"I'm teaching myself Hebrew"
Oct. 23rd, 2023 03:07 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
asakiyumeThe teacher I used to work with in Holyoke asked me back to give a talk on writing to her high school-aged students, who are working on personal narratives. These are all kids for whom regular high school hasn't worked out, but they are still fighting for an education and a future, and the teachers at this program are 100 percent dedicated to helping them with that.
This happened in front of the building housing the program. This is these kids' daily life.
We talked about what makes writing hard, and how you have to strive to write in a way that your readers will understand and feel what you're sharing--even if your reader is only your future self. It's too easy to be cryptic or use a sort of shorthand that speaks to you in the moment but not later. And of course if your audience is going to include people other than yourself, you have to work even harder. Learning what you need to improve is good--but we also need reassurance and praise for what we're doing.
I said we'd practice that. I took out this guy:
I handed out index cards, told them not to put their names on them, and asked them to write a couple of sentences based on one of these prompts about the guy:
"He saved my life when I--"
"He ruined my life by--"
"He has a secret. It's that--"
"He's not who he seems. Actually he's--"
"He gives me the creeps because--"
"In a dream I had, he--"
"I see him every day selling--"
Then I collected what they wrote, handed out the cards at random, and everyone read the card they ended up with and had to say something that they liked about what they'd read.
The stuff the kids had written ran the gamut. Unsurprisingly, one kid had written that the guy was selling drugs, but someone else had written that he was selling vegetables and that they'd gone home and made soup. Another wrote about a rescue that involved jumping off a motorcycle. Another said he seemed creepy and like he might kill you in your sleep. And so on. Wonderful tiny stories. And everyone got to hear their writing read anonymously and praised.
Afterward, I answered questions and the talk drifted to (among other things) languages. I think I maybe went overboard talking about how learning languages made me positively high, but it led to a touching conversation on my way out with a student who confided that he'd started teaching himself Hebrew.
"Oh wow, Hebrew!" I said. "How did you choose that? Is it part of your heritage?"
"No. It's because of ... You know. The news. I thought of doing Arabic, too, but the letters seemed too hard."
I felt so much love for that kid in that moment. What a profound response to what's going on. What an instinct for healing.
So take heart, everyone. You can be a kid growing up in a neighborhood where stray bullets kill babies, and yet you're teaching yourself language to Tikkun Olam the hell out of our broken world.
This happened in front of the building housing the program. This is these kids' daily life.
We talked about what makes writing hard, and how you have to strive to write in a way that your readers will understand and feel what you're sharing--even if your reader is only your future self. It's too easy to be cryptic or use a sort of shorthand that speaks to you in the moment but not later. And of course if your audience is going to include people other than yourself, you have to work even harder. Learning what you need to improve is good--but we also need reassurance and praise for what we're doing.
I said we'd practice that. I took out this guy:
I handed out index cards, told them not to put their names on them, and asked them to write a couple of sentences based on one of these prompts about the guy:
"He saved my life when I--"
"He ruined my life by--"
"He has a secret. It's that--"
"He's not who he seems. Actually he's--"
"He gives me the creeps because--"
"In a dream I had, he--"
"I see him every day selling--"
Then I collected what they wrote, handed out the cards at random, and everyone read the card they ended up with and had to say something that they liked about what they'd read.
The stuff the kids had written ran the gamut. Unsurprisingly, one kid had written that the guy was selling drugs, but someone else had written that he was selling vegetables and that they'd gone home and made soup. Another wrote about a rescue that involved jumping off a motorcycle. Another said he seemed creepy and like he might kill you in your sleep. And so on. Wonderful tiny stories. And everyone got to hear their writing read anonymously and praised.
Afterward, I answered questions and the talk drifted to (among other things) languages. I think I maybe went overboard talking about how learning languages made me positively high, but it led to a touching conversation on my way out with a student who confided that he'd started teaching himself Hebrew.
"Oh wow, Hebrew!" I said. "How did you choose that? Is it part of your heritage?"
"No. It's because of ... You know. The news. I thought of doing Arabic, too, but the letters seemed too hard."
I felt so much love for that kid in that moment. What a profound response to what's going on. What an instinct for healing.
So take heart, everyone. You can be a kid growing up in a neighborhood where stray bullets kill babies, and yet you're teaching yourself language to Tikkun Olam the hell out of our broken world.
