STORIES OF A TEENAGE FIELD TRIP
I've started a new tradition of bringing my senior Creative Writers on a field trip. A semester class, this allows me one field trip per semester. Last semester I mistakenly took them on a service field trip where we brought books, clothing and toys for children living in poverty. We then packaged all these donations so they could be delivered to children. Shame on me. As a result, I had the book thrown at me when I attempted to take them on a second field trip to the American Writer's Museum. I was denied. Policy prohibits teachers from taking the same class on more than one field trip.
Can you hear the DENIED stamp banging down on my paperwork?
This semester I knew better and planned ahead for our field trip to the American Writer's Museum. Today we boarded the school bus and headed for Michigan Avenue. I had Mrs. Johnson, Erika, my partner in crime, to help make sure I didn't leave anyone on the lake front. And, I needed someone to move the cones in the parking lot.
Any field trip begins with taking attendance on the bus.
"Adam?"
"Yo."
"Morgan?"
"Right here."
"Lily?"
"Lily?'
"She's back there," someone informs. Then someone nudges her to remove her earbuds so she can reply. "Oh, wait. What? Oh. Um, yeah. Here."
That was about it. Three were listening to me, which isn't bad. I then had to wait for the other 37 to remove their earbuds so they can hear me say their name.
OK. Mrs. Johnson delivered attendance and we were ready to storm the city.
The ride was smoother than usual, but I had my underwire bra secured just in case. Often times the leather of the seats is threadbare, and all there is between your ass and Chicago potholes are the springs. I didn't even hit my head on the roof. Smooth sailing. Mrs. Johnson and I discussed our plans for the research project as we passed one street after another, and before you knew it we were at 180 N. Michigan Avenue: The American Writers Museum.
"Oh, My God. Is that a Nutella store?" someone gasps.
Yes, directly across the street is a Nutella cafe. I'm not a huge fan of Nutella, but I know FO SHO that I am going to need a coffee at some point on this field trip. I store this tidbit in my brain when our docent, an Oak Lawn High School graduate, is happily waiting for us outside. He directs us inside, where another docent directs us to the stairs, where we ascend to another docent who ushers us to the holding area.
Our introduction highlights all parts of the museum; even though I have been here before I am giddy with excitement. I still react, "That's right!" when we hear that we can see Frederick Douglass' original quill pen. We will see the braille typewriter Helen Keller used. We can use headsets to hear poems read by original poets. We can interactively fill-in-the-blanks for mystery stories, and we can even compete while doing so. And the special exhibit is the Immigrant Experience; I feel like I am three years old and about to be set free into a Chucke Cheese. Except this time I won't be disappointed with cheap plastic toys and a case of impetigo. I am desperately seeking inspiration for new ideas in my classroom and commitment to my own writing.
As the students disperse, I walk over to watch them fight for spots at the most popular station: old typewriters where the kids can write their own stories and poems. Old electric typewriters and Coronas are lined up for the museum patrons. You can pin your pieces on the wall for the public or take them with you. The kids are having a blast.
Erika jokes, "Can you imagine how busy we could keep them with a rotary phone?"
The docent Christopher has to advise them through the process.
"You have to strike harder, like a piano," he says as a student complains that the ink isn't dark enough.
"Hit Return when you are finished with a line." Blank stare. "Hit Return." "HIT. RE-TURN." The student has no idea what to do when he has finished a line. Christopher points to the Return button.
I add, "Can you imagine writing an entire novel on one of these? It's much different than a computer, eh?" They look at me with a face of "no way could I do that."
Christopher shares some cool tidbits. "Just like Sandra Cisneros, Lady Ga Ga writes all her lyrics on a typewriter." I go bananas. I don't think I could name one Lady Ga Ga song other than Poker Face, but for some reason I absolutely love this lil fact.
Christopher questions, "Have you read the poetry of e.e. cummings yet?"
Silence.
Guess what we're doing on Monday? e.e. cummings it is.
The tour continues, and I tell the kids they can do what they want. These are seventeen and eighteen year olds, so a self-directed tour is acceptable on a one-floor museum. Some grab the mini clipboards and pamphlets available to assist them with the tour while others wander off staring at their phones. It is not long before they are taking pictures and engaging in the multitude of interactive writing exercises around the museum. Erika even caught a video of Oz reading The Very Hungry Caterpillar to a group of kids sitting on the floor in the children's exhibit. Sublime.
One student is aimlessly walking by himself, so I ask him to go to the gift shop with me and be my chaperone. I told him to prevent me from spending hundreds of dollars.
We browse the mugs, bookmarks, buttons, books, magnets, and T-shirts. He said, "Maybe I should get my mom a T-shirt."
"Does your mom like to read?" I ask.
"Um, yeah. She reads. Her favorite is Fifty Shades of Grey. She loves that book. And she loves watching the movie."
I divert him to the magnetic poetry kits. Phew.
Continuing through the museum, I hear lots of laughter and many "No way, Bro!" exchanges. I snap more pictures and then make my way to the special exhibit on the Immigrant Experience.
Mind blowing. I love listening to authors' writing processes and this exhibit had plenty to listen to. There was a section about duality, a section about what it means to be an American, a section about community. Then my eye was drawn to a book titled Taco U.S.A. Did someone say tacos? I'll buy it.
Finally, I make my way to the timeline in American writing. Cubes with quotes, bios, pictures, Harlem Renaissance music, Roger Ebert reviews, Emily Post etiquette, and gobs of information about writer's lives fill the walls. I had to find Ezra Pound, for Bill and I have often talked about him. He's always in the Sunday crossword and many writers credit him with being an important influence. I also heard he was an asshole, so I find his spot and read his blurb. Yep. There it is. William Carlos Williams said he was an asshole. Maybe more eloquently, but he said it.
There are cubes about food writing, and I am bending down to smell the cube (as instructed) and as I murmur, "Nasty - is that garlic or onions?" a docent gently reminds me that our field trip has come to a close. In other words, beat it. We have another field trip coming in.
Time for lunch!
One group is going to walk the twenty minutes to Harold's Chicken. Another group will go to Panera. Others will seek ramen noodles in Macy's somewhere. Erika and I decide on Elephant & Castle.
We walk over and ask if we can sit by the fire. We are downright ecstatic. We cannot believe we are out in a restaurant in the middle of the day, downtown, on a Friday. Someone pinch us.
Dipping her grilled cheese in the tomato soup, Erika blissfully ponders, "Can you imagine being able to eat in a restaurant during the work day?"
"You mean like normal people? Not like teachers? Girl, you're crazy," I reply.
She laughs. I question, "Have you ever been in Elephant & Castle and not ordered a beer?"
"Definitely not."
After paying the check we mosey over to the Nutella cafe to complete our day with dessert. Upon entering we spy a group indulging in nutella crepes. They greet us with sweet smiles.
Erika and I browse the selections. Not only do I not need a nutella croissant or hemp seed pudding, but I think it would ruin the rest of my night. We opt for hot chocolates.
As we walk across Michigan Avenue, I hear, "MRS. JEPSEN! MRS. JEPSEN! MRS. JEPSEN!"
Erika and I stop, in the middle of Michigan Avenue, and look around. We finally spot Mohammed laughing and pointing to a bunch of kids hiding behind a marble ledge. We react and laugh back, just before being run down by a taxi.
Back on the bus, it's time to head back to the Lawn.
"Mia?"
"Here."
"Terrence?"
"Here."
"Thanks, Mrs. Jepsen! That was fun!"
And the weekend begins.
Can you hear the DENIED stamp banging down on my paperwork?
This semester I knew better and planned ahead for our field trip to the American Writer's Museum. Today we boarded the school bus and headed for Michigan Avenue. I had Mrs. Johnson, Erika, my partner in crime, to help make sure I didn't leave anyone on the lake front. And, I needed someone to move the cones in the parking lot.
Any field trip begins with taking attendance on the bus.
"Adam?"
"Yo."
"Morgan?"
"Right here."
"Lily?"
"Lily?'
"She's back there," someone informs. Then someone nudges her to remove her earbuds so she can reply. "Oh, wait. What? Oh. Um, yeah. Here."
That was about it. Three were listening to me, which isn't bad. I then had to wait for the other 37 to remove their earbuds so they can hear me say their name.
OK. Mrs. Johnson delivered attendance and we were ready to storm the city.
The ride was smoother than usual, but I had my underwire bra secured just in case. Often times the leather of the seats is threadbare, and all there is between your ass and Chicago potholes are the springs. I didn't even hit my head on the roof. Smooth sailing. Mrs. Johnson and I discussed our plans for the research project as we passed one street after another, and before you knew it we were at 180 N. Michigan Avenue: The American Writers Museum.
"Oh, My God. Is that a Nutella store?" someone gasps.
Yes, directly across the street is a Nutella cafe. I'm not a huge fan of Nutella, but I know FO SHO that I am going to need a coffee at some point on this field trip. I store this tidbit in my brain when our docent, an Oak Lawn High School graduate, is happily waiting for us outside. He directs us inside, where another docent directs us to the stairs, where we ascend to another docent who ushers us to the holding area.
Our introduction highlights all parts of the museum; even though I have been here before I am giddy with excitement. I still react, "That's right!" when we hear that we can see Frederick Douglass' original quill pen. We will see the braille typewriter Helen Keller used. We can use headsets to hear poems read by original poets. We can interactively fill-in-the-blanks for mystery stories, and we can even compete while doing so. And the special exhibit is the Immigrant Experience; I feel like I am three years old and about to be set free into a Chucke Cheese. Except this time I won't be disappointed with cheap plastic toys and a case of impetigo. I am desperately seeking inspiration for new ideas in my classroom and commitment to my own writing.
As the students disperse, I walk over to watch them fight for spots at the most popular station: old typewriters where the kids can write their own stories and poems. Old electric typewriters and Coronas are lined up for the museum patrons. You can pin your pieces on the wall for the public or take them with you. The kids are having a blast.
Erika jokes, "Can you imagine how busy we could keep them with a rotary phone?"
The docent Christopher has to advise them through the process.
"You have to strike harder, like a piano," he says as a student complains that the ink isn't dark enough.
"Hit Return when you are finished with a line." Blank stare. "Hit Return." "HIT. RE-TURN." The student has no idea what to do when he has finished a line. Christopher points to the Return button.
I add, "Can you imagine writing an entire novel on one of these? It's much different than a computer, eh?" They look at me with a face of "no way could I do that."
Christopher shares some cool tidbits. "Just like Sandra Cisneros, Lady Ga Ga writes all her lyrics on a typewriter." I go bananas. I don't think I could name one Lady Ga Ga song other than Poker Face, but for some reason I absolutely love this lil fact.
Christopher questions, "Have you read the poetry of e.e. cummings yet?"
Silence.
Guess what we're doing on Monday? e.e. cummings it is.
The tour continues, and I tell the kids they can do what they want. These are seventeen and eighteen year olds, so a self-directed tour is acceptable on a one-floor museum. Some grab the mini clipboards and pamphlets available to assist them with the tour while others wander off staring at their phones. It is not long before they are taking pictures and engaging in the multitude of interactive writing exercises around the museum. Erika even caught a video of Oz reading The Very Hungry Caterpillar to a group of kids sitting on the floor in the children's exhibit. Sublime.
One student is aimlessly walking by himself, so I ask him to go to the gift shop with me and be my chaperone. I told him to prevent me from spending hundreds of dollars.
We browse the mugs, bookmarks, buttons, books, magnets, and T-shirts. He said, "Maybe I should get my mom a T-shirt."
"Does your mom like to read?" I ask.
"Um, yeah. She reads. Her favorite is Fifty Shades of Grey. She loves that book. And she loves watching the movie."
I divert him to the magnetic poetry kits. Phew.
Continuing through the museum, I hear lots of laughter and many "No way, Bro!" exchanges. I snap more pictures and then make my way to the special exhibit on the Immigrant Experience.
Mind blowing. I love listening to authors' writing processes and this exhibit had plenty to listen to. There was a section about duality, a section about what it means to be an American, a section about community. Then my eye was drawn to a book titled Taco U.S.A. Did someone say tacos? I'll buy it.
Finally, I make my way to the timeline in American writing. Cubes with quotes, bios, pictures, Harlem Renaissance music, Roger Ebert reviews, Emily Post etiquette, and gobs of information about writer's lives fill the walls. I had to find Ezra Pound, for Bill and I have often talked about him. He's always in the Sunday crossword and many writers credit him with being an important influence. I also heard he was an asshole, so I find his spot and read his blurb. Yep. There it is. William Carlos Williams said he was an asshole. Maybe more eloquently, but he said it.
There are cubes about food writing, and I am bending down to smell the cube (as instructed) and as I murmur, "Nasty - is that garlic or onions?" a docent gently reminds me that our field trip has come to a close. In other words, beat it. We have another field trip coming in.
Time for lunch!
One group is going to walk the twenty minutes to Harold's Chicken. Another group will go to Panera. Others will seek ramen noodles in Macy's somewhere. Erika and I decide on Elephant & Castle.
We walk over and ask if we can sit by the fire. We are downright ecstatic. We cannot believe we are out in a restaurant in the middle of the day, downtown, on a Friday. Someone pinch us.
Dipping her grilled cheese in the tomato soup, Erika blissfully ponders, "Can you imagine being able to eat in a restaurant during the work day?"
"You mean like normal people? Not like teachers? Girl, you're crazy," I reply.
She laughs. I question, "Have you ever been in Elephant & Castle and not ordered a beer?"
"Definitely not."
After paying the check we mosey over to the Nutella cafe to complete our day with dessert. Upon entering we spy a group indulging in nutella crepes. They greet us with sweet smiles.
Erika and I browse the selections. Not only do I not need a nutella croissant or hemp seed pudding, but I think it would ruin the rest of my night. We opt for hot chocolates.
As we walk across Michigan Avenue, I hear, "MRS. JEPSEN! MRS. JEPSEN! MRS. JEPSEN!"
Erika and I stop, in the middle of Michigan Avenue, and look around. We finally spot Mohammed laughing and pointing to a bunch of kids hiding behind a marble ledge. We react and laugh back, just before being run down by a taxi.
Back on the bus, it's time to head back to the Lawn.
"Mia?"
"Here."
"Terrence?"
"Here."
"Thanks, Mrs. Jepsen! That was fun!"
And the weekend begins.
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