A couple of weeks ago, I met with my poetry students equipped with some five-minute writing topics that I use at the beginning of class. Simple and general, these topics help clear the mind of surface thoughts. I began with "waking up" and unclasped my wrist watch to lay on the desk besides my unopened journal. Some students stared into space at first and some set to writing immediately. My own hands were idle.
I was fretting about a failed lesson from the week before and forming a plan to try it again this session. The failed lesson had to do with the students giving one another neutral feedback following the reading aloud of their pieces. I'd learned it from Natalie Goldberg (Writing Down the Bones and Wild Mind) at workshops I'd attended in the 90s. Neutral feedback requires focused listening so that we can repeat the words and images that we remember back to the reader, thus telling her or him where the language was most memorable for us.
"It's neutral, not positive or negative," I'd explained the week before. "Just say the phrase or word. Leave out opinions and interpretations." It was difficult for most of the students to follow my instructions, and they responded to each others' writing with "I like..." or "That made me think of...." I didn't correct them, probably because it had been our first full writing session, and I wanted to establish an initial sense of comfort in the classroom. When a student did attempt to follow my instructions, I'd merely nodded my affirmation. That was hardly enough of a distinction for a teacher to make. Quite simply, I hadn't been clear enough in the follow-through.
So I was determined to reinforce the basics of neutral feedback in this session. As the students wrote about waking up that morning, I was gearing up to retry teaching the theory and application of neutral feedback. "It doesn't only help the writer; it helps us all to develop our listening skills," I practiced saying in my head. 'We think that we know how to listen, but we can do better. We need to listen as writers listen. To explore how words can only bridge our thoughts and experience. To begin to understand the gap between being and telling." Teacher talk, likely just what Natalie had told me when I was her student.
Their five minutes were up. I told them to finish their sentences. They looked up expectantly, their pens poised above their books. "When I leave here," I said. "When I leave here," I repeated. They began writing again. My notebook remained closed. I watched my students leaning over their desks, noticing how some held their pens between their pointer finger and thumb, how some used their middle and ring finger."When I leave here," I thought, "I'll have my last office hour of the week and hop into my car to head upstate." Several of my friends had decided to retire last semester, but I didn't want to think about that kind of leaving.
"Time's up," I announced. "Finish what you're doing." In a minute most of the students stopped. One young woman bent further over her notebook, deep into her writing. She needed to catch whatever she was chasing. I didn't wait for her. The rest looked at me. I had another general topic ready, but I hesitated. In the back of my mind was the date of that session. I decided to give it to them to prepare them in some way for the day to come. "Nine-Eleven," I announced. "Nine-Eleven." Some nodded. A few closed their eyes." They began to write. After a moment or two of watching, I decided to open my notebook. Before delving in, I jotted down the time I should tell them to finish up in case I lost my teacher self in my writing. Then I began.
These students were around five in 2001. I want to know what they think. Not too reverential, I hope. Distanced, maybe. Not sure what to do with it, maybe. I wonder if I touched a nerve. I wonder.
I remember Al running home from his jog on the East River path, calling "turn on the tv!" Just before the second plane hit. I remember us rushing later that afternoon from hospital ER to hospital ER being turned away each time. No blood was needed. Four years before his diagnosis.
"Time is up," I called. We were sitting in a sort of oval to accommodate the narrow room. "Let's do some reading." I reminded them of the listening rules. "Who wants to start?" As I listened to the first student read his piece, I remembered how hard it is to listen deeply, to quiet one's own thoughts and connect with another's. How one gets caught on a phrase and sets off on a long self-inquiry before remembering to rein oneself in. Settle down, I told my restless mind more than once. Go back and listen.
When it came time to give feedback, I said, "Just the words, phrases, images." A student did just that. So did another. "Good," I said. Another student offered her opinion. I firmly held up my hand. She stopped, and another said a phrase.
We listened to the rest of the readings. Although it wasn't required, all the students wanted to read their Nine-Eleven pieces. As each one finished, all of the rest--including the one who had earlier tried to give her opinion--offered neutral feedback. Go home quickly... I feel the panic... Live in fear. ..Hardened faces... President reading... I'm not sure... Very bad people... We rush home and have lunch. ..Teachers aren't supposed to cry... A mom planning her weekend... Happy to be getting out of school... Shield of grief... Inside domestic terrors... Abandoned... Rules and regulations... Mrs. O'Connor... Campfires of revolutions. ..Your dark hair...
I was feeling satisfied with the results of the lesson on listening. They had all gotten it. Then a student raised her hand. I nodded. "Would you read?" she asked.
I looked down at my page, unsure as any of my students of what I'd just written...and read. I hesitated before reading the last sentence about his diagnosis. But I read that too.
I'd forgotten how it feels to read just-written, unedited writing to a group for the first time. Humbled, I felt layers peeling off, something like soul showing, tenderness not meant for everyone. I lingered on the page, suddenly too shy to look up and meet my students' eyes.
A brief silence...then they began to give feedback. Neutral. I wonder. ..I remember... Running home... Turn off the tv! ...No blood was needed... Finally, someone said, four years before the diagnosis. Others nodded at that last sentence."Thank you," I said and ushered them on to our next project.
That day still has me thinking. We hide so much of ourselves, our best maybe, in the service of dignity or whatever it is we believe keeps us intact and safe. What would it be like if more of us were to offer, listen, and feed back? I wonder.
No comments:
Post a Comment