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A place for Writing 12 students to read each other's writing, to critique, to suggest, to improve.
About Me
- Brad
- Former adult teacher who loves island beaches. Happy homebody and family man; once devoted dog owner, now without Tashi, my Tibetan Terrier. I prefer the absurdity of the imagination to the absurdity of imagining nothing.
5 comments:
-White day in Canada?
“Hey, Esther! Come here, I wanna talk to you for a sec . . . Can you get me chocolate milk?” He ran outside of the classroom and talk to me.
It was a lunchtime when he ran outside. I became stiff because here he was, popular among Korean girls and here I was, standing in front of him, feeling so geeky.
He was newly immigrated, and besides he wasn't interested in me, but he asked me to bring him chocolate milk?
Of course, I refused it immediately because I thought, “Why should I bring him chocolate milk? Why didn’t he buy it himself?”
As I walked to my next classroom, I realized that it was a Valentine’s Day.
“So What?” I thought, “Did he trying to say something to me?” I puzzled.
Later, I learned that there are two Valentines’ days in Korea.
In Korea,Valentine’s Day is on February 14. And on March 14, the next month following, it’s White day.
On Valentine’s day in Korea, the girls supposed to give boys, whom they love, chocolates.
And of course, if the boys are accepting it, they’re looking forward to seeing chocolates on March 14, White day.
Because on White day, the boys, whom they love, are giving back the chocolates to girls.
But, If the boys aren’t giving back the chocolates to the girls, they’re heartbroken, and they’re going to give it an another try next year.
So, What did he try to tell me? Who knows, really?
Maybe, he’s trying to say, “I love you,” or maybe he lost the bet of truth or dare.
The Writer's Life
For readers we toil to make our meanings clear. And for the readers to care about our words, we need to make meaning worth knowing. Writing worth reading requires effort from the writer. Practice, trial and error, blind alleys, the occasional victory— all are part of the writer’s life.
I began teaching Writing 12 in 2006. The inaugural class was deeply committed to the craft and wrote many wonderful pieces. In the process, The Pearson Buzz came to be. I remember well lively debates over our various choices (The Pearson Pear was a favourite of mine).
Many writers have begun the class a bit wild, a bit delirious with the power of words. Discipline takes time; writing is, as much as anything is, a craft. Like a finishing carpenter, making the fit just so requires careful, methodical effort.
Working with words means working, with words. No substitutes allowed! Every week we do a new exercise, designed to make the writer look at something familiar in a new way, or, sometimes, just to take a good look.
Because writers bring an imaginary world to life, we need to talk about life to get ideas, to prime the writing pump. Writing 12 class is quiet when we try a new prompt, but more often we chat about ideas. With ideas, our imaginations are ready for exercise.
To make my life interesting, each class has had its own, individual, character, but each class has become more serious by the second term when publication begins. Student pieces are popular and have a worldwide readership that I can show to them through web-based analytics.
By bringing my students’ attention to words they can begin to have that essential conversation: that of a writer with his or her reader. If we have something to say and know enough craft to make it worthwhile, then I’ll take the writer’s life anytime!
Looking out a very small window:
Looking out a very small window from basement area onto ground level, not much of a view...passerby from knee to toe. That can be fairly interesting. Judging whos who by their lower leg and footwear.
Here comes someone with good taste, must be a business man, argle socks, expensive brown british brogues, very smart sporty type, I'll bet he enjoyed his freshly squeezed orange juice, with a slice of all grain toast, before leaving his Kitsilano two storey condo this morning. No wife, No kids, O What a Beautiful Morning!.
"Wow! get a look at those legs". She is not going to be walking too far in those stiletto heels, Maybe her street walking was done during the night and she is now on her way home to sleep through the day, she may be part of the oldest trade in the world but definately not the easiest. " Goodnight Lady, sleep well".
Just look at those saggy jeans and dirty runners. Whats the big deal showing off your underwear?. I'm sure he's not job hunting, or maybe he just got off shift, after a long night flipping burgers at McDonalds. His mothers words ringing in his ears. "You should have stayed in school".
What a great looking pair of Italian black leather oxfords, also the fabric in those slacks have an Euopean flare. I can barely see the edge of a black briefcase, Well, if I was to quess, I'd say he was heading towards the courthouse,someones future is going to lay in the decision he comes to this day. "Heavy is the Heart and Hand that holds the Gavel".
Man! those whites are really white, he is either a icecream man or heading to St Pauls Hospital where he may even save a life today, maybe one who didn't even want his life saved, there are a few cased like that in the towntown area .
There goes a couple of school kids on skate boards. Man those things are noisey. All I can think of is God love you and keep you safe. I love the look of boys between the ages of seven to eleven, they seem to be so excited with life and absolutely no fear of death. A wonderful look .
Most children are named honey or sweetheart by their parents, but trust me, most time; they aren’t sweet, at least, not always. Their tasty, if they can be tasted, is just the same as kind of fruit---mixed with sour, bitter, spicy, and a little bit sweet.
One truth between parents and their kids is: no matter how deep you love each other, someday, you still couldn’t avoid to get hurt by the relations.
Look at how our enthusiastic parents caring about those sweeties:
Starting from elementary school to high school, maybe extend to college, there are always a crowed of over-concern of parents, getting addicted to the duties that are drive to school twice a day to drop off and pick up our next generations, never interrupted by outside of the world (Please count me as one to high school so far)
I have met a parent who used to enter our classroom after all classes--for copying homework. “I’m afraid he (the son) would lay me.” He explained with dedicated responsibility. One mom had liked to stand at outside of our classes to inspect her child. I felt so sorry to this pity mom even thought I couldn’t help to think of she also detected me by the way.
On the other hand, all worlds have known what actions our teenagers returned to reflect their parents’ bottomless heeds.
If you want them going sleep at night; they just keep waking up.
If you want them waking up in the morning, then they turn to sleep in.
If you want them eating health food; they just prefer junk food instead of.
Briefly, if you want them going to east; they directly are running to west.
When I teach “inverse function” in math, I like to say, “Try to recall the feeling when you deal with your parents.” I find that make things easer to understand the relationship between the original function and its inverse.
Is there any medicine to cure this situation? That would be a miracle contribution to this impatience modern society. (First draft, 340words)
First Draft:
It was December when we first saw her. We were rejoicing for the Holiday Season, playing out on the streets as late as our parents had allowed us. Her metal chain seemed heavier than her exhausted, frail body. Her scab-filled skin, and balled, muddy fur were indistinguishable from the rusty gate where she’d been tethered. The cold wind had already beaten her. Her joints and chilling bones had already betrayed her. Soon, the rain would’ve drowned her.
“Is she dead?” Jason asked me.
“I don’t know.” I said. “Let’s see.”
I grabbed a stick, and poked her. I thought she would bark, or at least make a sound but she did not. She just opened her dull eyes, tried to stand up, but couldn’t lift her heavy chain.
“Do you think Mr. Reyes, forgot bout her?” Jason asked.
“Let’s go and ask.”
I pressed the buzzer on the gate but no one came out so I decided to climbed over it and knocked, banged on their door.
“There’s no one there,” a man from the next house shouted from their balcony. “The whole family left to the province for Holiday.”
“They forgot their dog outside.” I said.
“Don’t worry about it. They’d be back in a week.”
Jason and I wanted to save Georgia from her predicament, but her chain had a lock. “Should we break the chain?” I said. “And take her with us?”
“That would be stealing.”
“You’re right. But if we leave her there, she’d surely die.”
“Let’s build her a temporary house.”
“And feed her.”
We built her a house using dried palm leaves, sticks and garbage bags. We fed her left-over foods which we collected and saved. We brought her water, and sometimes, milk to drink. We even gave her a shoe to play with.
“Why bother with that thing?” Mr Gonzales said. “ I already told you that they’d be back in a week.“ He rubbed the palm of his hands against each other, and after licking his lips, he added “They will “meat” that dog when they come back.”
I had seen people, especially the ones who came from the mountain province, slaughter a dog. For them, dogs were just like any other meat. “It’s part of our tribal culture,” they explained when I asked them why they eat dogs. “Our ancestors ate them, so we do, too.”
To be continued . . .
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