The Memoir Experiment

Hiya Kids! I realize it's been almost two months since I last wrote, but, you know, it's summer. I've been doing awesome things like going to Italy and eating way too much pizza. But now that I'm sufficiently carb filled and rested (my days usually go like this: eat, read, eat, read, walk, repeat), it's time to get back on the writing wagon. And I thought I'd start things off with an excerpt from a recent project from my Memoir I Class I took at Gotham this spring.

The only context I think you need is to know that I'm sort of kinda thinking about writing a memoiresque book about my experiences as a teacher, and this something I've come up with so far.

Ciao!

PB (Pre-Brownsville, part 1)

Acting to Teach

My plan was to be a professional actor. And I was. For about five years.

In 2001, I received my B.A. in Theater from George Mason University (located in the suburbs of Washington DC) and immediately hit the pavement as a “working actor” in the nation’s capital. Armed with an arsenal of 2-minute monologues, 16-bar song selections, and a “God I hope I get it” attitude, I believed in my art and in the pursuit of it.

And then: I got tired of being a secretary. Or a personal assistant. Or a barista.

I got tired of working day jobs that turned my brain to goo and left me less than thrilled to schlep to auditions where everyone looked like wannabe Eponines from Les Miserables, including me.

I got tired of knowing that I could be so much more than an ensemble member in a yet unnamed modern dance/crime drama in a pseudo-professional production in Towson, Maryland.

I got tired of knowing that my days could be spent doing so many other worthwhile activities than preparing for the Merrily We Roll Along chorus auditions for the fifth time.

I got tired of feeling like a waste; that time was running out to do something with my life.

And so I went back to the only other thing I’ve always been really good at besides acting: bossing people around. Or, in other words, teaching.

Let me back up. From the time I was two years old and addressed a metal coca-cola truck as my pet dog “Bo Pat,” I’ve been excellent at two distinct things 1) pretending to be someone I’m not and 2) giving people orders.

Acting and Teaching. Done and done.

I “acted” with my parents, my aunts and uncles, my brother and cousins. I bossed around neighbors, grandparents, classmates and even strangers. Between the ages of 2 and 12, I lived in a multi-genre world of imagination. Tragedies, Comedies, Musicals, even Soap Operas, all received my “touch” as an actor/director/playwright/producer.

Here, for your pleasure, is a typical scene from one my early “ pertend” creations:

3-year-old Jamie: Mommy, let’s pertend that you stand here and say hello and then I say hello and then we both walk over here and pertend to eat breakfast.

Jamie’s silent, wisely obedient, sandy-haired, 5 foot Momma: Ok.

(Scene continues for a few more moments. And then the dénouement.)

Little Jamie: You pertend you’re eating Cherrios and I’ll pertend I’m eating Rice Krispies.

End Scene.

Chekhov I was not.

But I was prolific. And enduring.

I once spent two solid hours on the basement stairs “smoking” cigarettes made out of black Bic pens and pretending I was an alcoholic who was in danger of losing her kids. (My parents’ experiences as social workers in the child welfare system of West Virginia provided a particularly deep pool of inspiration.)

Alcoholic dramedies aside, my all-time favorite pertend production was school. It was my Cats, if you will. I played it in my room, in the backyard, at even, school. I most often played it, however, on my grandparents’ terrace.

***

PB (Pre-Brownsville, part 2)

Do and Pa’s Terrace

From between the ages of six to twelve, my younger brother Zack and I spent our Tuesdays and Thursdays at Do and Pa’s house while our mother worked part-time (Note: I invented the name Do and have no idea how or why I did so. The story is I got it from saying, “Do this and do that.” But I’m pretty sure that’s bogus. I think it was just an early indicator of my odd, yet delightful strangeness. My grandfather was always Pa. Just Pa.)

For most of our childhood, my brother and I shared very little in common (He was athletic, blonde, skinny, good at math whereas I was dramatic, brunette, pudgy, and lived in my own head). The one item we agreed on, however, was the awesomeness of afternoons at Do and Pa’s. Why? #1: The snacks. Junkwise, Do beat our Mom’s hands down: Doritos, Bugles, Cheetos. We didn’t have these treasures at our house. Even the leftover cookies from the days she volunteered at the local bloodmobile were gold. And she had these little wicker baskets we could keep our handfuls of Cool Ranch in. The woman even made portion control fun.

#2: location, location, location. Do and Pa’s house offered near limitless pertend opportunities. There was the front yard off to the right of the driveway where the mint grew – that, during ages nine and ten, was my choice location for playing “house.” There was the cabin, which was literally a cabin attached to the side of the house that my architect grandfather ingeniously constructed in the early 1960s, and where my grandparents made their bedroom. It was also where I made my imaginary hair studio. (Do was my only client.)

And finally, there was the terrace. The “terrace” was essentially a patio made of flat bricks that adjourned one of the only non-hill sections of the backyard. (This was West Virginia, the Mountain State, after all.) It ran the length of the kitchen and living room and was where we had all outdoor cookouts, birthday parties, etc. It was also the location of my first classroom as a teacher.

You see, in addition to the patio furniture I could arrange into desks and classroom formations, the terrace had an undisputable trump card: a blackboard. And this wasn’t some dinky chalkboard on an easel like the ones they had at Kmart or Toys R Us this was a blackboard affixed to a wall – just like the kind they had at school. And given that it attached to the siding directly below the kitchen window, it was also just my height. Genius.

So, from ages six to eleven, I played school most Tuesdays and Thursdays on the terrace (weather permitting). My actual lessons were usually mimics of that night’s homework (spelling lists, math problems) or simple grammar assignments. (Twenty years later, at NYU, I would learn that these direct moments of instruction are called “mini-lessons.”) My strength as an imaginary teacher was never in content. My focus then, as it is now, was in student relationships.

For hours on the terrace, I would call on my imaginary students to answer. To come up to the board. To sit down and be quiet. To share their responses with the class. Never mind that if you were my grandfather and happened to look out of the kitchen window all you would see was a slightly chubby, kinky haired eight year old Jamie wearing polka dot leggings and her favorite Jamz sweatshirt talking to herself. To me, my classroom was full and alive. Students working feverishly, all clamoring for attention from Mrs. Boileau. (I wonder what my eight year old self would think of my current students addressing me by first name? I doubt the younger me would approve; I was quite traditional in my pedagogy back then.)

The greatest evidence, however, of my attempts at building strong (imaginary) student relationships exists in my infamous “notes home.” After going over the day’s spelling list or fraction problem, my teaching day often culminated with one or two letters home that I would write on my grandfather’s note pads. The correspondence usually looked something like this:

Dear Mrs. Smith,

Your daughter Alicia was very bad in class today. I am worried about her behavior. I had to write her name on the blackboard twice.

Please come see me as soon as you can.

Sincerely,

Mrs. Boileau

My grandfather, Pa, whose imagination and sense of empathy was less forgiving than my grandmother’s, would find several of these notes in various locations throughout the house.

Looking back, it’s probably not that surprising that he thought I was a schizophrenic.

Fast-forward twenty years, and my classroom has moved from my grandparents’ terrace in Bluefield, West Virginia to a crumbling, public school building in Brownsville, Brooklyn.

The students have changed from imaginary white 3^rd graders to seventeen and eighteen year old African American, Dominican, Jamaican, and Haitian young men and women who desperately need a second chance.

I still act and I’m still bossy.

Pertend has become reality.

The Last Week

We have four more official teaching days to go.

Four.

4.

And as T pointed out in Playwriting it's really only three because nobody's coming to school on Wednesday. That's the night of prom.

Four more days of miracles.

Four more days of mediocrity.

"Jamie, I just need to pass. What do I need to do to get a 65???"

Four more creeping days of the slow, but increasingly urgent realization that yes, you will by returning in September. Or maybe as soon as July and Summer School.

For more days of success and triumph and satisfaction in finishing the year. In graduating. In finally moving on. In the chance to see a world outside of Brownsville.

It's lethargic around here. And we can't blame it all on the weather. Desperation doesn't discriminate; 85 or 65, rain or shine, it's all around us.

We know who's going to pass, who's not, and who there's still some hope for.

And then there's delusion.

"Ms. Jamie, I'm just gonna write you a whole screenplay. Can that count as my benchmark?"

"If it's long J, I'll count it as two pieces. But you need four pieces in total. The purpose of the final project is for you to revise your favorite pieces that you've worked on throughout the cycle."

We look at his notebook together. Out of 12 weeks of instruction, he has 5 days of notes. In total.

I can't do anything but nod in agreement when he says, "nothing's in here. I don't have any work."

And so: I say sure, go head, write your screenplay.

And for the next 55 minutes he chats with C, tells me he's "gonna get started...brilliance takes time," and updates his Blackberry.

Making up a whole year in 4 days must be overwhelming. I know I couldn't do it. And I'm smart. Mad smart. Almost as smart as J the screenwriter.

T -22

Tuesday, May 11th, 2010.

Advanced Writing Seminar, 3rd period.

Do Now: What are three things you would like to change about school?

Me: Yes, J?

J: I think we should bring back social promotion.




And, yeah.

22 more days left of instruction. ;)

Uncensored

Since yesterday's posting was a little on the dark side of things, I thought I'd start today off with a little bit of positivity.

First off, it's a beautiful Spring day. The sun is shining and my zyrtec is so far working.

Second, it's a Wednesday.

Finally, something really awesome and amazing happened last Friday.

My students - of their own accord - gave up part of their Friday night to see theater. That's right, seven of my students made the trek from east BK to west Manhattan. To. see. theater.

And? The show was really freaking good.

Uncensored is the culminating piece for the acting company of the MCC Youth Theater program. It happens every Spring and, as far as I can tell, it's always pretty freaking awesome.

Monologues, scenes, poems, abstract performance pieces about them, by them.

Yeah, my kids loved it. Here's hoping the inspiration (and motivation?) sticks for a little while.

Theater and students. Once again, proof that it's almost always a good idea.

The 20%....

80% of my class is engaged.

Why am I so worried about the 20% that's not?

Is T really sick or is the short story that boring?

N is trying, but this is definitely a struggle.

Is 100% engagement even possible? Especially when you have 11th grade reading levels in the same class with 6th grade ones?

How do you "differentiate" a read aloud? (And yes, read alouds are mandatory - silent reading would result in even more snoozing....)

What made J check out 5 min after coming into class?

What time do they go to bed?

What are they eating for breakfast? Are they eating breakfast?

Is it just because it's a Tuesday and I woke up in a funky mood too?

If Tuesday's like this, what will happen on Thursday?

Am I allowed to have a lesson not blow their minds?

Why is teaching so much about perception and participation?

Why do I feel like eating chocolate right now?

Maybe it's ok to let some things go. Maybe not every second needs to be an ah-ha moment. As a professor at NYU once said, "Remember, it means everything to you, but it's only 55 minutes out of their entire day."

True dat.

But when your students only come once or twice a week and still fall asleep, doesn't that 55 minute nap become more than everything? A lost cause? An sleepy premonition about the future? A small, but devastatingly sad metaphor for public education?

The good(?) news: I have 9 1/2 more weeks till June to figure it out.

The Playground Outside My Window

It's gorgeous outside. I hear little (and old) kids screaming and laughing directly under my window.

If I were my students, I'd leave too.

How do we compete with the weather?

How does my lesson on writing about your name compare with piercingly bright sunshine?

And it's only March 18th.

Just wait till May. June.

Attendance in the Spring.

New Beginnings, Once Again

We've (I've) made it to Cycle III!

That's right folks, this is the last and final cycle of the year. The official end of year countdown has begun. The grand experiment that is my school will finish its second year (for better or for worse) in the next three months.

So that means that yet again, we start anew. New cycle, new students, new chances.

A new chance to make it first period. To second. To third.

To do some homework. To get a 65. To get a 95. To believe that you really are worthy of graduating high school.

My new chances? Advanced Writing Seminar and Playwriting and Performance II.

Advanced Writing (Dig the college sounding title?) is my small experiment within our school's larger one. I've always emphasized writing, but this time it will be explicit. The plan is pretty simple: genre by genre, we will play and explore and, with hope, eventually command.

And we started today. With, you guessed it: I am from.

(Seriously, what did progressive English teachers do before Linda Christensen saved us all?)

Is there really a better way to start off a new cycle, a new class, a new chance than writing about the different flavors of jolly ranchers you ate as a 7 year old? I think not.

"What was the name of that game again?
"Steal the Bacon!"
"My favorite food was fried chicken....macaroni and cheese...the pink starbursts."

It's simple.
It's low risk.
It's fun.
It's fulfilling.

At the end of a 55 minute period, my students got to know themselves, their classmates, and me a little bit better. They learned the tone and purpose of the class (we are going to WRITE) and perhaps even some of my teaching philosophy. The learned that they could write a poem (and in some cases a damn good one) in under 20 minutes.

Not bad for a new and final first day.