“Is this the writing class?” A twenty-something, light brown-skinned woman asks me in a slightly marked accent as she steps into the doorway. “Can I come in?” she adds. It’s about 8:50, and
class will begin at 9.
She’s slight, bespectacled, and smiling broadly, though I
hear some nervousness in her voice. She sits right in the middle of the
u-shaped tables that face the front of the room. She’s the first of my 16 students to
arrive. I welcome her in, and she tells
me she’s from Ecuador, from Cuenca. I want to tell her that my son lived in Ecuador,
but I save that.
“Yes! This is the writing class” I declare, and welcome her into the room. “Please
tell me your name.”
“Alejandra,” She announces. “But you can please call me
Alex.”
“Okay, Alex,” I say as I scan my roster and tell her, “My name
is Arlen. And wow, Alex! You are the first to arrive!”
“I like to be in
time,” she proudly announces.
“I do, too!” I say.
Prior to that morning, I had seen all my forthcoming
students' names on my roster, and considered how those names would “translate” into
actual people, and how these same type-written names will look differently on
that page after today, the first day of class.
It’s the same feeling I’ve had for years: the anticipation,
the excitement, and even some of the nervousness on the first day of school.
All of my white board markers are ready, I’ve written the date and my plan on the board, along
with a “Welcome!” I’ve played with the colors of the markers so that—I think—the
board is visually pleasing. I like to alternate between colors, at least a bit.
I’ve got my folders with handouts, and my pads with paper, in case someone
needs paper.
Several students follow Alex's lead and enter the classroom. I welcome them in, and ask their
names, trying to commit them all to memory. They unpack their bags, reveal new notebooks, pens, and sharpened pencils. We are all poised, ready—and so we start a light
conversation.
“Probably some will be late today, but let’s get started!” I declare. They nod, albeit nervously—not
knowing what to expect.
And so, it’s September. A time I’ve always embraced as a new
beginning. Whether it’s in my classroom—or my kitchen—it’s a time to start
something new, I think.
I play with my lesson plans, just like I play with my food. I try to find something new—something that will inspire. Something that sparks interest. Something that will resonate with my students.
At home, I look for something that will resonate with my dinner guests.
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| Appetizers for an End-of-Summer Dinner |
For now, I’m still enjoying the farmers’ market bounty. Tomatoes are still out. I’ve even got some green beans from the community garden that Seth, my husband, tends.
I put all the ideas together, and come up with a fresh
version of perhaps a dish I’ve enjoyed before. Building—or scaffolding (as we
say in the ESL teaching world) so that one idea or dish flows into another.
The beach is still fresh and welcoming. Pumpkins are out. September has walked in.
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| Living Art at the Beach |
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| Pumpkins on Display |
