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

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

"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. “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 Sam Swope is the author of The Araboolies of Liberty Street , Gotta Go! Gotta Go! and I Am a Pencil . He lives in New York City. I Am a Pencil A Teacher, His Kids, and Their World of Stories By Sam Swope Owl Books (NY) Copyright © 2005 Sam Swope All right reserved. ISBN: 9780805078510 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 b