Notes on a Tuesday
Tonight may have been the first cookie swap I've ever participated in. Amy (American), three Italians, and I at Fabiola's home. It's an American thing, Amy told the Italians. And then I realized that I'd never actually gone to a cookie swap at home, or anywhere. I emailed my best friend from kindergarten to get her molasses cookies recipe two nights ago. This afternoon I went to buy the ingredients at Emme Piu with Connor: Italians don't have or sell molasses. Fair substitute: brown sugar in 1:4 ratio (brown sugar: molasses) -- who knew. Hannah helped me find measuring spoons and cup, more knowledgable than I in our kitchen because she helps Mary bake cookies, cupcakes, blondies, etc. I realized that I hadn't baked once since being here. Connor read aloud in Italian about dinosaurs at the kitchen table while I measured; Hannah mixed and recited aloud something that she needs to memorize by Friday; when Mary walked in, she took turns with Hannah mixing the batter.
At the cookie swap, they loved the cookies. And I, in my late and self-conscious state (it's been months since I baked! will brown sugar substitute really work for molasses in a molasses cookie recipe?), was delighted beyond delighted. Amy and I swapped stories of the cookies and treats our moms made at Christmas: mint brownies; oatmeal chocolate chip cookies; white meringue cookies; brownies with white frosting and a layer of chocolate on top; cornflake cookies with jam; sugar cookies with sprinkles. Amy's mom put her treats on the porch to stay cool, and the kids snuck them from there; my mom put hers in the basement freezer, and we snuck them from there.
I brought home oatmeal chocolate chip, biscotti with lemon and orange zest, merigue with almond, a chocolate fruit cake of sorts, special to Viterbo.
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For my birthday in July, I asked for a winter jacket, and I got a bright purple cozy jacket. I had thought that I didn't want to bring my long black puffy coat. It was ninety degrees in Waltlham when I decided that. Now I wouldn't mind having my long black puffy coat here, too.
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One of Sebastian's best buddies at school is leaving. Total bummer. "We had nice conversations," Sebastian said.
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I released two sets of grades yesterday: one on an in-class essay on The Stranger and one on a personal essay. Perhaps two of the best conversations I've had with students this year.
Language
JK: Could you go over the grammar of my essay with me so I can do better next time?
me: Sure.
We visit for 10-15 minutes, and I'm reminded that JK grew up in Korea and moved to the States in middle school, so English is not her first language -- even though she knows more about American brands and terminology than I do, even though she is mentioning how she tried to fit in in America by wearing Jack Rodgers instead of Nike. I say to her, What's Jack Rodgers? She says, You know, the shoes. You have them. I'm adamant that I don't have these name brand shoes. We find an image. Oh! you mean those shoes!? Yes, yes, they look similar. But mine are TJMaxx.
I often forget that JK grew up in Korea and not the U.S. because she participates in class easily, confidently, articulately. We find every off verb tense, subject-verb agreement, instance of vague language. "Thanks. That was really helpful," JK says. She tells me more about the difficulties in growing up and trying to fit in where she didn't fit in, and how feeling confident and secure and figured out is still hard. I adore her and her honesty.
Put yourself into the story
SD: Can we go over my reflective essay? I thought it was great, but then I got an 85, and I don't understand why.
me: Sure. Give it 24 hours and then you can come talk with me about it.
...next day:
SD: So I looked at the rubric, and I went check, check, check. I nailed this. Then you read it and you didn't like it.
We talk for 15 minutes. SD is having a hard time understanding what would make the piece work better, and I'm struggling to explain to her what I mean by grounding the reflection in some concrete images or scenes. We talk. We get stymied. We try again. We go back through the essay. I ask her about a painter (Jack Whitten) she mentions in the piece. She pulls up an image of a painting of his: this is self-awareness, she says. So then put yourself into that picture and see how the painting works for you if you're the image in the picture. Where would you be in the picture? Self-aware how and when or not?
SD: Oooooooooooh...okay. I get it. I'd never written a personal essay before. I usually write about other people.
And one student interaction that made me laugh:
Syllables
me: Okay.
I know I can be a careless grader when it comes to quizzes, but I'm pretty thorough when it comes to essays, so I'm surprised because I remember counting syllables, but I think, Well, I did grade 88 essays in the last week, and it's likely I messed up.
Later, I catch up with MF; he is eager to review his sentence with me. His creative piece for the final writing of the term is a series of 18 haikus, beginning with one titled "boston." It's quite clever, arranged in three parts, reflecting on life from August until now. He's gotten a 97%, and he wants to review my comment that he is missing a syllable in the second line (and yes, I had to look up haiku definition to review how many syllables per line -- my friend Justin used to write them, too). In the salone, he reads aloud to me:
boston
my mom is crying
fireworks out the window
i hug her and go
He reads fireworks as FIR-E-WORKS.
ZW, his buddy, walks by: That's how you say fireworks? Three syllables?
MF: Oh. Right.
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Tonight after I returned from the cookie swap and we all ate more cookies, we rearranged the living room to fit both of our mini-artificial trees. Now we're feeling cozy.
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I got Daniel to come wrap with me. Kids were sleeping.
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