I Am a Pencil: A Teacher, His Kids, and Their World of Stories

( 7 )

Overview

"Swope's marvelous, moving book revives the teaching memoir . . . And takes it to new realms of tenderness, insight and humanity." -Phillip Lopate

In 1995, writer Sam Swope gave a workshop to a third-grade class in a Queens school bursting at the seams with kids from around the world. So enchanted was he with his twenty-eight students that he "adopted" the class for three years, teaching them to write stories and poems. I Am a Pencil is the story of his years with this very ...

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Overview

"Swope's marvelous, moving book revives the teaching memoir . . . And takes it to new realms of tenderness, insight and humanity." -Phillip Lopate

In 1995, writer Sam Swope gave a workshop to a third-grade class in a Queens school bursting at the seams with kids from around the world. So enchanted was he with his twenty-eight students that he "adopted" the class for three years, teaching them to write stories and poems. I Am a Pencil is the story of his years with this very special group of students. It is as funny, warm, heartbreaking, and hopeful as the children themselves.

Swope follows his colorful troop of resilient writers from grades three to five, coaxing out their stories, watching talents blossom, explode, and sometimes fizzle. We meet Cindy (whose mom was a Taoist priestess), Brian (who cannot seem to tell the truth), and Lourdes (a wacky Dominican chatterbox). Preparing his students for a world of adult dangers, Swope is astonished by their courage, their humanity, and most of all, their strength. I Am a Pencil is a book about the power and magic of imagination, providing a unique window on the immigrant experience as seen through the lives of children.

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Editorial Reviews

From the Publisher
Praise for I Am a Pencil:

"If only Swope's book were a lesson plan we could follow."

-Los Angeles Times Book Review

"It's really hard to communicate the sheer pleasure in teaching, and really connecting with, students like the ones Swope describes in such rich and generous detail. Is there a book that more convincingly demonstrates that any students, anywhere, from any backgrounds or surmounting any obstacles, can be led to love poetry, to read like madmen, to write compulsively and be open to the possibilities of the word on the page? I Am a Pencil should be read by anyone who wants to find inspiration in today's students, teachers and the Sam Swopes that enhance the lives of both."-Dave Eggers, author of A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius

"How I want to be in Mr. Swope's class, where words are gift-wrapped and the worst thing you can be is boring. Throughout the story of three captivating years, it becomes very clear what Swope and his students have in common: Their writing is powerful, beautiful, original and sweet."-Linda Perlstein, author of Not Much, Just Chillin'

"A magical journey. Sam Swope clearly has a gift for inspiring in others the make-believe, and so it's a treat to watch as he taps the imaginings of his immigrant students, and in doing so discover the realities of their newfound lives here."-Alex Kotlowitz, Pulitzer-prize winning author of There Are No Children Here

Publishers Weekly
Children's book writer Swope (The Araboolies of Liberty Street, etc.) was in a slump. And what better way to liven things up than by accepting an offer to teach a 10-day writing workshop to a class of third-graders in Queens, New York City, a prime destination for immigrants to the U.S. and one of the world's most ethnically diverse areas? Swope became so intrigued by the children, he devoted himself for the next three years to teaching them, unpaid. This delightful, sometimes heartbreaking work relates how, as Swope taught, his writing lessons extended into story-writing collaborations with his students, lessons in how to draw a tree and assignments to play in the snow and write about it. Swope's affection for the kids involved him deeply in their lives, which were often ridden with familial stress. His teaching (and writing) approach is seriously playful; he bestows on his students the power of words (as when Miguel, infuriated by his home life, uses the word "stalwart" to keep himself from giving up during troubled times). Swope shows how children flourish when their imaginations are nurtured and they are challenged to find inner discipline and write what they see as truth. He also reveals the painful seesaw of hope and limitations in their lives. Agent, Gail Hochman. (Aug. 3) Copyright 2004 Reed Business Information.
Children's Literature
Swope, a writer with a wacky imagination, was asked by Teachers & Writers Collaborative to run a ten-day workshop with a group of third graders in Queens. He fell in love with this class of children from twenty-one countries who spoke eleven languages, and continued to collaborate on stories with them for three years. This man who had pared his life down to "the essentials: a small Manhattan rental, no kids, no car, not even a TV," suddenly finds himself sharing his sense of wonder with children. His resulting memoir is a record of their stories and his journey into the art, frustrations, and magic of teaching children the pleasures and pitfalls of writing. One of the strengths of this book is Swope's insightful, well-written discoveries about writing, teaching, children and life. The other is his honesty. Transcribed conversations reveal much and it is not always pretty. It is painful to read about an intriguing child who suddenly tells him that she hates him, or that he's missed clues to really understanding a student. Swope is dedicated to his students. He tries to understand their families and even helps them find middle schools that will support their learning. He gives them so much and yet, it is clear that he's also receiving much from them. This is a man who will never forget these children. Swope understands the art and spirit of teaching and thrives watching their thoughts and imagination expand and unfold. 2004, Holt, Ages Adult.
—Susie Wilde
Library Journal
When Swope (Jack and the Seven Deadly Giants) was asked to present a ten-day writing workshop to a third-grade class in Queens, NY, little did he know that he would spend the next three years following these children through school. They were mostly immigrant children, with a wide variety of backgrounds and problems. Swope's immediate connection to the kids gave him an idea: he would help them learn, get to know more about their lives and their dreams, and watch them grow as both people and writers. With the permission of the school, Swope was given a small storage closet to use as an office and set himself up as the writing teacher. His book details his experiences while also presenting selected stories and poems. It doesn't provide any earthshaking new educational theories but instead draws readers into the true-life stories of these children. It will appeal to both educators and the general public. Recommended for most libraries. Terry Christner, Hutchinson P.L., KS Copyright 2004 Reed Business Information.
Kirkus Reviews
Children's author Swope (The Krazees, 1997, etc.) chronicles his three years conducting writing workshops with a group of elementary-school students in Queens. Although this is a throwback to those teaching memoirs that proliferated in the 1960s and '70s by John Holt, Herbert Kohl, et al., the author seems unaware of these ancestors in his generally blithe and often self-flattering report from the front lines of American urban education. After falling in love with the third-graders in what was supposed to be a ten-day workshop and continuing to work with them through fifth grade, Swope does his best to battle the organizational demons that rule his new world: bureaucracy, burnt-out or incompetent teachers, parents who seem to have no aspirations for their children, and youngsters who cannot make themselves behave in ways beneficial to them. Following his first year with a classroom teacher he really admired, he found himself working with colleagues he did not completely respect; the kids' fourth-grade teacher in particular comes off as dim and dysfunctional. (The author has changed all the students' and teachers' names.) Swope had great advantages denied to classroom teachers: he met privately with individuals and small groups; he worked with a principal who supported his efforts to take students on frequent field trips; he was free to create nontraditional projects that caught the youngsters' attention and earned their affection. (Two long-term activities on islands and trees were especially engaging.) The novice instructor became deeply involved in his students' lives. He interviewed and visited their parents, helped the kids apply to magnet middle schools, talked with them on thephone, discussed with them the intimacies of their lives. Some produced good writing; others managed only drivel. Swope's tale is occasionally vitiated by his need to tell us how wonderful he is when a simple recounting of his deeds would have sufficed. A dedicated teacher sends a valentine to some charming students-and to himself.
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780805078510
  • Publisher: Holt, Henry & Company, Inc.
  • Publication date: 7/1/2005
  • Edition description: Reprint
  • Pages: 320
  • Sales rank: 527,586
  • Product dimensions: 5.40 (w) x 8.20 (h) x 0.60 (d)

Meet the Author

Sam Swope is the author of several very well-received children's books, including The Araboolies of Liberty Street, The Krazees, and Gotta Go! Gotta Go!, and of the soon-to-be published Jack and the Seven Deadly Giants. He lives in New York City.

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First Chapter

I Am a Pencil

A Teacher, His Kids, and Their World of Stories
By SAM SWOPE

HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY

Copyright © 2004 Sam Swope
All right reserved.

ISBN: 0-8050-7334-5


Chapter One

GRADE THREE

The Box Project * * *

Becoming Mr. Swope

I was a writer, children's books mostly, funny stories in which anything could happen. Every morning I got up at six, fed Mike, my cat, and got to work. I spent a lot of time inside my head with giants and ogres, fairies and talking animals, and when I went out into the city, I was a danger, sometimes so lost in thought I'd cross the street against the light, only snapping to at the blare of a horn. To free my life for writing, I'd pared it down to the essentials: a small Manhattan rental, no kids, no car, not even a TV. I'm not a famous writer now and wasn't then, nor had I published much-nothing in some time. Still, I kept going through the motions, throwing words at the computer, screen after screen of promising beginnings, bits of characters, half thoughts, every day more words; but they never added up to anything, no book had taken shape in much too long, and I had grown discouraged. When Teachers & Writers Collaborative asked me to run a ten-day writing workshop with a third-grade class, I was grateful for the change. And so it was one bright October morning I set out for Queens. The rush-hour subway was crowded, nine-to-fivers cheek by jowl, waiting to be delivered to their particular station of hell. I closed my eyes, blacked out the world, unable to relax until we reached Grand Central, the last stop before Queens, at which point every passenger but me got off. Delighted to be alone, I took a seat, crossed my legs, and opened my copy of the New York Times. The train lurched and slowly rumbled into the tunnel under the East River, where it gradually picked up speed, climbed upward, and flashed into the light of day (a blinding change but welcome), then rattled down the elevated tracks that run through Queens.

Though visible behind me, just across the river, the towers of Manhattan seemed a world away. Queens is different, its buildings only a few stories high, and from the train I had a view both intimate and vast, with fleeting glimpses into windows just across the way, and beyond, a panorama of tarred and shingled rooftops, chimneys, antennae, trees, satellite dishes, phone poles, car washes, small factories, and billboards. Planes flew low not far off, on their way into La Guardia. I reached my stop, got off the train, and clanked down the metal staircase to the street. As soon as I was in the noisy chaos underneath the El, I felt like a tourist. I'd never seen a place like this, so foreign yet without a single ethnic identity, not a Chinatown or a Little Italy but an Immigrant World, a place where everything was all tossed in together: Colombian hairdressers, Indian spice shops, Korean wedding stores, Italian bakeries, storefront mosques, Dominican lawyers, Pakistani candy shops, Chinese green markets, Irish pubs, Mexican groceries, Hindu temples, English-language schools, and restaurants of every description. It was exotic, with a Third World flavor, but nothing felt permanent, as if this were a way station, like the intergalactic bar in Star Wars, a place where travelers stop en route to somewhere else. The blocks surrounding the school were residential, frame houses from the 1920s and brick apartment buildings from the 1950s-no hint from their exteriors what nationalities might live inside. It was a quiet, peaceful neighborhood, here and there a little front-yard garden, several good-sized trees. I didn't see a lot of litter. The school itself was the old-fashioned kind, a looming pile of brick and stone from 1910, back when schools were built to look impressive. I was early, in time to see the grown-ups bring their little ones to school. What a sight! Hand in hand they came from every direction: boys and girls with Cuban dads in baseball caps, bearded Sikhs in turbans, high-heeled Latinas with painted nails, Indonesian women covered in veils, Chinese grandmas in Mao jackets and sneakers, Hindus with red dots on their foreheads. It felt epic, all these immigrants, these hopeful parents who had somehow made their way to Queens and then sought out the school, the purpose of their journey, so that their kids could have a better life.

In children's stories, wanderers find safe haven-for Snow White, a cottage in the woods; for Dorothy, the Emerald City-and when I poked my head in Mrs. Duncan's classroom, I found mine. It seemed a world unto itself, bright with sun, a maple tree outside the window, a place both orderly and purposeful, with eight-year-olds of every color and each one so attentive to their teacher, a woman of nearly fifty and with eyes the color of the sea. She noticed me and smiled, gestured warmly, welcomed me inside. "You must be Mr. Swope," she said. That wasn't true. I wasn't Mr. Swope and never had been. I'd always been just Sam. Yet I made no objection, and so it was I was renamed. At a stroke, rechristened. In a way, reborn-although I didn't know that yet. "Class," said Mrs. Duncan, "this is the special guest I was telling you about. Mr. Swope is a real writer, but not just any kind of writer: he writes stories for children. And he's here to help you write stories, too." The class let out a cheer so loud I was a bit embarrassed, a bit ashamed, and a bit delighted.

"Hi, guys," I said. We gathered at the back of the room, the reading corner. The children sat at my feet while I sat on a chair, like Mother Goose. I read a picture book I'd written, The Araboolies of Liberty Street, about a fantastical family with skin of every color-orange, pink, green, and blue. This fun-loving clan travels from a faraway island to a place where difference and laughter are forbidden. I'd written the book never thinking one day I'd be reading it to real-life Araboolies, but here I was and there they were. When I finished, the children clapped, I blushed, and a boy at my knee said, "I have a question."

"Shoot." "Do you think I'm a boy or a girl?" I was taken aback, didn't know what to say. Wondering what trick he was up to, I stalled, took my time, studied him carefully. "Hmmmmm," I said. He was tall and wore jeans and a T-shirt. His glasses, tied around his neck with a shoelace, were so big they covered half his face. He had a wisp of a mustache, and his black hair was cut short, fuzzy as a baby bird's. I almost called his bluff and said he was a girl, but instead I played it safe and said, "I think you're a ... boy."

"No, I'm a girl." I looked in disbelief, but other kids assured me it was true, Fatma was a girl. "Everyone thinks I'm a boy," said Fatma with a shrug. I felt awful. Trying to repair the damage, I said, "That's just because your hair's so short and because you're so wonderfully tall ..." But my blather didn't fool Fatma. She had my number and turned away, her shoulder like a door shut in my face. When Mrs. Duncan told me later that Fatma was the most advanced writer in the class, it didn't surprise me. Lots of writers begin life as confused, manipulative, or self-destructive children, don't they? I hoped Fatma would forgive me and that we'd be friends. I wanted to welcome her, a fellow writer, to the club. I wanted to let her know that one day everything would be okay.

* * *

Mrs. Duncan

Mrs. Duncan lived in the Queens home she'd grown up in, sharing it with her husband, who was also a teacher, and their golden retriever. They had no children. She'd been teaching in the same school for twenty-six years and arrived each morning long before her students to get ready for the day. Like Mary Poppins, Mrs. Duncan ran a tight ship and liked things done spit-spot. Her students hung their coats in an orderly fashion, lined up for lunch according to height, and knew when it was their turn to wash the board or sweep the floor. She gave homework every night and expected the children to be in school every day, on time, prepared to give their very best: "Do I make myself clear? Everybody got that?" Complaining, talking out of turn, and cruelty were not allowed, end of story. "Excuses? I don't even want to hear about it." When her students behaved well, she smiled and gave them stickers, and when they were out of line, she'd summon them to the hallway and lecture them on the importance of doing their duty, living up to their responsibilities, and treating their classmates decently. "Sometimes I feel like such a nag," she said, but she got results, and parents begged her to transfer to the next grade and teach their children again. As far as the kids were concerned, though, the most important thing about Mrs. Duncan was that she was so much fun. "This is a special class," she told me. "Every one of them is smart, well-adjusted, and sweet. Every single one. That doesn't happen anymore."

* * *

Write a Story, Any Story

For my first assignment I said, "Write a story, any story you want. Just make it be your own, not one copied from TV or a book. Make it something unexpected. Surprise me. Have fun!" The kids were eager to please their writer. As they rushed to get out paper and pencils, Miguel raised his hand. He was tall, a bit overweight. There were darkish rings around his eyes, like a raccoon's.

"Um, Mr. Swope? Where do you get your ideas?" "Oh, gosh. That's a hard question. Mostly they just pop into my head from out of the blue." Miguel nodded thoughtfully, but he looked perplexed, so I tried a different tack and said, "Ideas are everywhere. You just have to look for them. Why, I bet you'd even find an idea on the floor if you looked carefully enough." Miguel glanced under his desk, then looked at me: Yeah, right. To prove my point, I showed a sudden interest in the area near his feet. "Hey, what's that?" I said, and made my way through the classroom as the other kids craned their necks, trying to see. When I reached Miguel's desk, I got on my hands and knees and peered into the crack between the floorboards. "Well, what do you know?" I said. "There's a teeny tiny family down there, and they're sitting on a teeny tiny sofa, watching a teeny tiny TV." Noelia joined me. She stuck her eyeball up against the crack and cried, "I see them, Mr. Swope! There's the teeny tiny family!" "See?" I said to Miguel. "Ideas are everywhere." "You can't see ideas."

"Oh, yeah? Then I guess you wouldn't mind if I looked in your ear."

Miguel's eyes popped wide. With a giggle, he shrugged okay, and I peered into his ear like a doctor. "Aha," I said. "Just as I thought. There is an idea inside that head of yours, and it's a doozie." I handed him his pencil and said, "You can do this. Everyone can do this. Just start writing. An idea will come. I promise." I stood beside him, waiting patiently. He squirmed for a moment, then said, "Can I write something, like, autobiographical?" I was impressed he knew this word and said, "That would be great." Miguel got to work. The room was quiet. Everyone was writing. I was amazed at myself. Where had this character called Mr. Swope come from? I hadn't planned him; he'd arrived full-blown, a jack-in-the-box surprise who was part Mister Rogers, part David Letterman, part me. I joined Mrs. Duncan at the back of the room. We stood together and watched the children write their stories, both of us moved by this simple, everyday miracle. "How did you do that?" she said. I hadn't done anything. She said, "I was always taught to have them map their stories out before they begin." "I've never been able to outline," I told her. "I've tried, but it's never worked for me. Most of my ideas come while I'm writing." "I was worried when you set them free like that, to write whatever they want. I was sure most of them would freeze up, not know where to begin." She studied her class for a moment, trying to figure this out, then decided it must be me and said, "You're a Pied Piper." I liked her calling me the piper, but if there was any magic going on, it was a magic that had more to do with books than me, the magic any published writer would bring into a classroom. Still, it was appealing to think there might be truth in what she said. Was it possible I had an undiscovered talent, a gift for inspiring kids to write? Miguel raced up to me, clutching his paper. "Mr. Swope, look at my autobiography!" He was so proud of himself. "Let me see," I said.

In the year 1987 a child was born. His birthday was December 25 and this child grew smart, strong and respectful. When he grew bigger he knew how to multiply. This kid was Miguel. He was born in Ecuador and had a lot of interest in writing, coloring, multiplying. Then one day he wanted to try something new. His cousins asked him Hey Junior. Want to play basketball? I said Sure but please try to call me Miguel. I'm not pushing you, but just try. We went to play basketball until Splash! One cousin fell in quicksand! He was drowning. Then the other fell in. I was the only one left. I couldn't just stand there and look at them drown. So I grabbed them and we washed our selfs. Then we headed to go play basketball. We played basketball for 7 days without coming home but we did buy drinks and food. Then we slept in the basketball stadium for 7 days.

"That's just the first chapter," Miguel explained. I told him he'd done a good job. I said I looked forward to reading more about Miguel. Then I asked him if he was really born on Christmas Day. He looked at me, confused, wondering why I'd ask such a thing. "You wrote here you were born on December twenty-fifth." Miguel read what he'd written. "Oh, that's a mistake," he said, and quickly got out his eraser. I wondered if I'd just learned something about Miguel. Had he made a Freudian slip? Did he subconsciously think of himself as Christ? No sooner did I have these thoughts than they were chased away when Aaron waved his story in my face. "Mr. Swope, is this right?" "What do you mean: Right? There is no right or wrong in stories." "Just read it, Mr. Swope!" Aaron was a tiny kid, the shortest in the class, with soft brown hair and laughing eyes. I liked his handwriting immediately. It was sloppy but passionate and expressive, and even though his punctuation was poor, his grammar bad, and his spelling worse, it wasn't hard to translate what he'd written:

THE SUMMER SANTA

Once upon a time not so long ago, one winter there was a mighty heat.

Continues...


Excerpted from I Am a Pencil by SAM SWOPE Copyright © 2004 by Sam Swope. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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Customer Reviews

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( 7 )
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Sort by: Showing all of 7 Customer Reviews
  • Anonymous

    Posted November 1, 2013

    Is this book good. Is this a good book

    Is this a good book

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted February 8, 2013

    Highly Recommended!

    A very inspiring book! A must read for any teacher!

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  • Anonymous

    Posted January 7, 2007

    Amazing!

    This book was an amazing Autobiography. A story of a teacher and his kids! Heartfelt! Buy this book! It will make you laugh, cry, burst into tears of Joy! The kids in this story were so inspiring, that I now write a new story,and poems every day! I try to write in My Nature journal and Night write every day. This story will cheer you up and Inspire you to express yourself

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  • Anonymous

    Posted August 15, 2005

    Heart Melting!!!

    Wow, this is a great book! It is memorable, tear bringing, and cute. The kid's stories with what the author thought of them was such a good idea. The melding of cultures was so awesome to read.The book really puts you into the teachers shoes. It inspires everybody to get up and write. This is a book for anyone who has a heart for kids or writing.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted August 19, 2005

    cute!

    I picked up this book on a lark because the title PIQUED my CURIOSITY.. Anyway, I'm so glad that I did, because it turned out to be one of my top reads this year! I really loved the way Sam Swope captured the children's innocence and their zest for life, a quality that all children have, even if they're backgrounds are different. Party Island and Dear Tree were great chapters, reeeeally cute.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted January 18, 2005

    A Must Read

    This is a must read for teachers, parents, and anyone who loves kids or writing or both! This is inspiring, heart-warming, and heart-breaking. As a teacher, I was feeling jealous of Mrs. Duncan for being there to witness all of this magic!

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  • Anonymous

    Posted May 15, 2011

    No text was provided for this review.

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