“Always Go Back to the Notebook”

“Go get her!” Male commanded when I mentioned my need for the clock to mark 4 PM so I could go see Elena. But I wanted to take advantage of the last few minutes at work to brew this slice. So I walked out of her office and into mine, looking for my old writer’s notebook.

There it was, patiently waiting for me by the hot afternoon window, with moments of my teaching life frozen on its pages in several ink colors. My mind jumped to memories, chapters inside the classroom, scenes I knew I’d replay once I opened it.

I skimmed through its pages, bringing everything back to life as I read each word, and wrote down a few lines. Those lines would be enough for this slice to be born. I then packed my notebook and went downstairs to pick Elena up.

The morning I started this notebook, I was seated on a rug with a small group of 5th graders, they wore masks and were still somehow new to this idea of writing minilessons. I joined a student without a partner while Ms. Amy readied herself to deliver. I readied myself to immerse in her teaching. When I think about it now, I remember what happened but not much about why it happened. Visiting each other’s classrooms would become a regular and joyful occurrence.

Those first pages tell the story of a minilesson on characters and how writers can use identity elements to invent fictional personas for their tales. Ms. Amy grounded us in the moment with a connection, gave us a teaching point, demonstrated how she’d do it, and then gave us a few seconds to brainstorm. After a gentle transition, she asked us to talk to a partner about what we wrote.

I not only have the written pages to travel back to that rug, but I see the photo of that partnership on the front cover of the notebook. There we are, cross-legged, leaning toward the notebook in front of us, and embracing the vulnerability that I know emerges when talking about our writing. I remember how much he appreciated my hesitation, my self-doubt, my questioning of the words on the page.

Like that one, there are several other vulnerable writing moments documented in this notebook. I flip just a few pages and encounter entries I know came from waiting: waiting for the class to settle into independent writing on their own, waiting for the self-reliance to show up, waiting for them to try this hard thing even when it truly feels hard.

This notebook isn’t just a collection of my teaching during the first 3 years at this school, but it’s also a souvenir of times when I did what I love most about this part of the job: writing with them. Exploring with them. Reaching out for inspiration with them. A time when the classroom felt like home, and the notebook became a quiet teaching companion. I can’t wait to do some of that this afternoon, but with different, older, and eager writers. 

P.S. The first pages of the notebook came to life while visiting a 5th-grade class, and when I go to the last entry, I realize they also came to be while surrounded by curiosity-fueled, opinion-loaded, and endlessly creative 5th graders. Full-circle moments.