Learning Timeline

For one of my classes in this program my professor asked us to create a timeline about events that happened in our "learning history" that helped mold us as learners and people. I have to jot a few things down anyway, and thought that maybe you'd like to share in reading it.

I tried to limit the items to less than one for every grade of my schooling career. Some came from things that happened in class and some came from things that happened outside of class. After some reflection, I can say that each of these events changed me a little:

pre-school:
I had a teacher in preschool who I thought looked like Dorothy from golden girls, mostly because she had short curly grey hair. (Looking back she was probably not so keen on that association.) One day, I remember clearly, I was sitting in the font room at the tiny table and chairs (which I'm sure seem only more tiny now) while "Dorothy" and I drew scenes of the beach. I envied her ease at drawing the birds across the clouds. She took her hand in mine and traced over her pretty birds, my shaky crayon spoiling her drawing. And in one clear flash, I understood that it wasn't as complicated as I had made it out to be in my head; "Dorothy" was drawing Ms in the sky. I had drawn an M before and was quite familiar with the up and down and up and down...And, as if she saw it click, Dorothy let go of my little fist around my crayon and let me draw my own birds which, really, were crude lowercase m's flying in formation, but she told me they were beautiful.

kindergarten:
It was fall in my kindergarten classroom when our teacher taught us shapes. I was familiar with circle and square and triangle from playing blocks with my first teacher (my mother) at home. But it was when our teacher drew a strange shape on the board that I had never seen before that peeked my attention. A rectangle but with one side shorter than the other side. She repeated slowly "trapezoid" and spelled it for us to copy down on our worksheets. "trapezoid" she repeated. It didn't take me long to realize that when I said the word trapezoid to strangers they seemed impressed, raised their eyebrows and said "oooooh!" So, as easy as that, a messed up looking rectangle, I had a thirst for knowledge, maybe not to satisfy a hunger for learning, but at least to impress.

1st grade:
The year my parents were divorced and my mother and my brothers and I moved to a new school district I went to the local Catholic school for first grade. Early on in class I was pegged as a "bad kid" and subsequently punished often, as well as put in the remedial reading group. Mrs. Strockbine probably was a gentle woman, who tried to care in the best way she could about her students...It just never came across very well. Quickly, I learned my place that year, and after having peeing in my plaid jumper all over my composition book, and being reprimanded I took my new seat in the very back of the classroom. The last week of class we had our "final exams" which were on all of our subjects on ten pieces of paper folded in half. Mrs. Strockbine knelt beside my desk as she returned mine, and apologized because only me and Russell, the red head and pet, who sat in the front row received 100% on every one of our exams. She paraded us to the front of class and gave us a shiny sticker. That might have been the first time that the shiny sticker didn't make me proud of myself, but something else entirely

2nd grade:
Miss Hall was my 2nd grade teacher at the public school. She was soft, jolly and young with two long red braids and tiny freckles across her nose. And that year, because of the divorce and the move, and my traumatic 1st grade experience, I was a little wary of school. We had journal time where we had to write in our journals every day for a little while and at the end of the week Miss Hall would collect them and write notes in the columns of our pages. She'd ask questions "What color is your brother's bike? Did it hurt him when he fell down?" And never once correct my grammar or spelling or handwriting. This was simply a place (and to me felt like a secret place) where we could talk to each other. Having the chance to write back and forth in a dialogue with my teacher (who I really felt cared about what I had to say) Made me understand a pretty fundamental thing about the power of the written word and my ability to utilize it - I, at 7 or 8 years old, had a communicative power at my fingertips. And, throughout that year, even as a small child, began to feel as though I was a "writer".

3rd grade:
Mr. Allen was short, even for third grade standards. He was very old and long since opted not to retire. He had a crooked back, a slow walk, and tiny lips that eased out his quiet words. He was a kind teacher, where every student got a chance to be "student of the week." There was one day I remember clearly. As he scrawled out letters in clusters across the entire chalk board, each as large as he was. CHRY-SAN-THE-MUM. This was the longest word I'd ever seen and wasn't even sure if it was a word. Mr. Allen then explained that even a big word like chrysanthemum can be spelled, if you just break it down and make it simple. Looking back, maybe he was trying to teach us phonics. But when I reflect about what changed my view of things Mr. Allen sneaks in with his quiet voice and cardigans and his lesson about biting off what you can chew.

4th grade:
In forth grade, there was a war going on. My town was located around a US Navy base, so when I heard the news that Troops Families of Operation Desert Storm were having a hard time paying the bills something inside me clicked. I brainstormed in my room and write down a plan to raise money. I passed it by my mother, who was shocked when I told her that the next day I was going to make an appointment with the principal to see if she could help we with my plan. Mrs. Seif was gentle and sweet, despite how afraid anyone was to go to her office. My hands were shaking as I sat (swinging my legs) in the leather chair across her large desk. I had written note cards to read off of that detailed my plan to have a walk-a-thon to raise money for troops families. We'd need the whole school to take the day off from school to be able to do it, so I was, of course, ready to prove why it would be so important. Looking back, I can see how she must have seen me, the little 9 year old with her crumpled business plan, refusing help from the student council because it was "just a popularity contest anyway". Mrs. Seif, without much hesitation at all, told me that it was an excellent idea and that I should find a helper because it would be a lot of work...And it was. We got donations from local business and pledges from the community and wound up raising about $4,000 that day. Now, with all of different sorts of ideas about that war, and this one I think it's funny they way I was so active in being patriotic and participating, but it remains one my proudest moments. And it wouldn't have happened if the principal of my elementary school didn't take a chance with my crumpled index cards.

5th grade:
Mr. Bloome was a barrel of a man, with red hair, a red beard and despite the school board's warnings against it, one earring. He always had chalk all over his back from leaning on the blackboard and engaging us in conversation. If you pointed the chalk marks out to him, he'd say "Good! That's how I know I'm teaching!" In one of our history lessons, he suddenly stopped reading. He closed the hardback text between his two meaty palms and it made a jarring "thwack" in the air, and then, with unapologetic irreverence, he threw our history book on the floor. He said "That's not how it happened!" and with much pain in his face went on to tell us about what manifest destiny really was, the trail of tears and trials and hardships of the Native Americans. His eyes filled up and his voice broke when he told us about teaching on the reservations and what it's like there today. Not only did we have the experience of understanding through this teacher's own personal experience, but it was the first time that any of us questioned what was in our text books, and more over the over-arching, patriotic 'American History' that everyone else seemed to accept.

6th Grade:
In sixth grade my brother, Mike taught me a trick to knowing the 9 times tables. No matter how much drilling or how many worksheets, I was always terrible at math. But, Michael, with one simple trick, showed me that there was more than one way to getting to the answer and I didn't feel so "dumb" about it anymore.

7th Grade:
I got cancer in 7th grade and learned lots of things, I suppose. But that, dear friends, is for an entirely separate post

8th Grade:
I went back to school bald and fat from chemo drugs and learned a lot that year too, but insist that that is probably also best saved for another post

9th Grade:
Jeanne, Laura and I put out a comic book. Starting with drawings and storylines kept under the bed, we gathered up all of our change and in pennies and nickles and dimes we published the first issue of our comic book. Before the era of zines and DYI really took off, this publication was released in a handful of comic book stores in the Philadelphia area and sold out pretty quickly (even though it was written by girls). Our goal was never to make money off the enterprise, but instead to reap the rewards of doing something on our own, in the real big world. We had a post office box with a treasured key one of us wore around our necks and would walk to the post office to see if anyone sent us fan mail or orders for a comic book. The three of us honestly felt like we had a business and something to focus on when we were bored with everything else - and it was successful, reinforcing the idea that we were capable and had the ability to do whatever it was we set our minds to.

10 grade:
So, since Miss Hall in the second grade, I still think that I'm a "writer." This was reinforced my Mrs. Katsiff, A witch of a woman with frizzy hair, artistic earrings, a dark wrap, and a raspy voice that always called you by the wrong name. She ran a creative writing course for the juniors and seniors, and after reading something of mine in the English teacher's lounge, she came stomping into find me in study hall. "J-Jennifer, I want you to audit my writing class, the kids in there need some motivation." She said it as a demand; She always called me Jennifer. So, I followed her and her long kashmina that dragged on the floor like a cloak, all the while blushing with pride that I was recognized as a "writer" by this frightening woman.

11 grade:
When I was in 11th grade, there as a coup in the school newspaper office. The three reigning editors were overthrown and there was a meeting of the staff where we held new elections. The advisor was new that year and sort of sat in the back of the newspaper office while we had a meeting. I somehow moderated the meeting (perhaps with my designs on the executive desk, with the little green lamp) and when everything fell into place, I was elected editor. Mrs. Tumberello, who sat silently while all of this happened didn't question anything about my new role, but instead gave me the keys to the office and told me where the home room list needed to be dropped off in the morning. As easy as that, she handed over all the authority and let me run the paper exactly how I thought it should be run. I was scared a little, but also (perhaps reeling with power) excited. In the next year and a half, we won awards that we were never in the running to win before and Mrs. Tumberello, instead of asserting her authority, only checked in from time to time with me, usually over tea in the afternoon where we talked about the paper as though we were playing make believe that we were both two adults. We talked about what the goals were for the paper - and let me discover - to let the staff discover what they were. In the amount of freedom she gave me, she also made sure that I was reflecting on what was best for everyone, but never let me figure out that that was what she was doing.

Freshman year at Goucher:
My English teacher handed me a copy of a book called PROCRASTINATION. My favorite joke is that I never got around to reading it. Ha! She took me into her office around midterms, when my fingernails were bitten down to their beds and told me that she'd been like me before and I was participating in self-sabotage by not giving myself every opportunity to succeed. She was right. (And sometimes, still is right.) But she didn't seem to judge me for being a "bad" student, but instead talked to me like a peer, someone she could see was doing something she had done before (and probably, sometimes still.) And person to person, instead of teacher to student, She was giving me a chance, not to fix my grade, but to fix something for myself for the future.

sophomore year at Goucher:
I took my first class with a service learning component my sophomore year at college. It was the first time that I'd ever tried to apply a lot of the lofty, liberal ideas we spat back and forth across the circles in the classroom to the real world. My first assignment was at home for people living with AIDS in Baltimore city. Once a week, I'd go make dinner or do dishes. My second assignment was at the PAL after school program in West Baltimore trying to get kids to do arts and crafts or poetry. Neither assignment was easy. Both assignments made me cry and feel hopeless before I felt capable. But, through service learning, I had the opportunity to learn outside the classroom. To see these "theories" put to the test about impoverished youth and the disenfranchised. Not only did it make a mark on who I was, but more over on who I wanted to become.

Junior year at Goucher:
After reading a book in my Political Science class called Washington, by Meg Greenfield, I was interested in seeing if student government in college was made up of the same sorts of people that she described to be inside the beltway. She articulated them to be different from the rest of the populace, so much so that they couldn't even understand what it would be like to be a normal citizen, and in this case a normal student. Did this happen because of their power, or did they ascertain this power because there was something fundamentally different about their personalities and upbringing? So, for my own personal bemusement I ran to become the vice president of the student body. Within less than a month, to varying degrees, I realized that I had become exactly what Greenfield discussed in her book. I referred to the student body as "the body" as though they were an amorphous mass and not my buddies or classmates anymore, and I also caught myself, on more than one occasion, referring to students not on the executive board as "regular students". What? Me? Although there were some highlights of change on campus I felt like I helped bring about, I realized pretty quickly that, simply, power can turn you into a jerk.

Senior year:
One handle of rum might not be enough for a weekend. If security guards come to bust the party in the woods, its far funnier if you don't run.

Work:
After college, I worked at the women's healthcare non-profit. My boss Peter, served as an excellent mentor and frequently tried to figure out what would make me feel happy and successful and tried to tailor my job to fit those needs. He also taught me to talk schmoozie to businessmen.

New York:
I'm still figuring out with subway to take home, and which direction is North.

Tomorrow:
Who knows?