as opposed to the sultanic wonders in Istanbul) doesn't take much artistic skill (whew). Just like in English, each Arabic writer has his/her own handwriting style. Your printing might be blocky or your f may have a particular slant. Same with Arabic. Right now, my style is that of a 1st grader with above average small muscle coordination. I hope to graduate to at least 4th grade by the end of this year.

Pax Washingtonia (among other things)

I've been thinking about power lately on a number of levels. My old friend BrianB (see his evolving (and involved) comments regarding the previous post) got me mad and then got me thinking. Always in that order...he's been doing that since we were 5...Anyway, BrianB was joined by the ancient Romans, the inauguration and various educational theorists. It's been a busy week...

First, the inauguration. I watched, of course, with K and an estimated third of the globe. CBS was streaming live from about three hours before (which was about 6:30 p.m. in Abu Dhabi), so I saw a lot of Obama and Michelle getting in and out of limos, exiting churches, moving into holding rooms prior to the big event. Over and over, I heard comments about how friendly the Obamas and the Bushes were and how there was a distinct lack of the drama that inevitably infects the transition process. And I believed the hype. I did! I, who have not believed one word out of our former president's mouth for eight years, believed that he genuinely likes Barack Obama and wishes him well. I was struck for the first time in my life by how truly precious a peaceful transition of power is. (I've lived through many, but this year's seems much more poignant. This has as much to do with the state of the world than with Obama himself.) In the world's only (for the moment) superpower, one man willingly hands the reins to someone he utterly disagrees with, gives him a big hug, climbs in a helicopter and flies into the sunset. That's cool, especially the hug part. As one of my students said, "When I saw the helicopter, I was so happy to see him leave!" But it's not just the leaving. It's leaving without pettiness, to say nothing of corruption or violence. It's knowing he didn't steal the Calvin Coolidge candlesticks (or whatever). It's knowing he gave up the codes even though he held the biggest guns there are.

Wasn't it cool to watch everything change, too? It was almost mystical (definitely liturgical)...the oath, the strike of the clock, the movers poised to haul the Obama's furniture in place (but not until high noon), the national hymns, the roll call of recent history. And am I crazy, or were both elder Bushes wearing matching royal purple?

The patricians in ancient Rome wore purple too (how's that for a smooth transition?) Leaders and thinkers through the centuries have drawn lessons from the republic, the empire builders, the wars, the circuses and the bitter end. Now I'm giving my 6th graders their first taste of this incredibly complex era. As I teach them the many ways power was wielded by the Romans (and what we can learn from it), I'm also conscious of my own power as a teacher. This is something I've always been aware of--not only this year but since the day I first stepped in front of a class. The questions I ask and what I choose to focus on (despite being guided by the textbook, especially this first year) do reflect my own lenses and biases. This is neither right nor wrong--it's inevitable. The only thing teachers can do is pay attention to where they're coming from and adjust whenever possible. Some educational theorists argue that teachers should strive to show no bias at all. Others see teaching as a way to advocate in opposition to the clear agenda that exists in the supposedly "unbiased" mainstream. The jury is still out as to which is better for kids. My view is that they're both right and both wrong. I have a responsibility to teach my students in a way that will serve them best. I determine what "best" means but so do forces beyond my control: curriculum standards, community norms, and what the kids themselves bring to the classroom. I respect these forces--they are as inevitable as my own biases. And so, I am utterly biased, but aware enough to adjust as much as possible. On top of that, I'm acted upon by a complex array of competing influences that cause me to readjust and find a new balancing point. It's as complicated as any profession out there, but what else is new in human systems? Teaching is the most fascianting job I've ever had for this reason. It is endlessly in motion.

The ancient Romans never stopped looking for ways induce wildly diverse peoples to work together productively. They ultimately failed, but they gave it a go for almost 1,000 years. I've only done it for seven. Clearly, I have a lot to learn, but I'm also not going to stop trying.

Friends, Romans, Pringles...

A can of Pringles, a stack of multicolored paper and a teacher lying her rear off.

This is apparently a perfect recipe for teaching kids about what happens when you refuse to share power and try to keep all the good stuff for yourself: a.k.a. the conflict between the patricians and plebeians in ancient Rome. You remember your history: the patricians were the ruling class in the early days of the Roman republic. They didn't let the plebeians vote or participate in the government, but they did force them to serve in the army. The plebs, having none of it and comprising about 95% of the population, voted with their feet and walked out. Literally! They went and camped outside the city gates until the patricians agreed to share some power. True equality came gradually, but at the height of the Roman republic, the plebs and the pats shared power, and the republic flourished for almost 300 years before the rise of the emperors. Representative government, written laws (which led to constitutions), and checks and balances were invented in the process.

The history textbook we use is mostly brilliant, and the Patricians vs. Plebeians Rome activity we did this week is amazing. It creates the conditions of ancient Rome in a classroom full of thoroughly modern 12 year olds. What happens is this: the teacher tells the class that they are going to create a mosaic to represent an aspect of ancient Roman culture. This is complete hooey. In reality, most of the class is going to be given the mind-numbing task of cutting up tiny pieces of colored paper (ostensibly for the "mosaic") while a small, randomly chosen group (the Pats) gets to sit back, watch the work and snack on chips.

This, not surprisingly, breeds serious resentment among the other kids. I have a cushiony area in my classroom, and the Pats got to kick back while eating. Before too long, there were mumbles of discontent, scissors being thrown dramatically on tables and threats of work stoppages. As the teacher, I'm instructed to encourage this by dropping lines like: Gee, I wish I could eat chips on the cushions; and Whoa, this is so unfair, right? The beautiful thing about 6th graders is that by this time, they have forgotten I set up the whole scenario in the first place. When resentment is at a boiling point (several kids in my class wanted to rush the cushions and take the chips by force), I instruct the Plebs to go into another corner of the classroom and elect a representative to bring their demands to the Pats.

The thing is, I've also told the kids that five whole points of their grade is at stake. Everyone loses (including the Pats) if the mosaic isn't done on time. Yet another big, fat whopper. But it's crucial for creating motivation. All of a sudden, everyone has the same thing at stake. Just like in ancient Rome, the patricians couldn't get anything done without the plebs--and the plebs had the numbers in their favor. But neither of them wanted society to crumble or degenerate into chaos, so they had to find a solution.

In one class (the same class that doesn't know what a furnace is), the lesson went like clockwork. I could not have asked for better if I'd scripted it myself--and, and always, it had everything to do with the kids. The Pats buried themselves in the part. They lorded the chips over their classmates, refused to lift a finger and repeatedly rejected the Plebs' demands. When that didn't work, they tried to bribe them with chips (a precursor to bread and circuses?). The Plebs fought back ("It's not about the Pringles!" was the rallying cry) and wouldn't budge until the Pats agreed to work and share. Which they refused to do until the very last minute! Five kids who every other day are the portraits of respect and citizenship. They got their hands on a can of Pringles and didn't want to let go. It was like that mind experiment from the 1950s where ordinary suburbanites got to administer electric shocks to their neighbors and ended up morphing into sadists. Absolute power (or control of the junk food) corrupts absolutely!

After the Pats and the Plebs finally made it work (which happened after much debate, with the Plebs holding firm), I stopped the activity and came clean. No mosaic. No points off. Just a little emotional manipulation in the service of education. Oh, Ms. Roberson! How could you?! There were many scandalized looks (and no one does scandalized better than 6th graders). A small group looked as though they'd stage a second rebellion. I calmed everyone down by pulling out a fresh can of Pringles, and we all passed it around as we sat on the cushions and read the real story of ancient Rome.

The lessons we learned along with the ancient Romans were remarkably apropos, as they always have been, but I was struck yet again by how much we can learn from the past. The kid from Ohio (the same one who had much to say about furnaces) said it best, if not as articulately as Cicero might have: "Man, Ms. R, the people with the stuff...they want to keep it; and the people without the stuff...they totally want the stuff!" If he learns nothing else this year, I guess I've done my job.

But there were more serious parallels. We talked about how the plebs in Rome rebelled relatively peacefully. During the height of the mosaic activity, more than a few of the Plebs in my class asked if they could fight the Pats. Of course, I said no, but as much for historical accuracy as for safety reasons. The plebs in Rome fought with their feet. Why? Once we all calmed down, the kids got it instantly: they didn't want to ruin their city; they wanted to keep their families safe; they didn't want to lose their jobs or their farms. They all had something at stake. With the memory of their anger, they felt how injustice can lead to violence--and they saw how violence may not be the only solution. As so many of my students, the Palestinians and Jordanians as well as others, watch the events unfolding in Gaza, it is more relevant than ever to remind this generation of a moment in history when justified anger was channeled in nonviolent AND effective ways. The situation in modern-day Palestine and Israel is different and complex, but there are still things we can learn from ancient Rome. We'll be talking about it more and more in the days to come...

Weather is relative

It's January in Abu Dhabi, and there is no better time to separate the locals from the visitors. Let's start with the tourists, fewer in number this year, but highly visible despite the worldwide economic woe. They stroll the Corniche in their flowy cotton pants and tunic tops, sunglasses perched on heads, hair blowing in the breeze. They go to the beach and cruise the malls. They smile at the sun. They work on their tans, perhaps daydreaming of the envious looks and comments they will surely receive upon their return to Berlin, Paris or Moscow.

Meanwhile, the residents of this fair city have busted out their wool caps and puffy jackets. My building's maintenance man cuts a fine figure every morning as he walks around the park with a scarf wrapped around his head and tied snugly under his chin with his ever-present skull cap perched on top of the whole ensemble. He's not the only one. To people who have lived through summer here, it most definitely feels like winter. The sun's heat warms rather than sears. The breeze blows rather than whispers or caresses. There are often actual clouds that block the sunlight for more than a few seconds at a time. While it hasn't gone so far as to rain, it sometimes looks as if it might. People all over the city are turning off the A/C and leaving it off. Often for days at a time. Relatively speaking, it's freezing around here.

Having just experienced real winter in NYC, I'm less inclined to shiver, especially since I am still wearing short sleeves to work. But I can see how blood can thin into nothingness in a climate like this. Today I had a 5-minute discussion with one of my classes about what a furnace was. Kids who knew were trying to explain to kids who didn't. (And lest you think this is an Arabian Peninsula thing, a 100% American girl from Texas was the first kid to own up to not knowing.)

The conversation went like this:

Kid #1: A furnace is like a heater.

100% Texan: Like a radiator?

Kid #2: No, no...like a heating system--a furnace is the main part of it.

Dutch kid who has lived in the UAE most of her life: I know what a radiator is.

Kid #1: No, it's not a radiator--it's a thing that controls the heat.

Kid #2 (waving his hand frantically in the air): Like an air conditioner, only heat instead.

Texan: It blows hot air around?

Kid #3 (jumping in before Kid #2 can answer): Yeah! Yeah! And it's in a basement.

Palestinian kid: Why?

Kid #3: I don't know!

Palestinian kid: I think it sounds like a radiator.

Kid #3: Nooo! Have you ever seen "Home Alone?"

All kids: Yes, of course/Duh/Who hasn't?/Naturally

Kid #3: It's that thing down in the basement that he's afraid of that has fire in it. That's a furnace.

Most kids: Oh! Now I get it!

Kid from Ohio who has lived in the UAE all of his life: Do you shovel coal into it?

Kid #3 (now viewed as the class expert on central-heating apparati): It sucks in air and makes it hotter, then spits it out again.

Dutch kid: Like a radiator.

Me: OK, moving on...

The kids don't know I write a blog, but I did warn them I was going to tell everyone at home about how such brilliant kids--really amazing students who have been privileged to travel the world, speak multiple languages and experience more in 12 years than most people do in 50--do not know what a furnace is. (The Palestinian kid said, "At least tell them we know what radiators are cause it's kinda the same thing." At this point, feel free to imagine Kid #3 piping up "No, it's not!" in a Monty Python punchline voice and me lassoing everyone back on topic once again.)

So, what is the moral of the story? 1) My students DO know what a radiator is, 2) weather is relative, 3) "Home Alone" is a movie whose cultural relevancy is not yet exhausted and 4) the people of Abu Dhabi, myself included, are shivering and smiling in the warm, gentle January sun.