Multiple Intelligences and Poetry Response

How we respond to reading is deeply personal. Although the author has a specific message he or she wants to convey, different people will receive that message in different ways. Our personal experiences shape how we understand and appreciate what we read, and no two people will read the same text in the same way. We also express ourselves in different ways when we respond to the world around us.

For my poetry unit, based on the anthology I Am the Darker Brother, I wanted my students’ responses to the poems to reflect that diversity, in reading and in response. I designed a project where they chose which poem(s) to respond to, what in the poems to respond to, and how they could to respond. I also wanted to honor the fact that some students do best when they have lots of small tasks, while others prefer a longer-term project. Building on our advisory curriculum of multiple intelligences, I made sure the various response choices would allow them to use different strengths. The final product was the compilation of response activities.

On the day the responses were due, I told my classes that this was a new project and I wanted their feedback so I could make it better for next year. The students appreciated getting to make choices and having a chance to incorporate their outside interests into a class assignment.

Here’s the assignment. The most popular choices were “poetry for dinner,” the artistic interpretation, and the remix. The only ones no one did were the skit performance and the choreography. Maybe next year!

“You see, Mr. Asagai, I am looking for my identity!”

Last year, after reading A Raisin in the Sun, my students chose a social issue from the play (e.g. segregation, expectations based on gender, dream jobs vs. real jobs), thought about how the issue applied to their own lives, interviewed people in their communities, and created podcasts in which they analyzed the interviews. It was an OK project—especially given that it was new and there were a billion tech problems with GarageBand—but I found that some students wanted to generalize the experiences of their interviewees to represent an entire group. In one particularly problematic example, three white students wanted to write about de facto racial segregation in New York neighborhoods. When I suggested they examine their own predominantly white neighborhoods, they resisted.

I’ve been thinking ever since about how I can design a project that will get students to connect themselves—their own identities, their own conflicts—to the play. I keep returning to what Lorraine Hansberry said in To Be Young, Gifted, and Black, in response to drama critics arguing over whether it was a play about a black family or a family: “I hadn’t noticed the contradiction because I’d always been under the impression that Negroes are people” (128). It is a universal play, in that all of us have families and all of us have a race. It is not a universal play, in that we come from a diverse array of families and races, and our experiences of family and race differ. It’s both/and. And I want my students to get that their own experiences are like that too: both universal and highly context-specific.

So this year, instead of having them find social issues the play raises, I’d like to have students track conflicts in A Raisin in the Sun. That should be easy. There’s not one relationship in the play that isn’t riddled with conflict, and many basic relationship types are represented: mother/son, mother/daughter, husband/wife, brother/sister, mother-in-law/daughter-in-law, sister-in-law/sister-in-law, boyfriend/girlfriend, father/son, neighbor/neighbor. Each character is also in conflict with himself or herself: Mama over how to spend the money; Walter over whether to occupy the new house; Beneatha over which boyfriend she likes more; Ruth over whether to keep her baby.

I think it’ll be easier for students to relate to conflicts in the play than to see how a “social issue” pertains to them. Even calling it a “social issue” makes it about “society” and not them in particular. But being a brother or sister, son or daughter, grandchild, friend, student, or work partner is something all of them can consider on a personal level. They might, for example, relate to Travis asking his mother for 50 cents, her saying no, and his feeling disappointed. (They might also relate to the fact that Travis’s father then gives him the 50 cents, much to his mother’s chagrin.) Or they might relate to Beneatha and her family having different ideas about how a she should spend her time. Or, they might relate to Walter’s entrusting his money with his “friend” and losing it all. After reading the play and examining some of these conflicts, students will choose one they can relate to and examine how that conflict plays out in their own lives.

But in A Raisin in the Sun, Lorraine Hansberry goes further, making identities and roles central to the conflicts. Identity: Walter is working-class, black, male. Role: He is a father, brother, son, and husband. The conflicts Walter confronts—most notably, whether to take Lindner’s offer and restore the family’s financial security that he destroyed, or maintain his family’s dignity by moving into the new house and facing the racist neighbors—are inextricably bound up in his roles (father, husband, brother, son) and identities (black, male, working-class, Christian). Beneatha, Ruth, Mama, and Travis also find themselves in various conflicts that either flow from their roles and identities, or handle their conflicts in light of those roles and identities, or both.

Are seventh graders, many of whom haven’t quite made the leap to abstract thinking, and many of whom are beginning to question identities and try on new roles, ready to examine how race, class, gender, sexual orientation, religion, or ethnicity plays into their own conflicts? It might be too easy for a 13-year-old to oversimplify causation (“It’s all because…”) or resist the concept (“It has nothing to do with…”). Still, I want to teach to the kids who are ready to think about the conflicts in their lives this way—and push those who aren’t. I’m wondering how I should go about doing that.

All Those A’s

I have a student—let’s call him Mark. If I’d been grading writing like I did last year, using rubrics and points, Mark would be getting a B-, or maybe a B at best, in English for the trimester. I’m giving Mark an A.

I knew it would happen. I knew that if I went from rubric grading to a satisfactory-unsatisfactory approach, I’d end up with a boatload of A’s and A-’s when in the past, grades in my class fell on a pretty nice bell curve centered on B or B+. And I admit that giving Ben an A makes me wince a little bit. As great a kid as he is, his writing is fairly bad. But in seventh grade, even the kids who write well write badly. And, more importantly, I have to grade in a way that reflects my values:

• Process over product. My goal is not to produce 47 brilliant essays—if it were, I’d write them myself. My goal is to help my 47 burgeoning writers develop processes that work for them. Yes, everyone’s process should ultimately involve lots of revision, but there’s no one schema that will work for every writer, every time. I want them to experience what “process” feels like and decide what works for them. And, if I do value great writing, I need to promote the long process by which a seventh grader becomes a great writer.

• Subjective interaction between reader and writer over attempted objectivity in my own reading. There is no such thing as objective reading. Reading is an exchange between reader and writer. I want my students to understand that different people will perceive their writing in different ways so they, as writers, can learn to honor and accommodate that diversity.

• Learning over natural talent. Kids come to school to learn. Different kids come to my class with different amounts of natural talent (and pre-cultivated skill) in different areas. It’s not my job to see who’s a better writer than whom. My job is to make every kid a better writer by June than he or she was in September—and to want to learn how to write even more effectively after June.

• Student-teacher partnership over autocratic grade-giving. How are students supposed to learn how to assess themselves if I don’t give them a chance to assess themselves? And if the self-assessment is meaningless because they know I’m going to give whatever grade I give, why should they bother? And, who am I to be the final arbiter of their performance without getting some input and insight from them?

As I’ve explained elsewhere, I no longer put scores on assignments. Kids get either S (satisfactory) or U (unsatisfactory). If they’ve met my high standards, they’ve done satisfactory work. If not, they have more to learn, and after they’ve learned more, they can redo the assignment. As I expected, my new system of getting feedback from multiple readers and thinking about audience has led to more variety, creativity, and risk-taking in the students’ writing. I enjoy their papers more. But it doesn’t help me at the trimester’s end, when I have to assign a grade to each student.

What I did was, I had students reflect upon their trimesters. What did they learn? What do they need to work on? Here’s the survey they filled out.

Answer these questions thoughtfully and honestly. What did you learn this trimester? What were one or two of the highlights of English class? What are your strengths as a reader? Be as specific as possible. How have your reading skills improved so far this year? Be as specific as possible. What do you think you need to work on as a reader? Come up with 1-2 specific goals. What are your strengths as a writer? Be as specific as possible. How have your writing skills improved so far this year? Be as specific as possible. What do you think you need to work on as a writer? Come up with 1-2 specific goals. Comment on how you think you’re doing in each of these areas. Respectful Behavior Being polite; waiting your turn to speak Maintaining a positive and productive working environment Making sure you don’t distract others or disrupt the work environment Speaking respectfully, without putting others down or making inappropriate remarks Responsibility Bringing all materials to class Doing and turning in assignments Arriving on time to class Getting class notes and homework assignments when you miss class Participation Listening actively during discussions Taking notes as needed Contributing relevant comments to discussions Asking appropriate questions Commitment Following all directions on assignments Using guidelines to do well Making assignments challenging and interesting for yourself; taking them to the next level Focus Using class time wisely Staying on task Avoiding side conversations Circle the grade you think you should get in English, keeping in mind the following policies: 1. Your trimester grade drops for every unexcused late assignment. (“Unexcused” means you did not contact me BEFORE the assignment was due.) 2. If you have any never-revised “U” assignments or never-done work, you can’t get higher than a B- in English. The more unrevised U papers or missed work, the lower the grade. A A- B+ B B- C+ C C- D F Explain why you think you should get this grade.

Students were astoundingly perceptive. I don’t know which impressed me more, when they picked up on strengths and weaknesses I noticed, or when they came up with strengths and weaknesses I hadn’t thought of. And they were specific in how they stated their strengths, achievements, and goals.

For the most part, I entered the grade students gave themselves. I bumped a few students up—mostly those who felt uncomfortable giving themselves A’s. And I bumped a few students down if they violated the late policy or the unsatisfactory work policy, or if their behavior in class made it difficult for other students (and themselves) to learn. My breakdown looked like this:

21 A

18 A-

3 B+

2 B

2 B-

1 C

So, they’re entered. They’re in the computer system for any of my colleagues to see, and they’ll be printed on the home reports for parents to read. And it feels scary, and it feels good, because I’ve fully and irrevocably committed a system of assessment that reflects my values.

Our Groups of Friends: A Mix-It-Up Day Processing Activity

Tuesday, November 10th was Mix-It-Up at Lunch Day. Schools throughout the nation participated. The event is very simple: students are asked to spend one lunch period sitting with kids they don’t usually sit with. The purpose of the lunch isn’t to send the message that it’s bad to have a group of friends. It’s to get students—and faculty—thinking about the kinds of boundaries we all put up around ourselves and our groups.

At my school this year, the 6th, 7th, and 8th grades participated in Mix-It-Up at lunch. Later in the day, each grade did an activity to think further about the boundaries they create. For the 8th grade, I created an activity that got students to examine how diverse their groups of friends are, both as opposed to their parents’ friends and in the context of their grade.

First, students met as a whole grade to discuss two simple questions. Why is it good to have things in common with your friends? And, why is it good to NOT have things in common with your friends—to be a diverse group? Next, they broke into advisory groups. Each student got a chart and were asked to follow these simple directions—with pauses so that everyone could complete the step before anyone moved on:

1. Write your own name and the name of an adult you live with.
   

2. Write the names of 5 of your closest friends. It doesn’t have to be people who go to school here—it can be anyone you consider to be a close friend, by whatever your definition is of a close friend. Then, write the names of the adult’s five closest friends. Again, you can decide for yourself what a “close friend” is. DO NOT PROCEED UNTIL EVERYONE HAS COMPLETED THIS TASK.

3. At the top of the red column, write “Race.” Make an S in the box next to each of your friends who has the SAME race you identify yourself as having. Make a D in the box if your friend has a DIFFERENT race from yours. You might not KNOW how each of your friends identifies. The point is how YOU perceive each of your friends. Do the same for your parents: S for same race, D for different race.

4. At the top of the orange column, write “Age.” Make an S next to each friend whose age is within 1 year of yours. Make a D if your friend is more than a year older or younger. For the adult, make an S next to each friend whose age is within 5 years—as you perceive or guess it. Don’t worry if you’re right! Make a D if the friend’s age is greater than 5 years older or younger.

5. For yellow, write “Gender.” Make an S for same gender and a D for different gender—as you perceive it.

6. For green, write “Socioeconomic Class.” Make an S if you perceive your friend to be of the same socioeconomic class as you, D if different—as you perceive it. Do the same for your parents.

7. For blue, write “Religion.” Make an S for same religion and D for different religion—as you perceive it.

At this point, the students were ready to process and discuss. Here are some of the discussion questions advisory groups used:

• Count your Ds and the adult’s Ds. Who has a more diverse group of friends, you or the adult? Why might that be?

• In what way are your friends most diverse? Least diverse? What about the adult? Why do you think this is?

• Why is it valuable to have friends who share your identities? Why, for example, would you want to have friends who are of the same gender, or the same age as you?

• Why is it valuable to have friends who do not share your identities? Why, for example, would you want to have a friend who’s a few years older, or a different religion?

• Do you talk about these aspects of your identity—race, age, gender, socioeconomic class, and religion—with your family? For example, do you discuss what it means to be wealthy, or Muslim, or 13 years old?

• Do you talk about these aspects of your identity with your friends?

Some of the results were surprising. One advisory group discovered that their parents’ groups of friends were more diverse than their own. A student theorized that kids have a limited group at school from which to draw their friends, but their parents are out in the world and so have a more diverse pool of potential friends.

Next came what I think is the most interesting part of the activity. Students got 25 dot stickers, 5 in each of the colors from their charts. Looking at their own friend lists, they labeled their dots with Ss or Ds, by color, according to how many Ss and Ds they had in that column. So if, for example, Molly had 2 red Ss and 3 red Ds, she labeled her red dots accordingly. Out in the hallway were 5 large posters, each labeled with the appropriate color and identifier (Red-Race, Orange-Age, Yellow-Gender, Green-Class, Blue-Religion). Each poster was divided in half, with the halves labeled “Same” and “Different.” Students stuck their dots one the appropriate halves of each poster.

Here are some more discussion questions for after making the posters. The students ran out of time, but I’m hoping they’ll get a chance to have these discussions in future advisory meetings or in small groups with teachers.

• Which “D” poster got the fullest? Why do you think that is?

• Which “S” poster got the fullest? Why do you think that is?

• Do any of the posters surprise you?

• How do you think the results of this activity would change if, instead of going by your perceptions, you had to ask each of your friends how they identify?

• Why would you want to have friends who are the same as you in some of these ways?

• Why would you want to have friends who are different from you in some of these ways?

And the results? Unsurprisingly for 8th grade, the dots on the age and gender posters were almost entirely on the “Same” side. Religion was about 50-50. Class and religion were fuller on the “Same” side. Food for thought on Mix-It-Up Day.

If you’d like to do this activity at your school, please leave me a comment (or send me an email) and I’d be happy to share the lesson plan and chart!

Whole Brain Teaching: How Brainy Is It?

“Whole Brain Teaching” is a method of classroom management that engages more of the students’ brains—mostly through movement and sound—focuses their attention, and makes students actually enjoy following rules. But it’s really better to see it than read about it, so:

Falling squarely in the “so crazy it just might work” category, I tried some of the techniques in my classroom this week.

What I like:

1. “Class-yes” gets their attention. I’ve used a countdown (5-4-3-2-1) for years, and it works more often than not, but it’s always felt a little fake and condescending to me. “Class-yes” is so over-the-top fake and condescending that it becomes genuinely fun and equally silly for all of us. And, “class-yes” gets their attention at least as well as the countdown—probably better.

2. I tried a version of the scoreboard today without telling them what smiley face and frowny face meant, why I was giving points on both sides, or whether they’d get anything as a result of how the scoreboard ended up. And still, their behavior changed: when they got a smiley point they became more engaged, and when they got a frowny face point they stopped doing whatever they were doing. I also followed the suggestion of never letting the difference between smiley points and frowny points get greater than three, because I don’t want them to give up or grow overconfident.

3. I also tried micro-lecturing followed by having them explain what they learned using loud voices and vigorous gestures. Know what? They did it, they loved it, and they learned from it. Go figure.

4. I’ll try “hands and eyes” because it seems, like much of this, silly enough to work.

What I don’t like:

I don’t believe in extrinsic motivators and can’t bring myself to use them. Even if Alfie Kohn is wrong that extrinsic motivators decrease student interest and excellence, what would I use as the carrot? Should I let them out a few minutes early for good behavior? That sends the message that our minutes together are so unbearable that their removal is a wonderful thing, and that they’re so unimportant that I can give them up whenever I want. Should I give them a free pass on homework? If the homework weren’t valuable preparation or review, I wouldn’t assign it in the first place. Should I let them do a fun project instead of a boring one? I try to make all of my projects engaging, relevant, meaningful, and fun—but less fun projects like essays are important too and I can’t simply take them away. And again, I don’t want to send the message that certain kinds of work are torturous. Should I give them candy or pizza? That would mean expenditures of my free time and money, all to promote junk food consumption.

No extrinsic motivators. They’re just going to have to learn because they’re interested and behave because it’s the efficient, compassionate, and ultimately smart thing to do. And again, it was fascinating to see their behavior change simply because I made a tally mark under the smiley or frowny face. I wonder whether the tally marks themselves, signifying absolutely nothing tangible, work as extrinsic motivators that decrease their interest and performance, or whether they’re simply reminders of what kids should be doing without my having to scold.

What I’m unsure about:

“Teach-OK” seems perfect for classes where most of what the kids are doing involves absorbing information. A great way to learn is to read, see, or hear something and then explain it to someone else. Today, I had the students explain what they learned directly from me (the definition and features of a thesis statement, the parts of an essay) back to each other, using loud voices and vigorous gestures.

But, so much of what we do in my class is constructivist activity-based. They’re not absorbing meaning from me (or a book or video); they’re creating meaning together. So for example, they’re looking at great, decent, and terrible essay introductions and figuring out what makes a good introduction good. Or, they’re finding examples of a motif and figuring out what the motif means. If I gave the command to “teach” the symbolism in Cannery Row before they’ve analyzed how it works, they wouldn’t know what to do—though if I gave that command at the end of class, for review, they’d be fine.

I think I need a different command word that basically means, “Do whatever activity I just told you to do,” which can include explaining what they’ve just learned, and a response that means, “Sure, boss.” Maybe just “Go-OK.” Sounds like the name of a band, doesn’t it?

Prizing the Literature Essay

Should seventh graders write essays analyzing Steinbeck’s techniques or what’s wrong with Holden? I’m of two minds on this one. In one mind, I believe literary analysis to be a great way for kids to sharpen their ability to make an argument and support it with specific evidence. As Carol Jago, president of the NCTE, explained eloquently in a recent article, reading fiction allows kids to empathize with characters who are very different from themselves and to think about ethical dilemmas that they might encounter as they build their own lives. Writing about fiction allows them to dig deeper into the text, make meaning, and create a logical argument based on the meaning they see.

In the other mind, I keep thinking about authentic purposes for writing. Better writing usually comes from a more authentic purpose—so says pretty much every writing book I’ve read, and I also know it from experience. The seventh grade essays are pretty consistently painful. But, if I’m writing an email to complaining parents, I’m going to write a beautifully-crafted argument for why their child is actually doing fine despite the B- besmirching her record. The email will probably be better written than the briefs I wrote for law school. You don’t get much more authentic a writing purpose or well-defined an audience than those emails warding off evil parents. And I hope that’s not the best writing I do, but for certain it’s good writing—better than if someone gave me a prompt to write a pretend email.

That’s what some of our assignments are, right? “Pretend you’re writing this op-ed for a newspaper.” Or, “Pretend you’re writing this podcast for NPR.” For most others, we don’t even pretend there’s an audience: “Write a paragraph explaining a symbol in The House on Mango Street. Be sure to use at least two well-blended quotations.” Only occasionally do we give them real reasons to write: “Write an email to your congressional representative arguing for a more aggressive stance on an issue that matters to you. Remember to cc me on the email.” I’ve got to wonder, though—are those emails really going to be better written than the symbolism paragraphs just because the emails have an authentic purpose and audience? I suspect not, but I couldn’t put my finger on precisely why.

Yesterday, one of my colleagues made an interesting point about authentic writing. It’s not so much about purpose and audience—though these matter—as it is about the writer’s investment in the writing. Nell knows her vignette collection isn’t getting picked up by Random House, but she cares about what she’s writing because they’re about her life and the topics matter to her. She’s invested. And the writing is brilliant. Scout, Kate, and Sara know their podcast won’t air on NPR, but they care about the issue they’ve chosen—whether people act more like themselves with their families or their friends—so they’re invested. And the reason my email to those obnoxious parents is so brilliant isn’t that I have an authentic purpose and an authentic audience; it’s that I care about the writing. The writing matters to me. If we want students to write well, we have to get them to care about the writing: its purpose, its content, its effect.

Very often, the reason writing matters to the writer relates to how it will affect others. I want that parent email to have the effect of convincing those complainers that their child is learning and they need to get out of her way. I used to say to my classes that all writing is persuasive; authors are trying to convince us that their message is true or right. So sure, the purpose and effect of the writing make the writing matter. But the content can also make it matter. I’m writing this blog not because I want to convince anyone that I’m right, but because I care about what happens in my English classroom and I want to reflect upon my practices. I write books both because I hope others will read them, eventually, and because I care about the characters and their stories.

So I guess the way to resolve the literature essay problem is to make sure my students are invested, both in the text itself and in the thesis of the essay. Now that they’re finished with their Steinbeck books and the time has come to write their essays on “What makes Steinbeck Steinbeck,” I’m asking them to look through their notes for topics, themes, and techniques that they want to explore further. When many of them chose topics we’ve discussed to death in class, I urged them to think about who they are and what aspect of Steinbeck’s writing they connect to. “Look in your notes for items you wish we’d had more time to discuss,” I urged them. “Don’t pick foreshadowing or the power theme just because we talked about it in class. Find something that matters to you. Like, if you really care about nature, maybe you want to write about how Steinbeck portrays the natural world and the human relationship to it. Or if you’ve been in a conflict with a friend, maybe you want to explore the conflicts between friends in Steinbeck books. Find something that matters to you.”

It doesn’t feel quite as real as when I asked them to write vignettes on episodes from their own lives. With that project, it was easier for them to connect the assignment to what matters to them. But then again, and contrary to what they might think with their 13-year-old brains, the world isn’t just about them. Maybe, if we’re all lucky, they’ll choose topics they care about and learn something about how the world beyond themselves works. And maybe I will actually like reading them. Here’s hoping.

Questioning Assumptions with Steinbeck

My Steinbeck author study continues. In today’s lesson, the students examined the theme of appearances vs. reality and had a chance to think about assumptions and labels in the three books and in their lives.

First, the students folded a sheet of paper and into four sections and wrote the names of four characters, depending on which book they’re reading. Students reading Of Mice and Men used Lennie, George, Curley, and Curley’s wife. Those reading The Red Pony used Jody, Carl Tiflin, Billy Buck, and Gitano. For Cannery Row, they wrote Doc, Dora, Mack, and Lee Chong. In the boxes, students listed things people might assume about each character without knowing him or her well. I asked, “How might people label or judge this character?” I urged the students to consider appearance, job, living situation, interactions with other characters, and other behaviors.

Perhaps because they’re in a middle school minefield of assumptions and judgments, the groups had no trouble coming up with labels. Some felt uncomfortable and asked if it was OK to label Lennie as retarded or Curley’s wife as a slut. I reminded them that the purpose of the activity was to dig deeper into the theme of appearances but that they were right to feel uncomfortable about using offensive terms. I wish they’d picked up on the race prejudices in how characters view Lee Chong in Cannery Row and Gitano in The Red Pony. We’ll definitely be coming back to that when we talk about forms of power in Steinbeck’s books.

After about 10 minutes of students identifying labels and assumptions, I asked, “Which of the assumptions you listed about your character are true? False? Unknown?” They marked each item T for True, F for False, or U for Unknown based on textual evidence. Interestingly, many of the assumptions they identified turned out to be false or unknown; for example, there isn’t one shred of textual evidence that Curley’s wife actually sleeps around. Careful reading will reveal that far from being greedy, Lee Chong is very generous and cuts off credit only when it becomes necessary. Neither Mack, who is homeless and unemployed, nor Lennie, who is disabled, is stupid. Then again, some assumptions turn out to be true: Doc really is smart and kind, and Curley’s wife does in fact cause trouble.

Next, I asked groups to consider which of these characters they actually like. On the board, I circled these characters’ names. Then I went back to the labels. I said, “If these are the characters Steinbeck wants us to like—a mentally disabled guy, a simple farm boy, a homeless and unemployed man—what is Steinbeck trying to tell us about appearances and assumptions?” Students wrote their answers in paragraph form, and I asked them to share insights. Lots of kids said variations on, “Don’t judge a book by its cover.” Others said that if we can like people who are different from the way we are, maybe we shouldn’t judge them on those outer characteristics. One student said something like, “We like the characters who we know the most about. But maybe if we knew more about Curley, like why he feels the need to be so insecure and hate people, maybe we’d like him too.”

I found that last point particularly compelling, that we can empathize with others and like them more when we know their stories. (It will be interesting to see whether, after hearing more of Curley’s wife’s story, the students reading Of Mice and Men begin to like her more.) I’d like to ask students to think about their own stories that they reveal, conceal, repeat, revise, remember, and forget. A friend of mine pointed out that stories are social currency: which stories we tell, who we tell them to, and how we tell them plays a large part in how our images are constructed. Elections are won and lost because of stories. Defendants are convicted or acquitted based on how their stories are told. Romances and business deals are built and destroyed with stories. And, as my student pointed out today, we can reach out across the wide valleys that separate us from each other with our stories. When we tell stories, we give others a chance to ask questions instead of making assumptions, to understand instead of judge. I believe Steinbeck wrote his books at least in part so he could tell stories that weren’t being told, so readers would label a little less and relate a little more.

I closed the class by asking the students to close their eyes and picture a student in the middle school that they don’t really know and don’t really like. I asked, “What assumptions are you making about this person? How are you labeling him or her? How are you judging? Maybe if you knew more of this person’s story, you’d like the person better. Just something to think about.”