The following open letter resulted from a few coincidental, yet timely events:

First, I was teaching freshman composition students about the letter-writing genre during the winter 2012 semester.

Second, there was interesting Facebook chatter about changing the name of our old high school.

Third, I had recently decided that I needed to provide students with my own personal examples of the writing genres I expected them to write.

These three events came together and I wrote many versions (about four) of the following open letter...

My Revised Literacy Moment: You Can't Swallow Everything You Read!

My first literacy moment came when I was five years-old. This was the about the time I started to read. One day, I found myself searching through my sister’s purse. I was looking for gum. I knew I’d find some because she always had gum! I was so focused and in need of gum that I pretty much forgot a few things… There were two things I was not supposed to do: sneak into my brothers and sisters things and have gum.

Everyone single person in my family knew I was addicted to gum. My mom, who never let me have any, knew I was a lost cause. Worse yet, my 11 older brothers and sisters knew it and they used it against me. They could make me do all sorts of things for gum. I’ve been a human TV remote controller for gum. I’ve done chores no five year-old could really do well. I’ve unlocked doors and windows after curfew; I’ve lied to my parents and other siblings, and taken the blame for broken objects. As I think back, I have images of rolling over, fetching and barking like a dog for gum. It was all worth it because they always came through with a piece of gum. Okay, sometimes it was only a half a piece, but I wasn’t picky.

As I searched through my sister’s purse, the only thoughts in my mind were warm fuzzy images of what kind of gum I might find. I loved all the flavors; I’d accept any brand: Doublemint, Hubba-Bubba, Big Red, Bubbalicious, Trident, Bazooka was extra special because it had a comic I could read. When I got a piece of Bazooka gum, I’d carefully unwrap it, stare at the pictures then sound out all the words. I never really understood the comic, but when I’d read each panel and reached the end, I’d laugh really loud because that’s what you do when you read comics.

Anyway, there I was — a five year-old gum addict rummaging through my sister’s purse like a nervous hyperactive ferret. There was a bunch of junk in there, but all I remember pulling out is a plastic card with her picture on it. I treated it like my Bazooka bubble gum comics; I looked at the picture and then read the words.

I read “Alana” then “Farris.” I read the numbers “231″ and then “East Grand Boulevard.” I recognized the numbers and words were the same as my house and name of my street. I read and recognized my city’s name “Detroit.” I read and did not recognize “Michigan.” I read a bunch of numbers that came after the word “Michigan.” I was really confused because the picture was of my sister. Her name was “WADUDA.” Sure, I couldn’t spell it, but knew I could read it if saw it.

That name was nowhere on the little plastic card. My heart began racing and my hands started to sweat. Why was “Alana” next to my sister’s face and “WADUDA” nowhere to be found? In the instant it took for this thought to form in my mind, everything my brothers and sisters had told me became true.

I was not part of this family.

I was found in the trash, on the doorstep, and at the park.

My real mom didn’t want me and gave me away.

Just as quickly as these thoughts came, they were replaced by some new thoughts that gave me pause to wonder. This could be a good thing since I don’t like my family anyway. They are always picking on me. My “dad” doesn’t even talk about gum and my “mom” NEVER lets me have any. I bet my new real mom would let me have gum. I bet she doesn’t have a thousand kids. The idea that I could have a better family somewhere made me feel hopeful and empowered. I took the new knowledge of what I had read about “Alana-Waduda” to my mom. When I found her, I spoke to her with sincerity, hope and an attitude of no hard feelings.

“Where is my real mom?”

“What?”

“You know, my reeeeaaaalll mommy?”

“Girl, do you see all these damn kids I have? Do you really think I would just go get another one?”

Because my mother NEVER cursed, I knew what she said was true. My literacy moment, in a few words: reading destroyed my identity and my mom gave it right back to me!

Born in 1941 in Tacoma, Washington, Dale Chihuly was introduced to glass while studying interior design at the University of Washington. After graduating in 1965, Chihuly enrolled in the first glass program in the country, at the University of Wisconsin. He continued his studies at the Rhode Island School of Design (RISD), where he later established the glass program and taught for more than a decade.

"Did you notice the floor?" - Is the other question I think most about when using FMG as our descriptive/observational writing skills classroom.

"How many students notice the shape of the columns?" That is one of the questions I always have when using Frederik Meijer Gardens as our classroom for introducing descriptive writing and observational writing skills.

Greetings:

The Scholarship Letter is due this week. It is the first major writing assignment for my summer freshman composition students and I am most concerned about the students who are not making connections between the steps that are required before they turn in a the final copy to be evaluated.

For exmple, the student who does not see how the study-guide assignments (readings, notes, discussion, proposal, vocabulary) CONNECTS with the quiz (a draft, a draft review session, and a reflective memo on the process) to PRODUCE a final draft ready for evaluating.

How do I get that student pass the basic level of connecting the parts so she/he can move on to focusing on content, development, and awareness of how the WHOLE - Writer, Audience, Purpose, Form (the rhetorical Triangle)?