I am often amazed by our sixth graders at Trinity.
They can sit in a values circle and maturely discuss prejudice, racism, and a field trip to the Birmingham Civil Rights Institute. They can blog about a class novel and its effect on their thinking and actions. They can clean discovery trail in 45 minutes, ensuring with great attention to detail that all limbs are moved and all trash is cleared. They can lead a second trimester conference with two to five adults in attendance. They can use technology with ease and are willing to teach their teachers about anything from iPhones to Google SketchUp. They can stand in front of their peers in the morning and give a reflection about their veggie beliefs. They can give a teacher a smile or a hug in the hallway “just because.” They can lead at lunch, in their buddy classrooms, at carpool, in the classroom, at recess, in RWR, during assemblies, and (sometimes!) in the hallway.
They can also write. Each student can really write. Here are a few examples of students who posted their most recent work in writer’s workshop to their personal weblog. Although this writing is amazingly powerful, I am inspired by what they will be able to do in the future.
The following excerpts are from pieces that were published in conjunction with our week-long study of Cynthia Rylant’s style and craft. Forgive the length of this post…but the work of each student is noteworthy.
Eric: “And, oh, the ripples. Ripples that seemed to go on forever. On and on and on. Just like the way a cloud floats in the sky without a stopping point.”
Helen: “Brina Beads is a place of memory. When you walk in, there are beads to the left and beads to the right. There are beads behind you and beads in front of you. Beads and beads and beads.”
Emma K.:”And on Broadway how the people sing and dance and act like people who they are not, and in the bustling streets how the people briskly walk from place to place, and in the parks filled with beauty and wanders seeking serenity from the busy city. This is their life, their routine, their city. New York City.”
Wellie: “Also in the kitchen, there are walls painted chocolate brown. There are walls covered in clear tile with a green background. There are walls that are pushed outward. There are walls that are pushed inward. Many walls.”
Christopher: “Suddenly, my grandmother’s call rings out. A stone shattering the calmness of a lake. Reality is tearing me from my dreams in the tree. I slide down the tree. I should not be disappointed. For, of course, I will climb again. Yes, I will climb again.”
Linzy: “And why do all of these people come here? Why the food of course, and the company. The food, succulent and tasty, is always plentiful. The cooking goes on and on and seems to stop… …until it starts up again to produce more hearty meals.”
Anne Torrey: “For me, the soccer field is so much more than just a place, it is a home. It is a home filled with welcoming people, wide open fields with green, green grass and soccer balls.”
Grant W.: “Memories are special, they never disappear but remain in life for forever. They are comforting like a kitten and soft like pillows. They are exuberant like little kids. And they all live in a far away home.”
Phoebe: “I spend most of my day on the porch, reading, sleeping, thinking. The porch is like a dog. It waits for me. Waits, waits, waits. Greets me when I get there. Welcome, Welcome, Welcome. Says good-bye when I must leave. Good-bye, Good-bye, Good-bye.”
Isabelle: “I have a corner. A little corner all to myself. Mo one has ever been there or sat there or read there or slept there or hidden there but me. It’s my corner.”
Emma R: “And at the end of the day, as I snuggle up into my bunk bed I think. I think and think and think. I think about my day. I think about tomorrow. I think about my life. Oh, how great my life is. How I wish could stay at camp for the rest of my life. Camp is where I am most happy. Camp is where I am free. Camp is my home.”
Margaret: “In the afternoon, the air is filled with the sweet, melodious song of larks. Bumblebees play tag, zigging and zagging, while their black and yellow stripes seem to zoom every which way. Butterflies flutter gracefully around, clad in every color of the rainbow, settling delicately on tiny flowers, allowing anyone who happens to pass by to admire their beautiful attire.”
Matthew: “Hills of rock rise over the whole river. Climbing rock hills. I can clamber up these hills, eager to get to the top. Once I do, I begin climbing others. I could climb these forever. Endless hills.”
Austin M.: “These all bring the small children joy. This is the room… … The room for everyone.”
Jon Farrell: “And, oh, the pool. It taunts me with its cool, crisp water. It knows that I am very hot under the scorching Florida sun. It beckons me to dive into the refreshing water, and finally rid myself of the heat.”
Ta’Neal: “And, oh, the stars at night. How they twinkle in the bluish-black colored sky. There are old memories, of course. The best one being when Angel first came there, sniffing and running and barking, then immediately starting to play.”