Faculty

Teachers as Writers

During a recent staff development session, the English department put pen to paper and engaged in the craft of writing. This session was planned to awaken the teachers’ love of the written word, ultimately inspiring the same passion in their students. “We all came to this discipline because we love books and writing," said English coordinator Maryann Daley. "It is nice to have had time during Keystone testing to write creatively."

As a warm-up, teachers were asked to tap into a personal reverie and write about a painting titled “The Moorish Chief.” After sharing their samples, teachers worked with a partner to create an original short story, much like we ask of our 10^th grade students. Using blindly selected objects, teachers used their creativity to tie those objects to the personality of uniquely created characters. Those characters then came to life in co-authored stories via shared Google docs.

Samples of the teachers’ writing can be found below.

His confident, erect carriage was evident. Slowly, his leg rose, and a battle-scarred hand greeted it with gentle assurance. Time seemed to slow, their eyes having met. His spoke of a complacency that could not be matched, that would not be vanquished. No one could match this opponent, this king, for it was his presence that enticed, lured, and made one vulnerable.

- Maryann Daley

The pure white robes. Robes that must have dragged in the street, the dust, the sand before entering the sacred temple. Yet they were pure, gleaming, glistening like a saint’s from above. A smug, proud saint, if such were possible. One could almost be distracted long enough to miss the slender, tapering point of his blade, pointed low: In warning? In deception? I imagined a pinprick drop of blood dotting the white. Then a crimson flow from his victim’s flesh staining the fabric, seeping, expanding before he pushed the body off and escaped again into the street. But he would never let that happen. It would spoil the pure white robes.

- Nate Drenner

Looking down at you from where I stand, staff in hand, I wonder. I wonder what you are thinking of me, as I am wondering, too, what I think of myself. How did I get here, this place I did not choose for myself? Destiny. I was destined to rule, I did not choose this path. It is the place where Providence directed my steps. You may think otherwise: haughty, insincere, one who knows nothing of what hard work truly entails. Perhaps you are right. Perhaps time has worked against me; instead of softening my mannerisms, I have become hardened to the life around me. But, how? I have simply inherited this role. I must remind myself of that. I have known no other life, outside of the walls of this court. Who are you to hold that against me? We all come from somewhere, and this is mine. You can continue to wonder. You can continue to question. But, I dare you. I dare you, because regardless, I am your chief.

- Laura Rockwell

The Truck and the Chicken

by Kim McLane and Nate Drenner

“It looks like Charlie needs a partner. Why don’t you go play with him?” said the teacher.

Billy saw where the teacher was pointing. He wasn’t in the mood for playing, not after what his sister told him last night after dinner. But Charlie was sitting by himself. He looked sad. He was pushing the little toy truck -- fire engine red -- back and forth in front of him, but he didn’t seem to be looking at the truck”. Billy felt bad for him. The mopey-look on his face did not match what he would expect during their playtime.

“Can I play too?” Billy asked as he approached the boy.

Charlie shrugged. “Sure, I guess.”

For some reason Billy wasn’t encouraged. But the teacher told him to play. “I like trucks.”

“My dad said that’s what boys should play with.”

Billy was a little confused. He didn’t remember his own father ever telling him what to play with, but then again he had never thought of another choice. He just liked trucks.

“What do you mean?”

“Well,” he began, “my sisters have this huge box of dresses and shoes. They have so much fun getting dressed up and pretending to be other people. I always want to play and have fun with them, but my dad says I can’t. He says dress-up is ‘for girls’.”

“I don’t like my sister,” Billy said.

“Why not?”

“She’s mean.”

“What’d she do?”

“She told me I eat Chicken Little.”

“Who’s Chicken Little?”

“You know. The movie.”

Charlie started pushing the truck back and forth again. He seemed to be thinking about something. “How can you eat a movie?” he asked.

“Not the movie. The chicken.” Billy didn’t understand why Charlie didn’t get it.

“My mom says movies aren’t real,” replied Charlie.

“Well, chickens are real! Cute ones like Chicken Little. And when you eat chicken nuggets, you eat a Chicken Little.”

Charlie had never thought about that before. This puzzling image made him pause. He stopped moving the truck.

“Families are stupid,” he finally said.

“Yeah, they are.”

“Well, what are you going to eat instead?” inquired Charlie.

“I don’t think I want to!” Billy said. “Chicken nuggets are so delicious! Veggies are gross!”

Charlie’s face warmed, agreeing with Billy’s observation. “Yeah! Broccoli--yuck! If you want to eat chicken nuggets, you should. Don’t listen to your dumb old sister.”

“And don’t you listen to your dumb old father.”

Charlie stood up and toddled over to the toy box to find something else to play with. Billy started pushing the truck back and forth, thinking of the spicy chicken sandwich waiting for him at home.