Red pen

I experienced something today that shot me back to my high school days. The writing class (it's really more an extended workshop than a class) that I'm in puts together an anthology of the participants' writings. Everyone has 3 pages to submit whatever piece or pieces of writing they would like published in the anthology - a chance to show some of the work we have accomplished during our time together. The pieces are "due" tomorrow, but I already had a few pieces that were completed and I really liked, so I turned them in early to the appropriate committee member.

Imagine my surprise when one of the pieces was handed back to me, with 'corrections' marked all over it.

I was more than a little irritated, and tried to politely make my irritation known (then went ranting and raving to my writing group). Suddenly, the piece I had worked so hard on and was so proud of seemed unacceptable and meaningless. Those pencil markings (which is exactly what my high school teacher had used on our papers) said to me, "you're writing isn't good enough." And I realized that perhaps this was why I had stopped writing in high school and college unless it was required of me. I had mastered the art of the essay to the point where comments left were usually positive, but somewhere before that I had stopped writing creatively, for fun. I thought my work wasn't good enough.

And then another thought dawned on me: is this how I'm making my students feel by constantly fixing the grammar in their writing?

I'm a big advocate of editing things with my students and trying to make suggestions, explaining why another approach might be better. But there are probably still times when I "mark up" their papers. Am I stifling their creativity by requiring them to have near perfect English? Am I turning them off to writing, an activity deaf children aren't too fond of to begin with? Am I placing too much emphasis on the grammar? That would be slightly hypocritical, since it's certainly not my forte, and the piece today was marked for grammar things, to which I replied, "Who cares if it's in past tense or past perfect?!?!"

About a week into this class I had already determined that my entire approach to teaching writing would be different next year. This event sealed the deal on how I would handle editing/proofreading. Never do I want a student to feel the way I felt today.

As it turns out, I was not the only person whose work had been 'corrected' by the individual collecting writing for the anthology. Even given that information, it took both members of my writing group plus one of the facilitators telling me "it's good, it's yours, leave it how you want it" for me to decide my writing wasn't inadequate and leave it the way I'd intended. Not that I wanted to change it - I still think the corrections made are nitpicky, stupid, and not in line with my style. So it stays the way I wanted it, and I'm proud of it. Proud because it is mine, the way I want it to be. Proud enough that I'm willing to show it to you....just don't correct my grammar.

Backstage
The moment had finally arrived. After months of practicing and preparing, it was here. Ashley looked around the dressing room, a twirling, twisting dance of emotions going on inside of her.

She saw the older girls over in the corner getting ready. How she longed to be one of them someday! A smile crossed her face as she thought of being in the company, doing the opening dance for the recitals, having different costumes…and the shoes! High-heeled tap shoes, and pointe shoes like a real ballerina! She looked down at her worn, second-hand, flat ballet shoes that her mother always wanted to have a cute little bow at the top. It didn’t matter how many times Ashley had explained that real ballerinas didn’t have bows; her mother always asked where the bow was. The older girls don’t have bows, thought Ashley. And they don’t need their mother to put on their makeup!

One of the girls was applying a thick layer of dark red lipstick, while another expertly stroked on her eyeliner, a pack of fake eyelashes sitting in front of her. Ashley watched in envy, thinking of her own makeup experience earlier that day. By now she was used to gently shutting her eyes while her mother applied the dark brown eye shadow, making big circles of blush on her cheeks, and forming just the right open-mouth face for the lipstick. But this time there was eyeliner too. Ashley had panicked when the black pencil came at her eye. After a few rounds of yelling at her mother not to take her eye out, her mother yelling back for Ashley to calm down, and her father yelling at the both of them to quit bickering, Ashley finally found the perfect spot to look while her mother drew a line under her eyes. The part Ashley liked best was the fishtail at the corner of her eyes. It made her feel older, more dramatic, more like a real dancer.

The hair, too, was true “dancer hair.” A sleeked back bun, no bangs. At first, the ponytail had been so tight she felt the skin of her face was permanently stretched back. Now, it was slowly starting to adjust. Half a can of mousse had gone into her hair that day, along with at least 15 bobby pins poking her scalp. To the touch, it felt more like a helmet than hair. Tomorrow she would spend a good 10 minutes in the shower, just washing out all the gunk. But it was worth the hassle. Once before pieces of her hair had started loosening, her bun starting to come undone on stage – no way would she let that happen again. Just to be sure, one more round with the hairspray.

As the older girls began to get dressed, Ashley turned away. Didn’t they know this was a big open room? People could see them! When I’m one of the older girls, I’ll find something to change behind. In her bedroom at home, Ashley had struggled to put on her own costume. Yet another painful process. After sewing on the straps, her mother had failed to remove all the straight pins. Pins poked. Sequins scratched. She knew her armpits would be raw by the end of the night, thanks to the row of sequins that went all the way around her arm.

“All right girls, everyone in the first two numbers needs to be backstage now.” Quickly, Ashley ran through her mental checklist. Shoes double-knotted? Check. Hair sprayed down? Check. Hairpiece pinned tight? Check. Tutu straight? Check. No makeup smudges? Check. Re-applied lipstick? Check. Ashley’s class was the first class after the opening, so they were lucky enough to sit backstage and watch the older girls’ first number. As Ashley watched, a multitude of emotions danced over her: awe, wonderment, fear, excitement, anticipation. They were so good! Could she ever look like that? Would she do well in her own dance? She was still having trouble spotting her turns – what if she fell, or turned right into the curtains?! Then a girl next to her started to twitter with excitement, and her fears were forgotten. She felt a rush of exhilaration as she thought about going out onto the stage. It was almost their turn!

When the curtain had gone down the girls took their places and the excitement set into Ashley’s bones. Up came the lights and the curtain, the music blasting into the auditorium, and there was Ashley with a giant smile plastered to her face. Not a fake smile to please her teachers or her audience, but a genuine smile. A smile expressing her joy in the dance; a joy that could not be contained.