Silence
At first, the discomfort of the silence is palpable. It is loud. We are writing poetry in class, using Kwame Alexander’s Crossover as inspiration for form. And it’s been hard for some to get started. The past year of remote learning and reliance on technology to do the business of school has wreaked havoc in more ways than one. My students are not as practiced at sitting in silence to think and wander in their minds, at playing on the page and being comfortable with attempts that may go nowhere. All are essential to writing.
Instead, a lot of energy is spent surfing Google Classroom, and there’s a rush to complete assignments and turn things in. But that’s not what my class is about. It’s not what I want it to be about. I want it to be a place where thinking is honored and writing is a process and feedback is valued and the grade is the least important thing.
I’m anxious for my learners to come back out of hybrid mode to fully present - anxious is a good way because we’ll be a fuller community when we’re all physically here; anxious in a bad way because six feet of separation is a myth. We’re bursting at the seams. And I’m anxious because I know it’s going to take a while to be fully present. Being fully present is about more than just having physical bodies in place, although it’s a good start. I’m thankful I’ve had my vaccine or my anxiety would take on epic proportions.
So now, I sit with them in uncomfortable silence, waiting for the blanket of quiet to settle on them.
I wait.
Gradually, heads dip and pencils start moving. Docs begin to be populated with words wrestled into poems. Magic starts to happen.
Still, I wait.
Silence turns into soft voices sharing what they’ve written.
Connection sparks. Magic can happen when we’re together.
A few days later, there’s a noticeable shift.
It really doesn’t take long to build a practice and make clear an expectation if regular attention is given. The first days’ refrains of “Is this good?” “Am I done?” “Can I turn this in?” have paved the way for whispers of “I’m going to add this to my poetry collection.” “Ssh, I’m thinking.” “Is class over already?” “Can I work on this at home?”
I sit with them in companionable silence, allowing inspiration space to grow. And I have hope for these writers in front of me.
But still, I worry. What about those we never see? Those hundred percent remoters…that’s a whole other kind of silence. It’s harder to trust the silence over zoom. At times, I need to muzzle myself to keep from chattering on and on and on, desperately trying to keep them engaged and wondering if all of this is working for them.
And then a gift. A message from a girl I’ve never met in person who comes to zoom class each day. She is present in more ways than one - asks questions in the chat box, loves books. Her message today says she isn’t sure if her poem is appropriate. It had just come pouring out of her, though, and she isn’t sure if she should add it to her poetry collection.
This new poem is a counterpart to one she’d written previously about winning a championship softball game. That one was filled with joy and comradery, teammate support and girl power.
The new poem is about the one who wasn’t there with them when they won. The coach who’d sent them on their way with encouragement and gear and good wishes. The coach who wasn’t there to greet them on their return because he’d turned a gun to his head and removed himself from their lives.
That is another kind of silence, one that needed to be heard, held, honored. I felt a moment of grace and thanks for the opportunity and ability to hold space for a child - the space and silence that allows them to feel, take risks, and create.
And it needed
Silence.
At first, the discomfort of the silence is palpable. It is loud. We are writing poetry in class, using Kwame Alexander’s Crossover as inspiration for form. And it’s been hard for some to get started. The past year of remote learning and reliance on technology to do the business of school has wreaked havoc in more ways than one. My students are not as practiced at sitting in silence to think and wander in their minds, at playing on the page and being comfortable with attempts that may go nowhere. All are essential to writing.
Instead, a lot of energy is spent surfing Google Classroom, and there’s a rush to complete assignments and turn things in. But that’s not what my class is about. It’s not what I want it to be about. I want it to be a place where thinking is honored and writing is a process and feedback is valued and the grade is the least important thing.
I’m anxious for my learners to come back out of hybrid mode to fully present - anxious is a good way because we’ll be a fuller community when we’re all physically here; anxious in a bad way because six feet of separation is a myth. We’re bursting at the seams. And I’m anxious because I know it’s going to take a while to be fully present. Being fully present is about more than just having physical bodies in place, although it’s a good start. I’m thankful I’ve had my vaccine or my anxiety would take on epic proportions.
So now, I sit with them in uncomfortable silence, waiting for the blanket of quiet to settle on them.
I wait.
Gradually, heads dip and pencils start moving. Docs begin to be populated with words wrestled into poems. Magic starts to happen.
Still, I wait.
Silence turns into soft voices sharing what they’ve written.
Connection sparks. Magic can happen when we’re together.
A few days later, there’s a noticeable shift.
It really doesn’t take long to build a practice and make clear an expectation if regular attention is given. The first days’ refrains of “Is this good?” “Am I done?” “Can I turn this in?” have paved the way for whispers of “I’m going to add this to my poetry collection.” “Ssh, I’m thinking.” “Is class over already?” “Can I work on this at home?”
I sit with them in companionable silence, allowing inspiration space to grow. And I have hope for these writers in front of me.
But still, I worry. What about those we never see? Those hundred percent remoters…that’s a whole other kind of silence. It’s harder to trust the silence over zoom. At times, I need to muzzle myself to keep from chattering on and on and on, desperately trying to keep them engaged and wondering if all of this is working for them.
And then a gift. A message from a girl I’ve never met in person who comes to zoom class each day. She is present in more ways than one - asks questions in the chat box, loves books. Her message today says she isn’t sure if her poem is appropriate. It had just come pouring out of her, though, and she isn’t sure if she should add it to her poetry collection.
This new poem is a counterpart to one she’d written previously about winning a championship softball game. That one was filled with joy and comradery, teammate support and girl power.
The new poem is about the one who wasn’t there with them when they won. The coach who’d sent them on their way with encouragement and gear and good wishes. The coach who wasn’t there to greet them on their return because he’d turned a gun to his head and removed himself from their lives.
That is another kind of silence, one that needed to be heard, held, honored. I felt a moment of grace and thanks for the opportunity and ability to hold space for a child - the space and silence that allows them to feel, take risks, and create.
And it needed
Silence.
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