C-32

Last October, I moved into my classroom at Highland High School.  As I’d done before, I selected colorful fabrics to stretch over the bulletin boards, the staple gun audible up and down the hallway.  As I’d done before, I commissioned some students to help me re-assemble the ugly plaid reading chair and label the shelf so that each class had their own space in which to leave their notebooks. As I’d done before, I stationed succulent plants in the sunniest parts of the room. As I’d done before, I worked to establish classroom routines and set ground rules; I repeated phrases like “try to think on the page” and “let the pen do the talking” and “is this making sense?” that would become all too familiar to my students.

But this moving in was different. It was different because, for the first time, I knew that this would be my classroom not just for a few months or a year but (hopefully) for years to come. Entering the profession, for me, meant a series of short-term jobs– in my first year in the classroom, I worked in four very different schools, with very different student populations, and at different grade levels.  Ever an optimist and a hard worker, I approached each new beginning filled with curiosity and ambition, determined to learn as much as possible from my students and the teachers around me. I thought of that year, though I wouldn’t have planned it that way, as an opportunity to do a sort of field work, to continue my education as a teacher. When, the following year, I secured a year-long leave at Highland High School, I was thrilled to have the opportunity to have my own classroom, even if it was only for a year. And at the end of that year, I was loathe to leave– not just because I felt the possibility of being an effective educator in that context and had developed a deep connection to my colleagues, but also because I wanted to build something more lasting.  I felt frustrated, I was losing my thirst for new settings– I felt I could only grow so much without the opportunity to return to the same material again, to improve upon what I’d done instead of constantly designing anew. I wanted to become a part of the life of a school in a way that I was only marginally able to do as a short-term leave.

Nonetheless, I was forced to start over again.  I brought my paper-cutter, and the plaid reading chair, and some colorful fabric (and the loud staple gun) and three boxes of composition notebooks, and certain repeated phrases, with me to Washingtonville Middle School.  Hardly had the year begun, though, and I was offered a job back at Highland.

This beginning was different– it was familiar territory, and the beginning of a much longer project. This shifted my focus as an educator: I didn’t just think about the learning outcomes of my students in my class.  I thought also about what kind of presence I wanted to be in the building.

The inspiration: finding a need?

Writers’ Cafe came out of an idea that I’d had in the back of my mind for some time– I wanted to create an after-school writing space where students could come for additional help, whether they were in my class or not.  I pictured a community where students could support one another (and I could support students) in writing across the curriculum. I imagined it would help to build momentum for students who are interested in writing outside of school (creative writing, poetry, and other forms that aren’t given space to develop in a typical English class) and help students who are writing for a class to take ownership over the process.

I wanted to foster a simple intentionality: that is, I wanted students to write on purpose.  I wanted them to set aside time to work on writing, to seek help if help was needed, and to get rolling on writing tasks long enough before they were due. Writers’ Cafe seemed like a venue to encourage these practices: once a week, I would turn C-32 into the sort of space that I found most productive as a writer– a cafe.  I would make coffee, I would bring snacks. The room would be warm and humming with music that mingled with conversation. Students could do focused independent work, or they could talk through their ideas with friends. Our after-school period is only 30 minutes, so it was unlikely that students would complete essays in this timeframe– rather, it would give them a start, and they would leave motivated and with a clear plan of action for their written work.

The Process: Putting Writers’ Cafe together

When I proposed Writers’ Cafe to my department and to administrators, they were supportive.  They loved the idea of structured after school writing help, and encouraged me in my efforts to make it fun and community oriented, rather than academic and quiet.  I designed a fun poster, and presented it to my Principal (all posted material needs administrative approval).

“Cute!” He remarks.

“Is it too inappropriate?” I ask, indicating the fact that I’ve photoshopped a pencil over the cigarette in between this ingenue’s fingers.

“Oh!” He notices.  “No, I don’t think so.  It’s just inappropriate enough– it will get their attention.”

The administrators then gave me the ultimate seal of approval– they allowed me to copy my posters IN COLOR!  

Armed with my stack of winking advertisements, I visited teachers around the building.  I explained what Writers’ Cafe was, or anyway what it intended to be. I asked them to hang the posters in their room, invited them to attend (I found that hot coffee after school is a failsafe way to lure many teachers into my room) and asked them to encourage their students to check it out, especially when they had writing assignments to work on.  

The first Wednesday came.  I plugged in my newly obtained coffee urn, arranged some apples, some cut vegetables, peeled back the seal on the hummus and opened the grocery-store macaroons.  My department chair brought in some homemade scones. I was terrified that no one would come. I even thought of offering extra credit, so frightened was I at the thought of an empty classroom, the coffee urn exhaling steam pathetically.  I posted a single slide reading “Writers Cafe Expectations”. It was brief, reminding:

• Bring a piece of writing to work on– sign in
• Laptops and Snacks don’t mix
• Keep the environment productive and positive
• Clean up after yourself, put laptops back properly

My eighth period class filed out.  My old co-teacher came in, supportive as ever, and opened her spiral bound notebook to work on writing for her yoga teacher training program.  I stood outside my door, calling out to passerby, begging them to come inside and partake of Writers’ Cafe. The hallways began to thin out. A few of my eighth period students filtered back in.  Then, a few more. Two eleventh graders, whom I’d had in class last year, came in and took out laptops. A few girls I didn’t know came in and opened up documents with columns of verse. My department chair arrived with her laptop, and opened up a piece that she hadn’t worked on in years.

Hardly daring to look at my clientele, I began passing around a sign-in sheet.

Successes and Challenges

The biggest challenge of Writers’ Cafe has been the most basic:  it’s difficult to get kids to come, and once they’re there, it’s difficult to insist that they write.  

I had a couple of bumper crops: the cheerleading captain, an ebullient powerhouse of a person, realized that there were free snacks between the end of the instructional day and the start of practice, and brought with her a gaggle of followers.  During this time, the month of February, Writers’ Cafe was filled with laughter. These young women didn’t always make a great deal of progress on their assignments, but they had rich and honest conversations amongst themselves and with teachers about the issues affecting them in the larger world and in the school. They talked about food, style, politics, immigration, white privilege, and recapped debates that had happened during their classes that day.  The talked loud. It was kind of wonderful. But the cheer season came to an end, their leader left after school with her boyfriend, and Writers’ Cafe was quiet.

There was another peak when my colleague assigned a researched-based argument to her 11th grade AP class– many of my former students showed up, eager to talk through their ideas, and to get another set of eyes on their writing.

Among other things, my low attendance days taught me something– there wasn’t as much writing going on in the school as there could be.  This gives me a window into the larger culture of writing in the building–perhaps an opportunity for further growth.

The best-attended Writers Cafe had 18 students.  The worst-attended was the most recent, when only four students came, one of whom was meeting with a teacher-mentor to discuss his Senior Project, and another of whom was reviewing for the AP.  One of my closest students came back into the room after walking his girlfriend out to her bus (walking one’s girlfriend places is all the rage in our school these days) and, seeing the small group, smiled, “Oh good, it’s just us.  It’s just the squad.”

I am tempted to chalk up such low-attendance events as a total failure, especially given the monetary and time pressure that it puts on me to pick up snacks every Tuesday night, often after tutoring after school. These four students, as I looked around at them, were not even close to writing.  One was sitting with my department chair going over AP test review. One was, as I mentioned, meeting with a math teacher about his Senior Inquiry Project for my class. The other two were snacking.

But stepping back, there were, of course, many things to celebrate in that afternoon.  A student was delving really deeply into a math topic, that he intended to research and write about, in conversation with a math teacher.  There was a math teacher in an English classroom. Two students who would otherwise have been idling around the lobby before their tennis practice were listening in, even piping in to this conversation about unsolved math problems and super-large numbers while they ate snacks.  And the last student, who was reading through and discussing a poem with my colleague in preparation for the AP, got to have the feeling that she was meeting with her teacher for test prep in a neutral environment– its sort of dignifying. And we all got coffee and snacks before heading on to our day.  

Every Wednesday, I carry the coffee urn out to the faculty room and hand whatever’s left over to the custodial staff, who make a great fanfare over its arrival. I clean up whatever snacks are left, stowing some in my cupboard and others in the refrigerator.  I wipe down the oilcloth, and return the snack table to its usual place. Then I go to tutor. These days, I am so busy that sometimes it’s hard to know what’s giving me energy and what’s taking it. This is the sort of math that I do when considering something like Writers’ Cafe. How much does it take?  How much does it help the students? Does it feed me?

Opportunities and ideas for Growth

I have a few clear goals for Writers’ Cafe for next year, to address the challenges that it poses and to continue trying to realize it as it was conceived.  First, I’d like to make Writers’ Cafe a club, which would both give me a stipend as its advisor and allow us to fundraise for the snacks. The reason for this is obvious but fundamental– it can’t feel like a sacrifice, an offering on the altar of “new teacher flesh and blood tax” or I will always be questioning its value.  

Second, to both drive up attendance and create more structure around the writing portion of Writers’ Cafe, I’d like to engage four student writing tutors– two juniors and two seniors– to be present at Writers’ Cafe and available to help other students with their work.  These students should be strong writers and must be strong readers and communicators– they would have to apply and should be recommended by their teachers for their ability to provide feedback to their peers. The first month of school, when students are getting settled back in and haven’t been assigned major writing projects yet, I can use the Wednesday time to meet with these students, sharing strategies for peer conferencing and feedback on writing.  When they weren’t busy helping students, they’d be able to write and snack as well– they could lead in this way.

C-32 continues to evolve as a space within the larger building.  My former co-teacher, Shawna, is teaching yoga after school on Fridays, and we now have a stack of yoga mats in the corner along with the plaid reading chair.  My succulents are still alive, and my snake plant has even had a baby. Next year, I’ll be the advisor of GSA– perhaps we’ll meet on Tuesdays.

“I want this room to be like the room of requirement,” I told Shawna as we put felt squares on the table legs, making it possible to quickly and easily slide to rearrange them.

“It already is,” she promised me.

My department chair has two sons who are in school in our building, and her room after school is always buzzing with activity.  Her sons are both there, one of them being tutored in math by an older student, the other playing minecraft and sometimes excitedly interrupting his mother as she attempts to assist one of the many students invariably in her room with their writing.   I know she rolls her eyes at this chaos, that it’s nearly impossible for her to get anything done, that she would love some peace and quiet, and yet, there is something about the inviting the space of her room, and of her presence, that often draws me in there, on the pretense of asking her some question or sharing a document with her. I want to cultivate that sense of community in C32. I want my room, too, to be always filled with a positive buzz, even if it means inviting a little chaos.