A Final Reflection: 

           

           Reflecting on this semester I feel as if I am looking back on a well-traveled road. A semester long exploration through the word of secondary literacy and my own personal literacy. My traveling party has consisted of my peers and professor whose journey has been dotted with hands on projects, current articles, peer presentations, colleague insights, books such as Wonder, Speak, and The Girl Who Drank the Moon, as well as authors such as Randy Bomer and Billy Collins. As I stand at the end of the road I find myself a stronger and more prepared future reading specialist and personal reader and writer.

            As anyone who has recently traveled, will often take time to share their experiences and photos; I too have snap shots and experiences I would like to share. I have an album of new knowledge relating to secondary literacy. I do not have time to share each specific photo, but instead have three specific photos that I feel capture the essence of my journey specifically relating to secondary literacy. First, I share a photo of Randy Bomer’s text. This textbook, I feel is a great tool that emphasizes the importance of teaching students how to be lifelong readers. This text demonstrates how to teach students practical skills that they can practice and apply to deepen as a reader and writer. My second snap shot would be of Billy Collin’s poem Introduction to Poetry. From the moment we read that poem, I loved it. I loved the writing, the imagery, and most importantly the simple meaning. Let students enjoy literacy. There is a time and place to analyze and dissect a work of literacy, but more importantly we must let students sit by the window of a book and let the rays of the words linger and warm their skin. Let the words fall on their ears and dance in their minds. My third photo is the image of my group’s multi genre research paper. I think such a project combines reading and writing in a unique and beneficial way. I would encourage other teachers to take this idea of a multi-genre research paper and make it their own to fit their classroom and student needs. Facilitating, as their students creatively bridge the connection between reading, writing, and research.

            In addition to sharing my photos of this journey, I would tell three anecdotes from my travels that reflect how I personally grew as a reader and writer. First, I would share how I sat on my couch enthusiastically reading Wonder, while dog earring pages, With each dog ear I felt my eagerness growing thinking about what my other book club members thought about those sections. It had been a long time since I had been in formal book club and I realized how much I enjoyed sharing a novel with others. My second story would be how this class sparked my own personal writing and reading life once again. I have always been an avid reader and writing, but with becoming a new mom, work, and graduate school my reading and writing life had been on pause. I realized that I looked forward to the assigned blog posts, poems, and readings. I was excited to read or write again, enjoying my nights that I “had” to stay up late to read or write a blog post. For my final story I would share how I referred the book Wonder to my paraprofessional, who referred it a student, who then wrote a book advertisement about Wonder to post in the school library, and how later that week when I went into that student’s classroom I noticed two different copies of the book Wonder on two different student’s desks. All to emphasize that books should be enjoyed, shared, and bring others together both in and outside of the classroom.

            Now I find myself at the end of this semester journey into secondary and my own literacy, and turn my eyes from the traveled road to what lies ahead. Looking forward I see the valleys, mountains, and seas to be crossed, as I continue my professional educator and personal reading and writing journey. Looking ahead to what new adventures, traveling partners, and books await me in this life long journey of reading and writing.

Another Chapter:

Orders

     He stood stiff and at attention. Despite never being in a formal military the men in El Ojo knew discipline; how else did they work as such an oiled machine.

     “You have a new assignment shooter.” Santiago didn’t move eager to hear where Emilio would send him next, so long as it removed him from this forsaken desert.

     “We’ve had an unexpected situation. Due to lack of… finesse.” The word lingered in the air as Emilio carefully cut the end of a cigar. Rolling it between his fingers with a smooth motion. Coming closer he lowered his face to Santiago. The stench of tequila assaulted him, with a heavy dose of pungent cologne. He could see his perfectly shaved face and gelled pepper and salt hair. Although he was in his 60s, wrinkles were just beginning to crevice into shallow groves ringing the corner of his narrow eyes.

     A contrast from Santiago’s disheveled hair that hung longer then usual out of his stiffened and dust covered hat. His wide eyes alert; pools of deep brown set symmetrically in smooth tan skin. The stubble prickled around his chin and checks from days of being unshaved.

     “I need my best man on this, a simple pick up and delivery.”  Pausing he handed him a photo. Santiago once again noticed the striking constant between his brown cracked hands and Emilio’s manicured digits. Taking the photo he gazed seeing a young boy, large in statute with a mop of black curly hair. He was walking out of a college university building. Nothing stood out to Santiago as a threat.

     “Looks like an easy target, alive or dead?” Santiago asked curtly. 

     “Alive. He owes us assets and needs to be set as an example." He Emilio took a long drag on his cigar reveling in the smooth smoke he exhaled.

     “So much like your father.” He slapped him on his back wrapping his arm across his neck and resting one soft hand his shoulder.  Emilio turned to Carlos, who lacked the rigid form of Santiago. He tried to stand tall knowing about the brutality of Emilio. Rather he shook and looked like a shivering puppy. He quickly bent his head down trying to hide the fear on his face. This was the first time he had seen Emilio in person. He snorted and paced back to Santiago.

      Emilio lead him a few steps away as he placed his cigar on the desk near him. Letting it smolder in an ashtray. He replaced it with two shots of clear liquid holding them expertly between his fingers and palm.

     “Take one. Let’s celebrate.” He released his hold handing one of the shot glasses to Santiago. Before releasing the shot to him he paused inspecting the boy. No emotion crossed his face. The stare lingered waiting for him to crack. Nothing.

     Finally he passed him the glass. The shot glass felt cold from the chilled liquor between Santiago’s fingers. Emilio lifted his head with a low guttural laugh.

     “Salud Santi. To the death of your father a year ago today.” He clicked his glass with Santiago’s sending a drop of liquid spilling over Santiago’s fingers. Emilio looked down as he poured the shot into parted lips; waiting to see the expression, or shock on Santiago’s face. Once again, nothing.

Santiago took the shot eyes open still locked on Emilio’s curious gaze. The tequila burned the back of his throat as the liquid coursed down. Filling his upper body with instant heat. Not even a flinch crossed his face.

     “He was brave even in the moment before his death.” Emilio added picking up a cloth napkin from the table and dabbing his lips of excess liquid. His eyebrows raised slightly in anticipation.

The tequila’s warmth faded traveling down to his stomach still empty from the night before. Pushing down with it the words that traveled almost reaching his mouth, replaced with thoughtful guarded ones instead.

     “So I’ve heard.”

     “You truly are your father’s son. He would be proud.” Emilio paused refolding the napkin with perfect creases. “Go rest and clean up, we’ll take care of you tonight, a good meal and discuss payments. You leave in the morning.”

     Santiago nodded his head in understanding. Emilio had turned back to the desk bending over to place the napkin back on the table and pick up the cigar. Santiago had a moment of reprieve. A silent breath escaped his lips releasing with it the tension he guarded so closely, and for a brief second he closed his eyes. Feeling a crack in his heart as a strange feeling seeped from the open cavern. A strange familiarity hovered around him for the briefest of moments, delicate and powerful, immediately replacing the buzzing of the alcohol. He opened his eyes, feeling a presence perched just beyond his reach. Waiting.

Titles

Gone With the Wind

A Little Princess found in A Secret Garden

A Thousand Nights she lived

in The Woodlands surrounded by

The Wall made of words and pages

collected from generations past 30 A.D

enchanted by the Magician’s Nephew

during a Midnight Crossing

where the Day Shift and Night Shift meet

their stories never Dead to the World

Can you Keep a Secret she asks the paper bricks

only if you promise to Remember Me

the stack of books replies 

Another slice of life


For this slice of life I thought I would give you a slice of my writing. Writing is one of the many pieces that make up my life pie. Enjoy this bite and hopefully one day it will become a full dessert for you to savor.

Focal Point
           In the desert night a shift occurred, as if God sighed resigning that the air and land had been tortured enough from the brutal heat. Santiago perched always alert on the rocks. Allowing his eyes to adjust and welcoming the cool darkness that shrouded him.  There she lay curled into a tiny ball, an infant cradled into imaginary hands, inhaling a steady, subtle rhythm. He saw the moment she felt the shift in the air, her rigid face relaxing with a deep breath. With precision his eyes fixed on her, a focal point luring him deeper into his thoughts. What was he doing here? He knew this fantasy wouldn’t last. Tomorrow they would both be dead. As the thought formed in his mind his body remained unfazed; nothing in him deserved any mourning for his own life. How many lives had he taken without offering them any warning of their last night. At least his death was eminent rather  then immediate, allowing him one more night. For what, he thought?

The sand crunched under the girl’s body as she unfurled herself; stretching her slender limbs like a flower reaching for the sunlight. Tendrils of curls sprayed around her narrow face, almost that of a fox he thought with a dark mane of a lion. What lay behind this almost feral, half fox half lioness creature before him?
“I’m sorry,” He uttered feeling the words dissipate the moment they left his mouth, as he mentally added her to his list. Though he wouldn’t be the one to pull the trigger he lead her to her last day. He leaned back against his backpack using it as a crude pillow, the thought filling him washing him in exhaustion. There was nothing he could do in this moment. The night in its darkest wrapped around him, the cool air caressing his burnt skin. His watch read 1:17, granting him permission to sleep a few hours. He set the alarm for 3:30 wanting to get moving before the sun rose. Even though the end was certain in his mind; he wouldn’t surrender with a white flag. His legs stretched out before him allowing him to recline back with his gaze still fixed on the girl. As his eyes closed shut his last view was a spread of dark curls on sand.


Prayer
          
          Paula sat on the worn and ripped cloth seats. The car smelled musty, she wondered how long it had been growing in front of the house. She had never seen that abandoned house before, but Alejandro knew exactly where it was.   
Did he know where they were going now?  She leaned against the window and felt it’s solid glass against her temple and cheek. She had to press harder into it to keep from bouncing as her brother sped down the highway. They had long passed the roads that led out to their ranch, passing the village where her school lay dormant for summer. Now she stared out at unfamiliar scenery along a winding single lane road. Her thoughts drifted what would happen if a bus passed them taking the curve just a bit too wide? 
She had heard stories of busses crashing from such accidents. Closing her eyes she forced the thought from her mind, before her imagination had formed any more horrific images She had seen enough horror earlier. Wishing she could just erase her mind from everything, busses, gun shots, and the blood. If only she had a clean sheet of paper in her brain, blank, smooth and crisp white. The sun had already set low in the sky and stars emerged as she closed her eyes. All she could see before sleep took hold of her were pages of white paper thumbed before her. 
When she awoke the van was dark and still. Rubbing her eyes and trying to straighten her sniff neck; she was alone. Panic attacked her jolting her on high alert. Sitting up straight she reached for the door handle, it was locked. Fumbling she fought to pull up the slick plastic lock unable to get a secure grip. In her panic she saw her brother walking back, a silhouette in the neon lights behind him. 
Her fingers finally steadied as she pulled the plastic piece and opened the door. The cool night air rushing in, filling her lungs, as Alejandro reached her. 
“You’re awake, we’re staying here for the night.” He said to his shoes still unable to look at her. “You can shower and then we can eat. There’s a restaurant next door.”  
He was already around to the driver’s side pulling out his duffle bag. Paula still sat in the passengers seat letting her legs stretch. Her sneakers grazing over the pavement; tracing the cracks in the ground.  The driver’s side door slammed shut surprising her with its loud click. 
“I got you some clothes earlier. You were still asleep and I didn’t want to wake you.” He handed her a yellow plastic bag. She stepped out of the van her legs feeling unsteady now on solid ground. Taking the bag she kept her eyes down.
“Thanks.” She whispered. Following him they walked down to a motel door entrance the paint cracked and peeling around the edges of the door. Alejandro pushed in the key hearing a click and walked through the door. The room assaulted them with dank, moldy smells and cigarette smoke. The AC pulled from the wall and the room dimly lit from a side lamp toped with a crooked and yellowed shade. The single bed sagged forming almost a frown. 
Without a word Paula walked to the restroom and locked the door. Pulling the toilet seat down she sat for a moment examining the cracked tiles. Noticing the towels all slightly differing shades of white, off white, and off white eggshell. Bowing her head she let out a breath while her eyes closes shut; she said a prayer. Silent words pouring from deep inside her until no other words existed within her. 
A knock at the door rattled her from her bowed position.
“You ok?” 
“Yeah, I’ll be out in a few minutes.” Bending down further toward the grimy tile she gently pulled her shoes and socks revealing a line of filth around her ankle. She threw her socks into the trash. Eventually making her way to the shower. Allowing the cold to comfort her. She hated cold water, but for some reason cold water seemed more appropriate. Numbing her. Maybe she could scrub the memories from her skin. Lather them from her hair and watch them slip down the drain.

Slice of Life –

I’m looking past the fence to the trees that have slowly crept closer and closer with each passing year, their branches and roots reaching for the open ground. Above the maze of trees the sun is angled perfectly, not yet casting long shadows along the grass. For now, the rays reach under the small back patio. Warming our skin perfectly. It’s a quiet moment. A still moment. My body molded into the patio chair, a comforting embrace. Breathing in the mid morning air, my mind hears my grandfather’s hymn. “I come to the garden… and He walks with me and He talks with me.” Except that afternoon He chooses to sit with me. I look to my right and my Nona’s white hair frames her creased face. Her humped back resting comfortably, with eyes half shut. Holding in her lap my daughter. Her tiny face bathed in sunlight, a joyful smile welcoming and soaking in each ray of warmth. My heart aches to remember moments like this. Instinctively my hand reaches across the gap and squeezes my Nona’s soft fingers. She doesn't move, except the subtle lines around her mouth lift. Minutes pass in silence as three generations of lives, stories, words, and movements, intersect and pause for just a moment.

Reading is Thinking - A Poem 

Yes, reading is more than reciting words aloud 

Instead it's a blended symphony in our heads 

A chorus of the author's words and our own thoughts

The steady cadence of decoding words 

Rising crescendos as we read to keep pace 

A quickening tempo as the plot unfolds 

The beat now downtempo as we approach new words 

Our composer signaling for us to slow 

Plucking one smooth string at a time with a steady stroke

Ensuring each word is understood with this new beat 

Now a pause in our reading song 

A moment just to debrief - but not too long

The drums can't wait to beat again 

To analyze, compare, and connect with each page 

Just as the musicians find a harmony in synch 

we too must teach our readers to think

Silent Sustained Reading Program

Past Student Perspective:

I would have loved having a sustained silent reading program in middle and high school. From a student perspective, I can envision myself engrossed and engaged with my reading. Although this is a biased perspective, coming from a blossomed (avid reader). I understand though, that all students may not always embrace a sustained reading time, especially seedling readers (developing reader). Yet, it is our job as educators to help all students become as engrossed and engaged as an avid reader.

Educator Perspective:

From a teacher’s perspective, I agree with and feel eager to spread this concept of developing a successful sustained silent reading program for secondary students. I would hope that by establishing a successful reading time, as described by Lee and Bomer, that students would blossom as readers. Using this time to cultivate, water, and tend to seedling, budding, and already blossomed readers in my classroom. Watching as new books are recommended by others, and spread as bees pollinate flowers. I truly believe this would not be “wasted” or “lost instructional time” as many educators may feel. Rather it would be a deliberate and patient process for setting aside time to let students fall into the world of books. Reminding reluctant educators that just as a crop needs a season to harvest, such a program may need a season to be implemented with fruitful results. With an end goal of developing widely and deeply rooted readers.

References

Lee, A. (2001). Becoming the Reading Mentors Our Adolescents Deserve: Developing a Successful        Sustained Silent Reading Program. Journal of Adolescent and Adult Literacy, 55(3), 209-218.

Bomer, R. (2011). Buidling Adolescent Literacy in Today’s English Classroom. Portsmouth, NH:              Heinemann.

Reading History 

Memories reading, books we have read, characters we have met, and placed we have visited within the pages of books shape who we are. Here are the books and reading memories that have shaped my life.

Reading Timeline:

Infant years: Listening to board books with my parents like, I’m a Crazy Monster (I still have this book and I now read it to my daughter)

Toddler Years: Picture books such as What can I Dream About and Albert the Running Bear (my brother’s favorite picture book which is now in his son’s room)

Early elementary school: Bernstein Bears book collection (I once organized them by published date)

Elementary school: Ordering scholastic books from school and being ecstatic when they arrived. I especially loved the Bailey School Kids series.

Middle school: Walking to the library and spending hours searching for just the right book. This is when I feel that my reading roots spread out.  Watered with each book I pulled off the shelf. Burrowing deep and wide across genres and settling into the young adult section. Words from books as Pope Joan fed me as I blossomed into what I would consider an avid reader.

High school: I was the student with the book buried in my desk. Feeling the pull of the words when I wasn’t allowed to read. My book dog eared and ready for any moment I had free to read. What books define this period of my reading history? Any book that piqued my interested from the library. During this time I was also shaped by my English courses. Some novels I enjoyed such as the Scarlett Letter (where I first learned to annotate and analyze a text) and books I did not enjoy such as Heart of Darkness.

College: This era of my reading life shifted, as I had to learn how to read college textbooks. During this time, I sprouted new leaves as nonfiction became more and more of an integral part of my reading life.  With a few pleasure reads when time allowed during track and field trips or vacations. One including my trip to Colorado where I spent two days hunkered inside finally reading Gone with the Wind (My grandmother’s favorite novel given to me a few Christmases before).

Post College: Two words describe this blissful time in my reading. Pleasure reading. I was not required to read any specific book, expect of course the books I read to my 4^th and 5^th grade students as read alouds (all of which I loved and I hope the kids enjoyed hearing as well).  Authors such as Janet Evanovich and Sophie Kinsella made me laugh. While Clive Cussler, Francine Rivers, and Charliane Harris filled my days with adventure, grace, and fantasy.

Graduate school/Current day: The tides of my reading turned back once again pulling my attention toward nonfiction reading. My reading including mostly professional development books for work, graduate articles and texts, and parenting and pregnancy books or blogs.  As always in my reading past, trying to squeeze in a few choice books while snuggled up with my daughter. While reading my own books I can’t help but stop and look at her and hope that she has her own rich reading future in the making; shaped by the words she is listening to even now and by the words she is yet to read.

Being a Kid is Tough...

I'm reading Wonder right now and throughout the book I am reminded what it was like to be a middle school student. It was tough.

As teachers I think we can help guide our students throughout their day by stepping back into our childhood memories and reminiscing what it was like to be a kid.

As was the case today with one of my "toughest" 5th grade students. His morning started off by him punching the desks in my room and yelling threats because of a crying student who didn't let him sleep on the bus. Which ended with us printing pictures of Tom Brady to post in his classroom, and agreeing that if Tom Brady can turn around the game and win, he can turn his day around too.  Flash forward to the middle of the day, the bus incident long past, with the same "tough" student walking into my room covering the front of his hair. He sheepishly asks if I  have a mirror and I open my cabinet to reveal one. He walks over explaining that he put too much gel in his hair this morning. After a quick release of his hand I see the globs of white, dried gel in his blonde hair. He is delicately picking at it, but the gel is stuck firmly to his hair. After failed attempts to pull out the gel, being unable to locate a comb, and a few jokes from my paraprofessional about styling his hair for him, we decide that the best solution is for him to go to the restroom and wash his hair in the sink. It must of worked because he went right back to class after the restroom. The gel crisis resolved.

Being a kid is tough...and I mean that with all sincerity.

Therefore, I challenge you to dig back into those often blotted out and tough middle school memories when you are helping your students navigate their day. Never forgetting the crankiness from lack of sleep on Monday mornings, our eagerness to fit in, or the embarrassment that a little bit of dried gel can cause.

Focus Word

I like this idea of a focus word. I first heard about a focus word in lieu of a new years resolution on the radio.  Although, it wasn't until my reading professor charged us to think of a focus word for either the semester or year that I stopped and listened. As God often does, I believe he took this opportunity of silence to whisper to me. Immediately I heard the word humble. Be humble.

"What do you mean?" I asked Him back. His response resonated with me.

Be humble and let go. Stop trying to be a perfectionist; you are only made perfect in Me.
Be humble in motherhood. You will struggle and grow, but I will guide you along the way.
Be humble as a teacher. Remember to serve and teach your students as I serve and teach you.
Be humble as a student. There is always something new to learn.
Be humble in every situation.

Welcome to Rejoice. Read. Run. Repeat

Welcome to Rejoice. Read. Run. Repeat. 

My name is Raquel and I welcome you to join me during this season of my life. This is a big year for me and I am excited to share it with you as I rejoice, read, run, and repeat. 

First and foremost, I rejoice. I rejoice daily in my Savior's love, grace, and guidance. I rejoice in being a faithful and loving wife to my husband and training partner. In my newest role, I rejoice in being a mom to my precious daughter. 

Second, I read. I've made a resolution  to try my best to set aside time daily to read God's word. Which never fails to refresh my soul and realign my day.  In addition, I stay up late to read and study for my graduate classes. All while trying to squeeze in my leisure reading. 

Third, I'm a runner. I started off as a solo runner in high school. In college I found a training partner (my husband). With our newest addition, we have our own team as my daughter is just now old enough to run with me in the jogging stroller. 

Lastly, I repeat as best I can. 

Again, welcome and I hope you enjoy as you join me as we rejoice. read. run. repeat.