being a garage. But Sweet-Ho had explained to me, when I was biting on my pencil eraser and complaining about how hard the
writing was, that "home" doesn't necessarily mean "place". It means feelings, Sweet-Ho said, about family. Realizing that made it easier for me to write those two pages.
Now Mrs. Hindler handed all the compositions back, but they didn't have any grades on them, not even the usual comments about neatness and spelling.
"I want you each to choose ten words that you've used in these compositions," Mrs. Hindler said, "and change them, using your thesaurus. See if you can make your writing more powerful, more colorful, more interesting."
Of course lots of kids, mostly boys, felt compelled to call out dumb stuff. Sometimes I wonder how Mrs. Hindler manages to keep her patience.
"Can we change 'and'?" yelled Norman Cox, the idiot.
Albert Washington raised his hand and asked, "What if nothing needs changing? What if it's just right the way we wrote it?" Everybody laughed, even Mrs. Hindler. Albert Washington is this black kid with glasses, and he always has the highest marks in the class. He's the youngest one in sixth grade, too, because he skipped second and fourth both. Albert Washington could read when he was three years old.
"You give it a try, Albert," Mrs. Hindler said. "If you can't make it better, then make it
different,
at least."
"Can we change the same word twice?" asked Parker Condon, kind of shy. He didn't mean it to be rude or silly. Parker Condon always got all nervous,
trying to do things absolutely right. His father got powerfully upset if he didn't get all A's.
"I'm going to let you each use your own judgment," Mrs. Hindler said. "Maybe you'll find it a challenge to change the same word more than once, or maybe not."
Parker Condon started right in fidgeting. One thing I've observed is that people whose parents want them to get all A's all the time get nervous and fidgety if they have to use their own judgment about stuff. Because they worry that their own judgment might be a B instead of an A.
Other people asked questions, some rude and some not, but I quit listening. I read my own composition again, to myself.
MY HOME
My home has a lot of stuff in it that I like. It has: a dictionary which is mine alone; patchwork quilts made by my grandmother, who is dead, on the beds; a cookie jar shaped like a fat bear whose head comes off and that is the lid; a pillow filled with pine needles that make it smell good, bought at the church fair last winter; a toaster which makes your face look fat and odd if you look into the side of it; and a jar of pale blue glass which sits on the table and holds flowers all summer long.
My best friend can come there any time she wants, without even knocking, and she is always welcome.
At night, in my home, you can listen in the dark and hear stuff like doves, tree frogs, wind, or rain. That is all outside stuff. But there is inside stuff, too. Sometimes at night, after I am in bed, I can hear my mother, whose name is Sweet Hosanna, singing. She sings in a low voice, so as not to disturb me if I'm sleeping, and she sings hymns that she learned in her childhood, from her own mother.
All of those things combined give my home the good feelings that it has. Feelings are the most important thing in a home.
In the evening, after supper, in the Bigelows' kitchen, I read it again to myself and underlined in pencil the ten words I wanted to change. Veronica sat across from me and did hers at the same time.
Dead, I underlined. Smell. Good. Fat. Glass. Friend. Welcome. Dark. Disturb. Important.
Then I got out my thesaurus and began to work. My composition, when I finally finished, read like this:
MY HOME
My home has a lot of stuff in it that I like. It has: a dictionary which is mine alone; patchwork quilts made by my grandmother, who is dead (LIFELESS), on the beds; a cookie jar shaped like a fat bear whose head comes off and that is the lid; a pillow filled with
writing was, that "home" doesn't necessarily mean "place". It means feelings, Sweet-Ho said, about family. Realizing that made it easier for me to write those two pages.
Now Mrs. Hindler handed all the compositions back, but they didn't have any grades on them, not even the usual comments about neatness and spelling.
"I want you each to choose ten words that you've used in these compositions," Mrs. Hindler said, "and change them, using your thesaurus. See if you can make your writing more powerful, more colorful, more interesting."
Of course lots of kids, mostly boys, felt compelled to call out dumb stuff. Sometimes I wonder how Mrs. Hindler manages to keep her patience.
"Can we change 'and'?" yelled Norman Cox, the idiot.
Albert Washington raised his hand and asked, "What if nothing needs changing? What if it's just right the way we wrote it?" Everybody laughed, even Mrs. Hindler. Albert Washington is this black kid with glasses, and he always has the highest marks in the class. He's the youngest one in sixth grade, too, because he skipped second and fourth both. Albert Washington could read when he was three years old.
"You give it a try, Albert," Mrs. Hindler said. "If you can't make it better, then make it
different,
at least."
"Can we change the same word twice?" asked Parker Condon, kind of shy. He didn't mean it to be rude or silly. Parker Condon always got all nervous,
trying to do things absolutely right. His father got powerfully upset if he didn't get all A's.
"I'm going to let you each use your own judgment," Mrs. Hindler said. "Maybe you'll find it a challenge to change the same word more than once, or maybe not."
Parker Condon started right in fidgeting. One thing I've observed is that people whose parents want them to get all A's all the time get nervous and fidgety if they have to use their own judgment about stuff. Because they worry that their own judgment might be a B instead of an A.
Other people asked questions, some rude and some not, but I quit listening. I read my own composition again, to myself.
MY HOME
My home has a lot of stuff in it that I like. It has: a dictionary which is mine alone; patchwork quilts made by my grandmother, who is dead, on the beds; a cookie jar shaped like a fat bear whose head comes off and that is the lid; a pillow filled with pine needles that make it smell good, bought at the church fair last winter; a toaster which makes your face look fat and odd if you look into the side of it; and a jar of pale blue glass which sits on the table and holds flowers all summer long.
My best friend can come there any time she wants, without even knocking, and she is always welcome.
At night, in my home, you can listen in the dark and hear stuff like doves, tree frogs, wind, or rain. That is all outside stuff. But there is inside stuff, too. Sometimes at night, after I am in bed, I can hear my mother, whose name is Sweet Hosanna, singing. She sings in a low voice, so as not to disturb me if I'm sleeping, and she sings hymns that she learned in her childhood, from her own mother.
All of those things combined give my home the good feelings that it has. Feelings are the most important thing in a home.
In the evening, after supper, in the Bigelows' kitchen, I read it again to myself and underlined in pencil the ten words I wanted to change. Veronica sat across from me and did hers at the same time.
Dead, I underlined. Smell. Good. Fat. Glass. Friend. Welcome. Dark. Disturb. Important.
Then I got out my thesaurus and began to work. My composition, when I finally finished, read like this:
MY HOME
My home has a lot of stuff in it that I like. It has: a dictionary which is mine alone; patchwork quilts made by my grandmother, who is dead (LIFELESS), on the beds; a cookie jar shaped like a fat bear whose head comes off and that is the lid; a pillow filled with
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