LOL

That's my first reaction to reading How Self-Expression Damaged My Students.

The author's premise is both disingenuous and absurd. He thinks (and thus taught) that process writing is ONLY expressivist. His whole argument, then, is like saying "running" can't be taught because he modeled sprinting to his students but they didn't get faster. I guess nobody every told him that running can serve other ends besides sprinting.

Simply put, process/expressivist (call it what you will) is a MEANS for young writers to explore their thoughts and ideas. but...BUT (!!!) it doesn't follow that those thoughts and ideas MUST be channeled into narrative or fiction or "the day the kittens were born" or a poetry chapbook called "Me."

I feel embarrassed to be the one stating the patently OBVIOUS . . . but, well, why didn't the teacher use his writer's workshop as a "test kitchen" for students to develop ideas for expository writing that actually exists in the real world: reviews, proposals, evaluations, "how-to's," blog posts, newsletters, public speeches, analysis and interpretation of current events, executive summaries, advertisements, letters of request, calls to action, request for information, etc.? (These genres, with a bit of trial and error, can be spiraled up or down to different grade levels.)

The author tries to blame everyone but himself. He blames the "process method" for its failed approach . . . and he blames the students for failing to learn how to magically polish their prose (absent any instruction). Perhaps all of this could have been solved if the teacher didn't ONLY focus on exploratory writing. Perhaps he could have done what most writing teachers do, which is this:

1. let the students explore, create, and discover.
2. then help them establish an authentic audience and purpose for their raw material.
3. then (after they've edited and revised and work-shopped) model proofreading.

CODA: did ya notice how the author never gives ANY direct examples (or specifics showing) that his students didn't learn to write? He just goes into the cargo cult metaphor. I found that very, very weird. Can someone show me one single sentence in the article where he actually addresses (concretely, specifically) what aspects of the students' writings he found unsuccessful . . . and why?

In other words, if I were to talk about an approach (a writing theory/model) I tried in my classroom and how it didn't work, I would do this:

Discuss the approach. 
Discuss its rationale.
Show what we did (artifacts).
Analyze the artifact's quality (good, bad, rhetorical, etc.).
Generalize how the approach did or did not influence the quality of the artifacts.

Instead, here's the approach the author used.

Discuss the approach.
Discuss it rationale.
Make a metaphor.
Generalize about writing instruction.


And this guy wonders why he failed as a writing teacher.

LOL.*
____________________________________________________________
*Framing device.

Children's Poem

My Horsey
By Ari Zeiger

I'm riding on a horsey.
It has handles by the ears.
This horsey's made by Grandpa
and passed down through the years.

My horsey's two-feet tall,
which might seem sort of low.
But I'm also small, so I give my all
when I'm rocking to and fro.

Oh, my horsey's made of wood
so sometimes I believe
that I'm riding on a horsey
and we're swinging through the trees.

You too should ride a horsey.
There's nothing more you'll love.
Just wrap your arms around like this
and hold on with a hug.

Children's Poem

Bliss

By Ari Zeiger

Who am I?
What makes me me?

It all seems such a mystery.

Usually I just let this go.
I laugh out loud and say: I don't know.
But then sometimes, well, here's the thing.
I have this heart. And it likes to sing.
Yet once or twice the song gets lost.
And in its place, a million thoughts.
That's when I feel incomplete.
Like I'm no one you'd want to meet.

But soon enough, I'll feel OK.
Little by little, throughout the day.
And though my heart might still despair,
something trusts the music's there.
And then I'm free to dance again.
To follow bliss, to be my friend.

Children's Poem

Supermarket

We'd just strolled in the market
when something caught my eye.
Look, the cereal Grandpa eats!
Don't just pass it by.

I screamed.
I laughed.
I pointed.
But Daddy only smiled.
He wouldn't stop.
I cried, why not?
It was a long trip down the aisle.

So then I just went crazy.
It's one way to get heard.
I want that box,
and I want it a lot.
OK, I'll use my words.

Oh, look there's a banana.
Daddy, can I please?
I'm gonna scream.
Then you'll get mean
and say I made a scene.

Thank you so much, Daddy,
for peeling this for me.
Now pass me that tomato,
and I'll finally let you be.

Children's Poem

Kittens Need Space

Kittens need space,
but I wish it weren't true.
We just brought you home,
and now all I want to do. . .

But, Kitten, is that right,
can't I carry you around?
Mom says listen when
you struggle to get down.

I want you to love me.
And don't know what to do.
Kittens need space,
but I wish it weren't true.

The Show

The Show

I missed the show.
I couldn't go.
Whose fault it is,
I do not know.

I was on my bike,
but got a flat.
I began to run—
imagine that!

I was almost there
when I lost my shoe.
Now what's left for me to do?

A truck sped by.
I leapt in back.
It began to rain—
so much for that!

Now it's time for the show to start.
I tried to make it with all my heart.

But you were there,
so take it slow:
Tell me all,
go blow-by-blow.

Poem

My Room

I don't want to clean my room.
I want to make a snack—
some toast with jam,
an ice-cold plum,
and don't forget my nap.

I don't want to clean my room.
I want to write a poem.
Or ride my bike out to the lake,
or just be left alone.

I don't want to clean my room.
Who says that it's a mess?
A heap of clothes sits on my bed—
to that I will confess.

I don't want to clean my room.
But it's hard to find a path.
To walk around this cluttered ground,
feels like I'm doing math.

So I don't want to clean my room.
But let me pick that up—
and clear this off
and wipe those down.
OK, that seems enough.

No, I don't want to clean my room.
But it looks as if I did.
It's almost done,
and it was kinda fun.
You know I love to kid.

Because when my room is clean,
when everything's just so,
I feel at ease—
Hey, look, my keys!—
no matter where I go.