Writing Portfolio
T&L 546
I came into this process feeling comfortable with the
writing I commit to paper behind closed doors, but hesitant about the writing
that would be displayed for others to peruse. Writing has always been a private activity
that is soothing and helps me sort through the buzzing in my head. Through this process it became glaringly
apparent how much the weight of words means to me and how much time and energy
I put into selecting the “just right” words in my writing. I found that it is
difficult to not write about what I know, which resulted in writing pieces that
are loosely based on or inspired by events in my life. The most reflective
aspect of this writing journey is that sharing my writing with others is not as
alarming as I thought it would be and beyond bolstering my own writing craft it
is also essential to quality writing instruction with my students. These writing
pieces are ones that I have either already shared with my students or will
share in the future. For me writing has become a communal community experience.
Writing Pieces
1. “Excuse me,
Mrs. Holtcamp!”
2. Compulsion Makes My
Heart Feel Light Headed
3. Rainy Detours
4. Tea Song
5. A Place Under The
Stairs-Picture book
#1
“Excuse me, Mrs. Holtcamp!”
Sticky paper
hearts, obsolete tin-can robots, and color-by-numbers math worksheets are the
vivid memories that pepper the inside of my eyelids from the year of second
grade. A year that would be marked with the label, embarrassment.
"Excuse
me, Mrs. Holtcamp!” No response, as the addition lesson continues to smoothly
play out like a conductor leading a symphony.
With my hand
raised high in the air and a lurching feeling growing in my stomach I
sputtered, “Mrs. Holtcamp?” “Class, what is 3+4? Use the color key to color in
the correct section,” Mrs. Holtcamp commands.
Now the
feeling is rising; a gurgling geyser in my stomach. My eyes flutter shut and
when they open again the contents of my stomach are splayed across my desk;
seeping, oozing, drizzling onto the carpet. My cheeks run crimson and molten.
44 eyes stare as the smell of regurgitated lunch compels fingers to clasp over
noses. And all I can do is sit there like an icicle frozen in the mess,
pretending that this is not happening. I feel the faint sensation of my body
being pulled away from the desk, though I could not say whether it was of my
own volition or by teacher force.
The next
flash of recognition comes as I am directed to stand by the door and wait. Wait
for what feels like a looming punishment. Wait for the texture of flecked vomit
to dry on my shirt. Wait while Mrs. Holtcamp recaps the episode to my mom over
the phone. Wait as the janitor pours a powdery substance over the goo turning
it into crystalized bile. I wait for what feels like the longest time anyone
has ever had to wait in the entire universe; at least the immediate universe of
a second grader.
I am
startled by the embrace of cold air as it sucks its way into the classroom and
the awareness of my mom draping me in love, concern, and a mother’s promise
that everything will be alright.
I am finally
free of the suspended humiliation as I find myself in my own bed entangled in
well-worn blankets and teddy bears. The tinkle of ginger ale fizzing in a glass
and the hum of a lullaby conspire against my consciousness to rid me of this
torturous day and summon me off to slumber.
#2
Compulsion
Makes My Heart Feel Light Headed
Checking. Always checking. My heart
feels lightheaded, my brain buzzes with bizarre thoughts, and my stomach is
flooded with a deep welling feeling of doom. The sensation comes in waves of
irrational worry and looping thoughts colliding in the caverns of my mind.
It speaks. I must check. It builds,
it beckons, it berates.
Check once
Check twice
Check three times
Keys, I see them, I feel them. Check
Wallet, I see it, I hold it. Check
Phone, I see it, I touch it. Check
Check once
Check twice
Check three times
All is calm. The waves have been
quelled and the nagging pressure inside subsides.
And I am free; out the door and onto
the street.
I can hear the ding and roll of the
street car grinding against the rails. There is noisy chatter from two joggers
passing by and the smell of yeast; a thick bready smell that dampens the air as
it spirals from the brewery and stings my nose.
Down the block and past the brewery.
Another door opens and I am in the coffee shop. The sweet gritty smell of
roasted, ground, dripped coffee pulses throughout the place.
Sit, sip, relax, read. My brain is
calm. The relentless repetitive inner thoughts are abated and satisfied…at
least for the time being.
Glancing at the clock it is time to
go, but my feet won’t budge from their position. Cemented and waiting until the
urge to check has been compelled to silence.
Check once
Check twice
Check three times
Keys, their glint catches my eye,
the cool metal traces my hand. Check
Wallet, the rosy leather exterior is
in view, I weigh it in my hand. Check
Phone, the glossy apple comes into
focus, I touch the cracks and edges. Check
Check once
Check twice
Check three times
Breath, exhale, breath, exhale.
Everything is in order. You are in control. The surge of overwhelming panic is
gone. And you are unrestricted from taking a step out the door.
#3
Rainy Detours
“I’ve had as much of
this as I can take. One more minute of this dense reading and my eyes will
permanently glaze over and my soul will crawl out of my skin.” My brain
screamed and threw a tantrum like an incited two year old. I could no longer
abate the feelings of irritation pooling inside my head and seeping onto my
desk like a thick unstoppable oil spill.
The irritation was
severed by the trickle of raindrops condensing against my window and the physical
lack of will power to trudge through yet another monotonous reading assignment
about the detriments of the education system or the benefits of backward
design, or whatever it was that I was presently torturing myself with.
My attention returned
to the droplets that were weaving and smashing against the panes of glass. They
collided as if hoping that their sheer numbers would permit them to break
through.
I slumped out of my
chair and riffled through my closet to retrieve my raincoat saturated in the
color of Pepto-Bismol. My hunter green rain boots stood at attention by the
door, as if they were trying to make an escape. The raincoat felt icy and slick
as it skimmed along the bare skin of my arms leaving a trail of raised bumps.
The rain boots echoed a suction cup sound as I treaded along the tile floor.
On my way out the
door I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and I was reminded of an x-ray
machine. The transparent quality of the raincoat revealed my pajamas underneath
in all of their floral glory. In all honesty I looked like a sleep deprived and
disheveled leprechaun who had been puked on by a rainbow. But there was not
time to contemplate my wardrobe, not while there was rain dancing and puddle
jumping and freedom waiting beyond the walls of my study session prison.
When the droplets finally brushed
against my skin and tangled in my hair I sensed my breath returning and the awareness
of prevailing calm. I whooped and whirled and plunged and cascaded from puddle
to puddle. There is something about a rainstorm, like a numbing winter snowfall
when all of the sound has vacated. But with the rain there is also a low hum of
drumming that energizes and pulses deep in the soul.
With
each scatter and sprinkle of submerged dampness I felt relief and release. The intermingling
of puddles and rain was the purposeful and purposeless detour that I needed to
resume the tedious tasks of adulthood and conquer reality with a commanding
roar.
#4
Tea Song
Seasoned
hands pluck leaves from gardens of green, black, and Oolong somewhere in China.
Dainty
white gloves lift porcelain from delicate saucers somewhere in the Northwest.
Production
of baking in sunlight
Consumption
of drinking on a cold night
Withering
and wilting invigoration bursts free
Developing
and maturing the passage of time rapidly accelerates
Bruised,
beaten and torn to pieces the leaves are left alone.
Shattered
and scattered the ceramic shards are adhered back together.
Revived
by the sunlight, melding into their final form
The
fragrance is pure; Fresh and Mellow.
Lost
in imagination and daydreaming, youth is left intact
The
aroma is carefree; Comforting and Zesty.
Grown
in lush green clusters at the height of a hillside
Born
of imaginary friends and dress-up clothes
Both
are elapsed threads of time.
Both
are reflections of the past and appreciations for the future.
One
from 5,000 years ago
Another
only 27 years young
Regarded
as a necessary ritual to begin the day
Considered
as an indulgence to sooth and stir-up the senses
Respect
and an apology steeped in water
Childhood
and abandonment tasted in liquid
An
anchor to memory, tradition, and belonging
Gathered
around a teapot family ties are reestablished somewhere in China.
Gathered
around a teapot floppy ears and button noses partake in make-believe somewhere
in the Northwest.
Tea is Geography
Tea is Culture
Tea is Remedy
#5
A
Place Under The Stairs: click on the link below for my picture book.
