Some days you sit in front of the class, after lunch, grounded in your breath, stable in voice and determined in purpose and you speak of meaning.
“What is it you ask? What do we mean by finding meaning? Deeper meaning?”
You ask the tired slightly bored children in front of you if they know what you mean when you say that we construct meaning, and that there is no such thing as the truth in texts, but rather a panoply of truths, that each reader begins to construct on their own, by reading closely and thinking and talking with a partner and examining their own context and world view, and the worldview of others, and you explain that even the writer’s intention is not always the truth, but one of many, and that it is the readers job to uncover what meaning maybe hidden below the surface.
The girl in the back corner is zoned out and staring blankly at the carpet, but that one to your right is all eye-contact and engagement. You look at her directly and say, “The magic of reading and thinking is that you are an active participant in truth finding and meaning making. The text is just a catalyst to your understand of self, the world and your place in the universe.
The kids listening are 50/50 at best, but that percentage feels workable to you. After all, not every lesson is this hyperbolic and self-aware. If even a few of these kids can walk away feeling empowered to be truth makers in the world, haven’t you done your part?
“What’s more is that as a writer you are now going to be meaning makers on another level. You will have to leave clues and layers of truth that will allow your reader a chance to infer and unpack what it is you might need to say.” You are preparing them for a personal narrative unit. They will have to brainstorm story ideas and learn ways to get close to a universal meaning that will resonate with themselves and their readers.
“Here’s the secret,” you say “You might not know what has meaning in your life until you try and write it. The act of writing fiction reveals meaning to you as the writer. The very act of writing will help reveal what is meaningful to you.” A few new faces look up, some are dubious and wondering what the hell you are talking about, but a boy in the back is nodding his head. You maintain eye-contact, “This is the magic in what we do. This is why we read, think, write, think, write, read, because we want to learn about the world and who we are and how we fit into it and how we interact with each other.”
You are feeling better about your soapbox, but you know that this talk cannot last much longer than ten minutes or you’ll lose all of them.
“Let me give you a tip while you brainstorm potential story ideas, DO NOT edit yourself in the idea generation stage. Every idea can be a good one. Do not judge your life meaningless before you have had a chance to write it. A good writer can turn any experience into one fraught with meaning. (YOU do not use the word fraught, but it sounds good when you are writing about it later)
As you brainstorm, remember that the more vulnerable you are willing to be, the easier it will be for you to find meaning. Our emotions are powerful and a bit scary, but when we wrestle them in text, we open our hearts to how they affect us and those around us. Allow yourself to be open to who you are, even if you don’t know who that might be. Allow the stories you write help define you. There is magic in all of your experiences and the act of writing about them, will help you understand their secrets.”
You don’t know if these kids understand or care about what you are saying, but you remember being thirteen and wishing that someone would have spoken to you like this. You remember wishing that someone would have helped you curate the chaos in your life, that someone would have equipped you with the tools to be your best self, that someone would have given you the right books and taught you how to read them and told you that you too can write and that reading, thinking and writing, could be the best kind of escape from the noise and pain in your heart. Or an expression of your joy.
You break eye contact and send them off to their next class. They will now probably sit through some spiel about the beauty of numbers or the miracle of science. Who knows what stick or what they learn, but this banging your head against their apathy and screaming in what often feels like a void is the path you have chosen, this is the only way you know how to pay back everything that you have learned.
“What is it you ask? What do we mean by finding meaning? Deeper meaning?”
You ask the tired slightly bored children in front of you if they know what you mean when you say that we construct meaning, and that there is no such thing as the truth in texts, but rather a panoply of truths, that each reader begins to construct on their own, by reading closely and thinking and talking with a partner and examining their own context and world view, and the worldview of others, and you explain that even the writer’s intention is not always the truth, but one of many, and that it is the readers job to uncover what meaning maybe hidden below the surface.
The girl in the back corner is zoned out and staring blankly at the carpet, but that one to your right is all eye-contact and engagement. You look at her directly and say, “The magic of reading and thinking is that you are an active participant in truth finding and meaning making. The text is just a catalyst to your understand of self, the world and your place in the universe.
The kids listening are 50/50 at best, but that percentage feels workable to you. After all, not every lesson is this hyperbolic and self-aware. If even a few of these kids can walk away feeling empowered to be truth makers in the world, haven’t you done your part?
“What’s more is that as a writer you are now going to be meaning makers on another level. You will have to leave clues and layers of truth that will allow your reader a chance to infer and unpack what it is you might need to say.” You are preparing them for a personal narrative unit. They will have to brainstorm story ideas and learn ways to get close to a universal meaning that will resonate with themselves and their readers.
“Here’s the secret,” you say “You might not know what has meaning in your life until you try and write it. The act of writing fiction reveals meaning to you as the writer. The very act of writing will help reveal what is meaningful to you.” A few new faces look up, some are dubious and wondering what the hell you are talking about, but a boy in the back is nodding his head. You maintain eye-contact, “This is the magic in what we do. This is why we read, think, write, think, write, read, because we want to learn about the world and who we are and how we fit into it and how we interact with each other.”
You are feeling better about your soapbox, but you know that this talk cannot last much longer than ten minutes or you’ll lose all of them.
“Let me give you a tip while you brainstorm potential story ideas, DO NOT edit yourself in the idea generation stage. Every idea can be a good one. Do not judge your life meaningless before you have had a chance to write it. A good writer can turn any experience into one fraught with meaning. (YOU do not use the word fraught, but it sounds good when you are writing about it later)
As you brainstorm, remember that the more vulnerable you are willing to be, the easier it will be for you to find meaning. Our emotions are powerful and a bit scary, but when we wrestle them in text, we open our hearts to how they affect us and those around us. Allow yourself to be open to who you are, even if you don’t know who that might be. Allow the stories you write help define you. There is magic in all of your experiences and the act of writing about them, will help you understand their secrets.”
You don’t know if these kids understand or care about what you are saying, but you remember being thirteen and wishing that someone would have spoken to you like this. You remember wishing that someone would have helped you curate the chaos in your life, that someone would have equipped you with the tools to be your best self, that someone would have given you the right books and taught you how to read them and told you that you too can write and that reading, thinking and writing, could be the best kind of escape from the noise and pain in your heart. Or an expression of your joy.
You break eye contact and send them off to their next class. They will now probably sit through some spiel about the beauty of numbers or the miracle of science. Who knows what stick or what they learn, but this banging your head against their apathy and screaming in what often feels like a void is the path you have chosen, this is the only way you know how to pay back everything that you have learned.
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