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I don’t mean to sound sleazy, but tease me; I don’t want it if it’s that easy.

-Tupac Shakur

I bunted a lesson Friday.

Having students lead the class through close readings of texts of their choosing has reminded me of the nuance of teaching. What I do is tough stuff. It’s not brain surgery, but it’s not not making flip books out of pads of Post-It notes either.

Nevermind, I’ve never been able to make a satisfactory flip book, but you get the idea.

For the first few students, the assumption seems to have been that playing the song or reading the passage they’ve selected will lead to rapid interest and equally intense discussion.

It’s the same thing I’ve seen with teachers who can’t understand why their class doesn’t love that one book they loved when they read it in high school. As often happens with those teachers, my students have ended their conversations frustrated and agitated with the class.

I stepped in Friday to model a lesson.

I started by asking them to list all the components of a song they could think of. Then, they shared with those around them and amended their lists as they saw fit. Finally, they shared what they heard with the whole class – again, amending as they wanted.

Next, I told them to rank the elements they’d written down from most to least important.

They noted the top three, and I played some music.

First we listened to Eminem’s “Lose Yourself.” Then we heard Tupac’s “Keep Ya Head Up.” The listening was rounded out by Sugarhill Gang’s “Rapper’s Delight.”

Between each song, they took note of how that song participated in the top three components they’d written down.

Everyone had different components they were tracking or at least listed them in different configurations.

As they were finishing up their notes on the final song, I pulled up the U.S. map on Google Earth on the white board.

“What did you notice?” I asked.

We were off to the races.

My goal had been to model a 30-minute conversation of the type I’ve been asking them to lead. We were talking the entire 65 minutes of class.

The discussion talked about the geographic origins of texts, the sociopolitical implications of an author’s biographical information, the effects on a relationship when that relationship is re-appropriated for public consumption as art and a whole mess of other topics.

At some point, we talked about the implied unity of marriage across government and religious definitions as played out in Eminem’s music.

Things got real.

Here’s how I bunted.

Talk about rap, Eminem, or Tupac in separate lessons, and you’ve set yourself up for success. Pull all of them into one lesson and you could probably sleep through the lesson and still come out ahead.

Plus, I was ready for at least two different conversations. We could have discussed influences on rap music (or music in general) brought about by geographic location (hence Google Earth). Or, we could have talked about the progression of a genre through time as exemplified from Sugarhill to Tupac to Eminem.

Add to all of this my knowledge that some of my students no all the ins and outs of rap history while others know virtually nothing, and I’ve built in opportunities for students to ask questions and other students to act as experts.

This is to say nothing of including personal brainstorming, small-to-whole group discussion, auditory learning styles and the asking of open-ended questions.

I bunted.

Like all good bunts, I did it on purpose.

We took the last few minutes of class to get all meta.

“How did I set up the lesson for success?” I asked.

No dummies, my kids then proceeded to call out all the little pieces of what we’d just done.

I told them they would hugely increase their chances of active class participation if they only pulled in one or two elements of what they’d just explained.

I hope they do.

Uncovering the two of us
On that fundamental ground
Where love’s unwilled, unleashed, unbound
And half the perfect world is found.

– Leonard Cohen

This is the third year in a row I’m spending my spring break with students.

Each year, just about a week before we depart, that voice coughs slightly in the back of my head.

“Yes?” I say.

“Oh, nothing,” says the voice.

“No, you have something to say. Let’s not play games. What is it?”

“Fine. Are you sure you want to spend your entire break with the same kids you spend the bulk of every day with during the school year? I mean, it’s your break.”

“Oh,” I say.

“Anyway, don’t mind me. I’m going to go back and finish clearing out our understanding of declensions in Latin. Who were we kidding when we thought that would be useful?”

And I’m left alone with the realization that I have, in fact, decided to be a mandatory responsible adult during my vacation.

The thought doesn’t trouble me long.

Most of my vacations are about exploration. Chaperoning the river trip is no exception. The students on the trip aren’t the same as the students I teach daily in my classroom. These students are unplugged from electronics, living in a foreign place and exploring right alongside me.

During our week, I get to explore the pieces of who these kids are beyond their literacy profiles. True, my classroom practice has never been solely tied to the curriculum. On the river, though, it’s entirely unbound.

And we’re all exploring together. We’re walking in spaces indigenous peoples walked hundreds of years ago, viewing petroglyphs, studying rock formations. The places are as foreign to me as they are to them.

In the classroom, I’ve been most of the places to which I’m asking my students to go. I’ve explored prepositional phrases for years. I’ve excavated the revision process long before they arrived at the dig site. While a certain joy exists in vicariously rediscovering these things with my students, nothing can take the place of learning and exploring together. It’s why I sometimes select a text to teach in class I haven’t read – so we can discover it together.

I climb back to those Latin declensions to find that voice.

“We’re going on this trip because we are explorers,” I say.

“Oh,” says the voice, “that makes sense.”

If you want to find yourself by travelling out west
or if you want to find somebody else that’s better
go ahead
go ahead

– Rilo Kiley

Five of our 10 students on this year’s river trip are first-time flyers.

I am sitting near three of them as I type this.

Takeoff was awesome.

Everyone held hands and tensed up. I leaned across the aisle when anxiety levels were peaking and told a story about how the kids would have free reign to paint my toenails if we got rained in on the river. This diffused tension a bit.

As the flight leveled off, I told everyone to look out the window. From there, they were glued to the view.

We’re thirty minutes in and every student is reading, playing Angry Birds or wondering at the oddities available from Sky Mall. By the time we touch down for our layover in Chicago, this will all be old hat to them.

I marvel at every takeoff and landing.

I get drag and lift along with all the other forces Mr. Matthews explained in my physical science class. Still, it shouldn’t work. Some element of magic must also be at play to keep us suspended in a metal cylinder with wings miles above the earth.

I’m planning on starting a round of applause when we touch down. We all put our faith in forces I’m sure few, if any, of my fellow passengers completely understand, and it worked out.

Well, if you’re reading this, it worked out.

If you’re reading this, another piece of magic worked out as well – a piece my students and I often overlook the same way most passengers overlook the magic of flight.

I’m making meaning here. I’m writing something, putting together symbols in a specific order to communicate thought. Not only that, you’re taking in those symbols and assigning meaning to them that aligns with the meaning I intend as I write them.

Plus, these symbols and their interpretation aren’t limited to the two of us. Millions of people around the world can make meaning with the exact same set of symbols and with minor assistance can translate those symbols to have meaning with other whole sets of symbols.

And it all started in kindergarten when I learned how to write my name.

Teaching eleventh and twelfth graders, the magic and acts of faith in reading and writing are often take for granted the same way we take for granted takeoff and landing.

Writing assignments are submitted with worry that commas might be misplaced or sentences might run on.

I see the need for polish and revision. I relish that I get to build on the work of those teachers who have come before me and help my students become better readers and writers.

Still, I should do a better job of celebrating the takeoffs and landings of their interactions with language and not take for granted they’ll get where they’re going.

Each sentence a student writes is an act of creation and faith.

I’m tempted to cite literacy statistics from Philadelphia, America or the world, but I won’t.

They don’t matter here.

At some point each student couldn’t read and write. Now they can. That’s tremendous. I will remember that more specifically in the moments before I start assessing my next batch of essays.

For now, I’m supposed to turn off and stow all electronic devices.

The magic’s about to happen.