Teaching
Packet
ENG 300
Tiffani Green
Table of Contents
Poems
Section 1
“Dreams” by Langston Hughes
Reflection Activity: The Most Valuable Idea
“Dust Bowl Dance” by Mumford & Sons
Focusing Activity: Focus Poems
2nd-Draft Reading Activity: Paragraph Plug-Ins
“I Heard a Fly Buzz When I Died” by Emily Dickenson
1st-Draft Reading Activity: Turning Headings or Titles into Questions Prior to Reading
“If” by Rudyard Kipling
“Migrants” from Out of the Dust by Karen Hesse
Collaborative Activity: SOAPs
Metaphor Activity: Time Capsule
Short Stories
“The Chrysanthemums” by John Steinbeck
Focusing Activity: Web Searches
The Grapes of Wrath, Chapter One by John Steinbeck
1st-Draft Reading Activity: Twenty Questions
Section 2
The Grapes of Wrath, Chapter One by John Steinbeck (Continued)
2nd-Draft Reading Activity: Reading Symbols
Reflection Activity: Theme Notebooks
“The Jilting of Granny Weatherall” by Katherine Anne Porter
Metaphor Activity: Pencil, Eraser
“The Lottery” by Shirley Jackson
Collaborative Activity: Group “Exams”
“The Things They Carried” by Tim O’Brien
Current Events
Section 3
“Dad Plants Bug on Autistic Son to Confirm School Mistreatment” by Leigh
Remizowski
Focusing Activity: K-W-L-R Chart
Metaphor Activity: Square Peg, Round Hole
“What are Occupiers really fighting for?” by Maha Hosain Aziz
1st-Draft Reading Activity: Focus Groups
2nd-Draft Reading Activity: Flip Side Chart
Collaborative Activity: Mystery Envelopes
Reflection Activity: Author’s Purpose
Play
Section 4
The Merchant of Venice by William Shakespeare
Focusing Activity: Anticipation Guides
The Merchant of Venice by William Shakespeare (Continued)
1st-Draft Reading Activity: Character Charts
2nd-Draft Reading Activity: Multi-Layered Time Lines
Collaborative Activity: Trouble Slips
Metaphor Activity: Ingredients Listing
Reflection Activity: Three Degrees of…
Film
Section 5
The Grapes of Wrath (1940) directed by John Ford
Focusing Activity: Theme Spotlights
1st-Draft Reading Activity: Text Frame With Gaps
2nd-Draft Reading Activity: Literary Dominoes
Collaborative Activity: Conversation Log Exchange
Metaphor Activity: Iceburg
Reflection Activity: Theme Layers
Articles
Section 6
Works Cited
Section 7
Reflection Letter
Section 8
Poems
“Dreams” by Langston Hughes
“Dust Bowl Dance” by Mumford & Sons
“I Heard a Fly Buzz When I Died” by Emily Dickenson
“If” by Rudyard Kipling
“Migrants” from Out of the Dust by Karen Hesse
Dreams by Langston Hughes
Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.
Hold fast to dreams
For when dreams go
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow.
“Dust Bowl Dance” by Mumford & Sons
The young man stands on the edge of his porch,
The days were short and the father was gone,
There was no one in the town and no one in the field,
This dusty barren land had given all it could yield.
I've been kicked off my land at the age of sixteen,
And I have no idea where else my heart could have been,
I placed all my trust at the foot of this hill,
And now I am sure my heart can never be still,
So collect your courage and collect your horse,
And pray you never feel this same kind of remorse.
Seal my heart and break my pride,
I've nowhere to stand and now nowhere to hide,
Align my heart, my body, my mind,
To face what I've done and do my time.
Well you are my accuser, now look in my face,
Your opression reeks of your greed and disgrace,
So one man has and another has not,
How can you love what it is you have got,
When you took it all from the weak hands of the poor?
Liars and thieves you know not what is in store.
There will come a time I will look in your eye,
You will pray to the God that you always denied,
The I'll go out back and I'll get my gun,
I'll say, "You haven't met me, I am the only son".
Seal my heart and break my pride,
I've nowhere to stand and now nowhere to hide,
Align my heart, my body, my mind,
To face what I've done and do my time.
Seal my heart and break my pride,
I've nowhere to stand and now nowhere to hide,
Align my heart, my body, my mind,
To face what I've done and do my time.
Well yes sir, yes sir, yes it was me,
I know what I've done, cause I know what I've seen,
I went out back and I got my gun,
I said, "You haven't met me, I am the only son".
Focus Poems
“Dust Bowl Dance” by Mumford & Sons
Focus poems help prepare students to read a piece of literature. The poem selected must be
thematically related to the novel they will soon read. This warms them up to the ideas that will be
present in the novel, but is a less daunting assignment because it is much shorter. Focus Poems also help
to fill knowledge gaps before the students read the assigned book.
Rationale
I chose this activity specifically because “Dust Bowl Dance” is a song. I would first have the
students read the lyrics and have a short class discussion about them. I would then play the song for
them, and ask if their impression of the lyrics had changed. I selected “Dust Bowl Dance” because it was
inspired by The Grapes of Wrath. It captures the themes and emotions of the novel in a poignant way
that would be relatable to the students, and help draw them in to the novel.
Paragraph Plug-Ins
“Dust Bowl Dance” by Mumford & Sons
Paragraph Plug-Ins is a strategy that is used after reading a text the first time. Students
are given a paragraph about the text that contains blanks. The students must fill in the blanks to
the best of their knowledge.
Example Paragraph Plug-In for The Grapes of Wrath (Deeper Reading):
The Novel begins with an atmosphere of ___________. The men and women are feeling
several emotions, including __________ and __________. We’re also introduced to
__________, who has just been released from __________. As he hitches a ride back to his
childhood home, he becomes upset at a truck driver’s __________. We find out that he was in
prison for __________ years because of his crime, __________. Steinbeck’s use of diction in this
passage can best be described as __________.
Rationale
I selected this strategy for “Dust Bowl Dance”, because a lot of what goes on in a song is
in the subtext. It is not just the words that are sung, but also how they are sung and the pace of
the song. This strategy will help students answer surface level questions, as well as look deeper
beyond just the lyrics of the song. To answer the questions, most students must reread the
text, which helps them to gain a deeper understanding of what they are reading.
“I Heard a Fly Buzz When I Died” by Emily Dickenson
I heard a fly buzz when I died;
The stillness round my form
Was like the stillness in the air
Between the heaves of storm.
The eyes beside had wrung them dry,
And breaths were gathering sure
For that last onset, when the king
Be witnessed in his power.
I willed my keepsakes, signed away
What portion of me I
Could make assignable,-and then
There interposed a fly,
With blue, uncertain, stumbling buzz,
Between the light and me;
And then the windows failed, and then
I could not see to see.
Turning Headings or Titles into Questions Prior to
Reading
“I Heard a Fly Buzz When I Died” by Emily Dickenson
In this activity, students are required to come up with questions they may have about
the text based on the title. The students will then share some of their questions with the class,
and they will be written on the board. After we have read the poem, we will then as a class see
if any of their questions can be answered.
For example, some questions students could have based on the title “I Heard a Fly Buzz When I
Died” could include:






Who is the narrator of this story?
Why are they dying?
Why would it be important that they last thing they heard was a fly?
Is the fly symbolic for anything?
What is the poem actually about: the narrator’s death or the fly?
Why is it so quite that they can hear the fly buzz? Are they alone?
It is perfectly fine if not every question can be answered by the text. The point is the get
students critically thinking about the text before they even read it.
Rationale
I selected this strategy for this poem specifically because I had some questions about it
myself when I first heard the title. I want my students to know that it is okay to be confused or
have questions about what we are reading in class. This strategy would be a good way to not
only get them thinking about the text before they read it, but is also a good way to show my
students that I am there if they ever have questions.
“If” by Rudyard Kipling
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too:
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;
If you can dream---and not make dreams your master;
If you can think---and not make thoughts your aim,
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same:.
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build'em up with worn-out tools;
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings,
And never breathe a word about your loss:
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings---nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much:
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And---which is more---you'll be a Man, my son!
Short
Stories
The Chrysanthemums by John Steinbeck
The high gray-flannel fog of winter closed off the Salinas Valley from the sky and from all the rest of the world. On
every side it sat like a lid on the mountains and made of the great valley a closed pot. On the broad, level land floor
the gang plows bit deep and left the black earth shining like metal where the shares had cut. On the foothill
ranches across the Salinas 1~iver, the yellow stubble fields seemed to be bathed in pale cold sunshine, but there
was no sunshine in the valley now in December. The thick willow scrub along the river flamed with sharp and
positive yellow leaves.
It was a time of quiet and of waiting. The air was cold and tender. A light wind blew up from the southwest so
that the farmers were mildly hopeful of a good rain before long; but fog and rain did not go together.
Across the river, on Henry Allen's foothill ranch there was little work to be done, for the hay was cut and stored
and the orchards were plowed up to receive the rain deeply when it should come. The cattle on the higher slopes
were becoming shaggy and rough-coated.
Elisa Allen, working in her flower garden, looked down across the yard and saw Henry, her husband, talking to
two men in business suits. The three of them stood by the tractor shed, each man with one foot on the side of the
little Ford-son. They smoked cigarettes and studied the machine as they talked.
Elisa watched them for a moment and then went back to her work. She was thirty-five. Her face was lean and
strong and her eyes were as clear as water. Her figure looked blocked and heavy in her gardening costume, a
man's black hat pulled low down over her eyes, clod-hopper shoes, a figured print dress almost completely
covered by a big corduroy apron with four big pockets to hold the snips, the trowel and scratcher, the seeds and
the knife she worked with. She wore heavy leather gloves to protect her hands while she worked.
She was cutting down the old year's chrysanthemum stalks with a pair of short and powerful scissors. She looked
down toward the men by the tractor shed now and then. Her face was eager and mature and handsome; even her
work with the scissors was over-eager, over-powerful. The chrysanthemum stems seemed too small and easy for
her energy.
She brushed a cloud of hair out of her eyes with the back of her glove, and left a smudge of earth on her cheek in
doing it. Behind her stood the neat white farm house with red geraniums close-banked around it as high as the
windows. It was a hard-swept looking little house, with hard-polished windows, and a clean mud-mat on the front
steps.
Elisa cast another glance toward the tractor shed. The strangers were getting into their Ford coupe. She took off
a glove and put her strong fingers down into the forest of new green chrysanthemum sprouts that were growing
around the old roots. She spread the leaves and looked down among the close-growing stems. No aphids were
there, no sowbugs or snails or cutworms. Her terrier fingers destroyed such pests before they could get started.
Elisa started at the sound of her husband's voice. He had come near quietly, and he leaned over the wire fence
that protected her flower garden from cattle and dogs and chickens.
"At it again," he said. "You've got a strong new crop coming.
Elisa straightened her back and pulled on the gardening glove again. "Yes. They'll be strong this coming year." In
her tone and on her face there was a little smugness.
You've got a gift with things," Henry observed. "Some of those yellow chrysanthemums you had this year were
ten inches across. I wish you'd work out in the orchard and raise some apples that big."
Her eyes sharpened. "Maybe I could do it, too. I've a gift with things, all right. My mother had it. She could stick
anything in the ground and make it grow. She said it was having planters' hands that knew how to do it."
"Well, it sure works with flowers," he said. "Henry, who were those men you were talking to?"
"Why, sure, that's what I came to tell you. They were from the Western Meat Company. I sold those thirty head
of three-year-old steers. Got nearly my own price, too."
"Good," she said. "Good for you.
"And I thought," he continued, "I thought how it's Saturday afternoon, and we might go into Salinas for dinner at
a restaurant, and then to a picture show--to celebrate, you see."
"Good," she repeated. "Oh, yes. That will be good."
Henry put on his joking tone. "There's fights tonight. How'd you like to go to the fights?"
"Oh, no," she said breathlessly. "No, I wouldn't like fights."
"Just fooling, Elisa. We'll go to a movie. Let's see. It's two now. I'm going to take Scotty and bring down those
steers from the hill. It'll take us maybe two hours. We'll go in town about five and have dinner at the Cominos
Hotel. Like that?"
"Of course I'll like it. It's good to eat away from home."
"All right, then. I'll go get up a couple of horses."
She said, "I'll have plenty of time transplant some of these sets, I guess."
She heard her husband calling Scotty down by the barn. And a little later she saw the two men ride up the pale
yellow hillside in search of the steers.
There was a little square sandy bed kept for rooting the chrysanthemums. With her trowel she turned the soil
over and over, and smoothed it and patted it firm. Then she dug ten parallel trenches to receive the sets. Back at
the chrysanthemum bed she pulled out the little crisp shoots, trimmed off the leaves of each one with her scissors
and laid it on a small orderly pile.
A squeak of wheels and plod of hoofs came from the road. Elisa looked up. The country road ran along the dense
bank of willows and cotton-woods that bordered the river, and up this road came a curious vehicle, curiously
drawn. It was an old spring-wagon, with a round canvas top on it like the cover of a prairie schooner. It was drawn
by an old bay horse and a little grey-and-white burro. A big stubble-bearded man sat between the cover flaps and
drove the crawling team. Underneath the wagon, between the hind wheels, a lean and rangy mongrel dog walked
sedately. Words were painted on the canvas in clumsy, crooked letters. "Pots, pans, knives, sisors, lawn mores,
Fixed." Two rows of articles, and the triumphantly definitive "Fixed" below. The black paint had run down in little
sharp points beneath each letter.
Elisa, squatting on the ground, watched to see the crazy, loose-jointed wagon pass by. But it didn't pass. It
turned into the farm road in front of her house, crooked old wheels skirling and squeaking. The rangy dog darted
from between the wheels and ran ahead. Instantly the two ranch shepherds flew out at him. Then all three
stopped, and with stiff and quivering tails, with taut straight legs, with ambassadorial dignity, they slowly circled,
sniffing daintily. The caravan pulled up to Elisa's wire fence and stopped. Now the newcomer dog, feeling
outnumbered, lowered his tail and retired under the wagon with raised hackles and bared teeth.
The man on the wagon seat called out, "That's a bad dog in a fight when he gets started."
Elisa laughed. I see he is. How soon does he generally get started?"
The man caught up her laughter and echoed it heartily. "Sometimes not for weeks and weeks," he said. He
climbed stiffly down, over the wheel. The horse and the donkey drooped like unwatered flowers.
Elisa saw that he was a very big man. Although his hair and beard were graying, he did not look old. His worn
black suit was wrinkled and spotted with grease. The laughter had disappeared from his face and eyes the moment
his laughing voice ceased. His eyes were dark, and they were full of the brooding that gets in the eyes of teamsters
and of sailors. The calloused hands he rested on the wire fence were cracked, and every crack was a black line. He
took off his battered hat.
"I'm off my general road, ma'am," he said. "Does this dirt road cut over across the river to the Los Angeles
highway?"
Elisa stood up and shoved the thick scissors in her apron pocket. "Well, yes, it does, but it winds around and then
fords the river. I don't think your team could pull through the sand."
He replied with some asperity, "It might surprise you what them beasts can pull through."
"When they get started?" she asked.
He smiled for a second. "Yes. When they get started."
"Well," said Elisa, "I think you'll save time if you go back to the Salinas road and pick up the highway there."
He drew a big finger down the chicken wire and made it sing. "I ain't in any hurry, ma am. I go from Seattle to
San Diego and back every year. Takes all my time. About six months each way. I aim to follow nice weather."
Elisa took off her gloves and stuffed them in the apron pocket with the scissors. She touched the under edge of
her man's hat, searching for fugitive hairs. "That sounds like a nice kind of a way to live," she said.
He leaned confidentially over the fence. "Maybe you noticed the writing on my wagon. I mend pots and sharpen
knives and scissors. You got any of them things to do?"
"Oh, no," she said quickly. "Nothing like that." Her eyes hardened with resistance.
"Scissors is the worst thing," he explained. "Most people just ruin scissors trying to sharpen 'em, but I know how.
I got a special tool. It's a little bobbit kind of thing, and patented. But it sure does the trick."
"No. My scissors are all sharp."
"All right, then. Take a pot," he continued earnestly, "a bent pot, or a pot with a hole. I can make it like new so
you don't have to buy no new ones. That's a saving for you.
"No," she said shortly. "I tell you I have nothing like that for you to do."
His face fell to an exaggerated sadness. His voice took on a whining undertone. "I ain't had a thing to do today.
Maybe I won't have no supper tonight. You see I'm off my regular road. I know folks on the highway clear from
Seattle to San Diego. They save their things for me to sharpen up because they know I do it so good and save them
money.
"I'm sorry," Elisa said irritably. "I haven't anything for you to do."
His eyes left her face and fell to searching the ground. They roamed about until they came to the
chrysanthemum bed where she had been working. "What's them plants, ma'am?"
The irritation and resistance melted from Elisa's face. "Oh, those are chrysanthemums, giant whites and yellows.
I raise them every year, bigger than anybody around here."
"Kind of a long-stemmed flower? Looks like a quick puff of colored smoke?" he asked.
"That's it. What a nice way to describe them."
"They smell kind of nasty till you get used to them," he said.
"It's a good bitter smell," she retorted, "not nasty at all."
He changed his tone quickly. "I like the smell myself."
"I had ten-inch blooms this year," she said.
The man leaned farther over the fence. "Look. I know a lady down the road a piece, has got the nicest garden
you ever seen. Got nearly every kind of flower but no chrysanthemums. Last time I was mending a copper-bottom
washtub for her (that's a hard job but I do it good), she said to me, 'If you ever run acrost some nice
chrysanthemums I wish you'd try to get me a few seeds.' That's what she told me."
Elisa's eyes grew alert and eager. "She couldn't have known much about chrysanthemums. You can raise them
from seed, but it's much easier to root the little sprouts you see there."
"Oh," he said. "I s'pose I can't take none to her, then."
"Why yes you can," Elisa cried. "I can put some in damp sand, and you can carry them right along with you.
They'll take root in the pot if you keep them damp. And then she can transplant them."
"She'd sure like to have some, ma'am. You say they're nice ones?"
"Beautiful," she said. "Oh, beautiful." Her eyes shone. She tore off the battered hat and shook out her dark
pretty hair. "I'll put them in a flower pot, and you can take them right with you. Come into the yard."
While the man came through the picket fence Elisa ran excitedly along the geranium-bordered path to the back
of the house. And she returned carrying a big red flower pot. The gloves were forgotten now. She kneeled on the
ground by the starting bed and dug up the sandy soil with her fingers and scooped it into the bright new flower
pot. Then she picked up the little pile of shoots she had prepared. With her strong fingers she pressed them into
the sand and tamped around them with her knuckles. The man stood over her. "I'll tell you what to do," she said.
"You remember so you can tell the lady."
"Yes, I'll try to remember."
"Well, look. These will take root in about a month. Then she must set them out, about a foot apart in good rich
earth like this, see?" She lifted a handful of dark soil for him to look at. "They'll grow fast and tall. Now remember
this. In July tell her to cut them down, about eight inches from the ground."
"Before they bloom?" he asked.
"Yes, before they bloom." Her face was tight with eagerness. "They'll grow right up again. About the last of
September the buds will start."
She stopped and seemed perplexed. "It's the budding that takes the most care," she said hesitantlv. "I don't
know how to tell you." She looked deep into his eyes, searchingly. Her mouth opened a little, and she seemed to
be listening. "I'll try to tell you," she said. "Did you ever hear of planting hands?"
"Can't say I have, ma am.
"Well, I can only tell you what it feels like. It's when you're picking off the buds you don't want. Everything goes
right down into your fingertips. You watch your fingers work. They do it themselves. You can feel how it is. They
pick and pick the buds. They never make a mistake. They're with the plant. Do you see? Your fingers and the plant.
You can feel that, right up your arm. They know. They never make a mistake. You can feel it. When you're like that
you can't do anything wrong. Do you see that? Can you understand that?"
She was kneeling on the ground looking up at him. Her breast swelled passionately.
The man's eyes narrowed. He looked away self-consciously. "Maybe I know," he said. "Sometimes in the night in
the wagon there--"
Elisa's voice grew husky. She broke in on him. "I've never lived as you do, but I know what you mean. When the
night is dark--why, the stars are sharp-pointed, and there's quiet. Why, you rise up and up! Every pointed star gets
driven into your body. It's like that. Hot and sharp and--lovely."
Kneeling there, her hand went out toward his legs in the greasy black trousers. Her hesitant fingers almost
touched the cloth. Then her hand dropped to the ground. She crouched low like a fawning dog.
He said, "It's nice, just like you say. Only when you don't have no dinner, it ain't."
She stood up then, very straight, and her face was ashamed. She held the flower pot out to him and placed it
gently in his arms. "Here. Put it in your wagon, on the seat, where you can watch it. Maybe I can find something for
you to do."
At the back of the house she dug in the can pile and found two old and battered aluminum saucepans. She
carried them back and gave them to him. "Here, maybe you can fix these."
His manner changed. He became professional. "Good as new I can fix them." At the back of his wagon he set a
little anvil, and out of an oily tool box dug a small machine hammer. Elisa came through the gate to watch him
while he pounded out the dents in the kettles. His mouth grew sure and knowing. At a difficult part of the work he
sucked his under-lip.
"You sleep right in the wagon?" Elisa asked.
"Right in the wagon, ma'am. Rain or shine I'm dry as a cow in there."
It must be nice," she said. "It must be very nice. I wish women could do such things."
"It ain't the right kind of a life for a woman.
Her upper lip raised a little, showing her teeth. "How do you know? How can you tell?" she said.
"I don't know, ma'am," he protested. "Of course I don't know. Now here's your kettles, done. You don't have to
buy no new ones.
"How much?"
"Oh, fifty cents'll do. I keep my prices down and my work good. That's why I have all them satisfied customers up
and down the highway."
Elisa brought him a fifty-cent piece from the house and dropped it in his hand. "You might be surprised to have a
rival some time. I can sharpen scissors, too. And I can beat the dents out of little pots. I could show you what a
woman might do."
He put his hammer back in the oily box and shoved the little anvil out of sight. "It would be a lonely life for a
woman, ma'am, and a scarey life, too, with animals creeping under the wagon all night." He climbed over the
singletree, steadying himself with a hand on the burro's white rump. He settled himself in the seat, picked up the
lines. "Thank you kindly, ma'am," he said. "I'll do like you told me; I'll go back and catch the Salinas road."
"Mind," she called, "if you're long in getting there, keep the sand damp."
"Sand, ma'am?. .. Sand? Oh, sure. You mean around the chrysanthemums. Sure I will." He clucked his tongue.
The beasts leaned luxuriously into their collars. The mongrel dog took his place between the back wheels. The
wagon turned and crawled out the entrance road and back the way it had come, along the river.
Elisa stood in front of her wire fence watching the slow progress of the caravan. Her shoulders were straight, her
head thrown back, her eyes half-closed, so that the scene came vaguely into them. Her lips moved silently, forming
the words "Good-bye--good-bye." Then she whispered, "That's a bright direction. There's a glowing there." The
sound of her whisper startled her. She shook herself free and looked about to see whether anyone had been
listening. Only the dogs had heard. They lifted their heads toward her from their sleeping in the dust, and then
stretched out their chins and settled asleep again. Elisa turned and ran hurriedly into the house.
In the kitchen she reached behind the stove and felt the water tank. It was full of hot water from the noonday
cooking. In the bathroom she tore off her soiled clothes and flung them into the corner. And then she scrubbed
herself with a little block of pumice, legs and thighs, loins and chest and arms, until her skin was scratched and red.
When she had dried herself she stood in front of a mirror in her bedroom and looked at her body. She tightened
her stomach and threw out her chest. She turned and looked over her shoulder at her back.
After a while she began to dress, slowly. She put on her newest underclothing and her nicest stockings and the
dress which was the symbol of her prettiness. She worked carefully on her hair, pencilled her eyebrows and rouged
her lips.
Before she was finished she heard the little thunder of hoofs and the shouts of Henry and his helper as they
drove the red steers into the corral. She heard the gate bang shut and set herself for Henry's arrival.
His step sounded on the porch. He entered the house calling, "Elisa, where are you?"
"In my room, dressing. I'm not ready. There's hot water for your bath. Hurry up. It's getting late."
When she heard him splashing in the tub, Elisa laid his dark suit on the bed, and shirt and socks and tie beside it.
She stood his polished shoes on the floor beside the bed. Then she went to the porch and sat primly and stiffly
down. She looked toward the river road where the willow-line was still yellow with frosted leaves so that under
the high grey fog they seemed a thin band of sunshine. This was the only color in the grey afternoon. She sat
unmoving for a long time. Her eyes blinked rarely.
Henry came banging out of the door, shoving his tie inside his vest as he came. Elisa stiffened and her face grew
tight. Henry stopped short and looked at her. "Why--why, Elisa. You look so nice!"
"Nice? You think I look nice? What do you mean by 'nice'?"
Henry blundered on. "I don't know. I mean you look different, strong and happy."
"I am strong? Yes, strong. What do you mean 'strong'?"
He looked bewildered. "You're playing some kind of a game," he said helplessly. "It's a kind of a play. You look
strong enough to break a calf over your knee, happy enough to eat it like a watermelon."
For a second she lost her rigidity. "Henry! Don't talk like that. You didn't know what you said." She grew
complete again. "I'm strong," she boasted. "I never knew before how strong."
Henry looked down toward the tractor shed, and when he brought his eyes back to her, they were his own
again. "I'll get out the car. You can put on your coat while I'm starting."
Elisa went into the house. She heard him drive to the gate and idle down his motor, and then she took a long
time to put on her hat. She pulled it here and pressed it there. When Henry turned the motor off she slipped into
her coat and went out.
The little roadster bounced along on the dirt road by the river, raising the birds and driving the rabbits into the
brush. Two cranes flapped heavily over the willow-line and dropped into the river-bed.
Far ahead on the road Elisa saw a dark speck. She knew.
She tried not to look as they passed it, but her eyes would not obey. She whispered to herself sadly, "He might
have thrown them off the road. That wouldn't have been much trouble, not very much. But he kept the pot," she
explained. "He had to keep the pot. That's why he couldn't get them off the road."
The roadster turned a bend and she saw the caravan ahead. She swung full around toward her husband so she
could not see the little covered wagon and the mismatched team as the car passed them.
In a moment it was over. The thing was done. She did not look back. She said loudly, to be heard above the
motor, "It will be good, tonight, a good dinner."
"Now you're changed again," Henry complained. He took one hand from the wheel and patted her knee. "I
ought to take you in to dinner oftener. It would be good for both of us. We get so heavy out on the ranch."
"Henry," she asked, "could we have wine at dinner?"
"Sure we could. Say! That will be fine."
She was silent for a while; then she said, "Henry, at those prize fights, do the men hurt each other very much?"
"Sometimes a little, not often. Why?"
"Well, I've read how they break noses, and blood runs down their chests. I've read how the fighting gloves get
heavy and soggy with blood."
He looked around at her. "What's the matter, Elisa? I didn't know you read things like that." He brought the car
to a stop, then turned to the right over the Salinas River bridge.
"Do any women ever go to the fights?" she asked.
"Oh, sure, some. What's the matter, Elisa? Do you want to go? I don't think you'd like it, but I'll take you if you
really want to go."
She relaxed limply in the seat. "Oh, no. No. I don't want to go. I'm sure I don't." Her face was turned away from
him. "It will be enough if we can have wine. It will be plenty." She turned up her coat collar so he could not see
that she was crying weakly--like an old woman.
Web Searches
“The Chrysanthemums” by John Steinbeck
For this activity, students will read The Chrysanthemums by John Steinbeck as an
introduction to Steinbeck’s writing style. The students will then conduct a web search on John
Steinbeck and The Grapes of Wrath, including facts about his life, books he has written, why his
writing is important, when and where the Dust Bowl took place, who the Dust Bowl affected,
etc. They jot down at least 5 interesting facts they find, and where they got the information. At
the end of class, each student will take a turn telling the class one fact that they found
interesting, and they cannot repeat a fact that has already been shared. They will then turn in
their notes as they leave class.
Students could state facts such as:

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


One of John Steinbeck’s most famous books, The Grapes of Wrath, received a Pulitzer
Prize. (Wikipedia.com)
John Steinbeck wrote 27 books. (Wikipedia.com)
Steinbeck’s novels mostly deal with “the economic problems of rural labour.”
(http://www.nobelprize.org/nobel_prizes/literature/laureates/1962/steinbeckbio.html)
He received a Noble Prize in Literature in 1962.
(http://www.nobelprize.org/nobel_prizes/literature/laureates/1962/steinbeckbio.html)
The Dust Bowl included “southeastern Colorado, southwest Kansas and the panhandles
of Oklahoma and Texas.”
(http://www.livinghistoryfarm.org/farminginthe30s/water_02.html)
Rationale
Web searches help students to gain background knowledge about the novel they are
preparing to read, and the author who wrote the novel. Background knowledge is critical for
reading comprehension. If your students have no frame of reference for what they are reading,
it will be harder for them to process and retain the information they are receiving from the text.
By doing Web Searches, they will be able to find information relevant to the novel they are
going to read on their own, as well as hear what their peers may have found that they did not. This
ensures that they are as prepared as possible before beginning the assigned text.
The Grapes of Wrath, Chapter 1 by John Steinbeck
To the red country and part of the gray country of Oklahoma, the last rains came gently, and they did not cut
the scarred earth. The plows crossed and recrossed the rivulet marks. The last rains lifted the corn quickly and
scattered weed colonies and grass along the sides of the roads so that the gray country and the dark red country
began to disappear under a green cover. In the last part of May the sky grew pale and the clouds that had hung in
high puffs for so long in the spring were dissipated. The sun flared down on the growing corn day after day until a
line of brown spread along the edge of each green bayonet. The clouds appeared, and went away, and in a while
they did not try any more. The weeds grew darker green to protect themselves, and they did not spread any
more. The surface of the earth crusted, a thin hard crust, and as the sky became pale, so the earth became pale,
pink in the red country and white in the gray country.
In the water-cut gullies the earth dusted down in dry little streams. Gophers and ant lions started small
avalanches. And as the sharp sun struck day after day, the leaves of the young corn became less stiff and erect;
they bent in a curve at first, and then, as the central ribs of strength grew weak, each leaf tilted downward. Then it
was June, and the sun shone more fiercely. The brown lines on the corn leaves widened and moved in on the
central ribs. The weeds frayed and edged back toward their roots. The air was thin and the sky more pale; and
every day the earth paled.
In the roads where the teams moved, where the wheels milled the ground and the hooves of the horses beat
the ground, the dirt crust broke and the dust formed. Every moving thing lifted the dust into the air: a walking
man lifted a thin layer as high as his waist, and a wagon lifted the dust as high as the fence tops, and an
automobile boiled a cloud behind it. The dust was long in settling back again.
When June was half gone, the big clouds moved up out of Texas and the Gulf, high heavy clouds, rain-heads.
The men in the fields looked up at the clouds and sniffed at them and held wet fingers up to sense the wind. And
the horses were nervous while the clouds were up. The rain-heads dropped a little spattering and hurried on to
some other country. Behind them the sky was pale again and the sun flared. In the dust there were drop craters
where the rain had fallen, and there were clean splashes on the corn, and that was all.
A gentle wind followed the rain clouds, driving them on northward, a wind that softly clashed the drying corn.
A day went by and the wind increased, steady, unbroken by gusts. The dust from the roads fluffed up and spread
out and fell on the weeds beside the fields, and fell into the fields a little way. Now the wind grew strong and hard
and it worked at the rain crust in the corn fields. Little by little he sky was darkened by the mixing dust, and the
wind felt over the earth, loosened the dust, and carried it away. The wind grew stronger. The rain crust broke and
the dust lifted up out of the fields and drove gray plumes into the air like sluggish smoke. The corn threshed the
wind and made a dry, rushing sound. The finest dust did not settle back to earth now, but disappeared into the
darkening sky.
The wind grew stronger, whisked under stones, carried up straws and old leaves, and even little clods, marking
its course as it sailed across the fields. The air and the sky darkened and through them the sun shone redly, and
there was a raw sting in the air. During a night the wind raced faster over the land, dug cunningly among the
rootlets of the corn, and the corn fought the wind with its weakened leaves until the roots were freed by the
prying wind and then each stalk settled wearily sideways toward the earth and pointed the direction of the wind.
The dawn came, but no day. In the gray sky a red sun appeared, a dim red circle that gave a little light, like
dusk; and as that day advanced, the dusk slipped back toward darkness, and the wind cried and whimpered over
the fallen corn.
Men and women huddled in their houses, and they tied handkerchiefs over their noses when they went out,
and wore goggles to protect their eyes.
When the night came again it was black night, for the stars could not pierce the dust to get down, and the
window lights could not even spread beyond their own yards. Now the dust was evenly mixed with the air, and
emulsion of dust and air. Houses were shut tight, and cloth wedged around doors and windows, but the dust
came in so thinly that it could not be seen in the air, and it settled like pollen on the chairs and tables, on the
dishes. The people brushed it from their shoulders. Little lines of dust lay at the door sills.
In the middle of that night the wind passed on and left the land quiet. The dust-filled air muffled sound more
completely than fog does. The people, lying in their beds, heard the wind stop. They awakened when the rushing
wind was gone. They lay quietly and listened deep into the stillness. Then the roosters crowed, and their voices
were muffled, and the people stirred restlessly in their beds and wanted the morning. They knew it would take a
long time for the dust to settle out of the air. In the morning the dust hung like fog, and the sun was as red as ripe
new blood. All day the dust sifted down from the sky, and the next day it sifted down. An even blanket covered
the earth. It settled on the corn, piled up on the tops of the fence posts, piled up on the wires; it settled on roofs,
blanketed the weeds and trees.
The people came out of their houses and smelled the hot stinging air and covered their noses from it. And the
children came out of the houses, but they did not run or shout as they would have done after a rain. Men stood by
their fences and looked at the ruined corn, drying fast now, only a little green showing through the film of dust.
The men were silent and they did not move often. And the women came out of the houses to stand beside their
men - to feel whether this time the men would break. The women studied the men's faces secretly, for the corn
could go, as long as something else remained. The children stood near by drawing figures in the dust with bare
toes, and the children sent exploring senses out to see whether men and women would break. The children
peeked at the faces of the men and women, and then drew careful lines in the dust with their toes. Horses came
to the watering troughs and nuzzled the water to clear the surface dust. After a while the faces of the watching
men lost their bemused perplexity and became hard and angry and resistant. Then the women knew that they
were safe and that there was no break. Then they asked, Whta'll we do? And the men replied, I don't know. but it
was all right. The women knew it was all right, and the watching children knew it was all right. Women and
children knew deep in themselves that no misfortune was too great to bear if their men were whole. The women
went into the houses to their work, and the children began to play, but cautiously at first. As the day went forward
the sun became less red. It flared down on the dust-blanketed land. The men sat in the doorways of their houses;
their hands were busy with sticks and little rocks. The men sat still - thinking - figuring.
Twenty Questions
The Grapes of Wrath, Chapter 1 by John Steinbeck
The Twenty Questions strategy requires students to write twenty questions as they are
reading a text. This encourages students to read closely and pay attention. The students look
back at these questions as they continue to read, and see if any of their questions are
answered.
Some questions about The Grapes of Wrath could include:






What are rivulet marks?
Why did it stop raining?
Why is the first chapter mostly about weather?
Why did the people tie handkerchiefs over their noses when they went outside?
Why did it take the dust in the air so long to settle?
Why did the women think everything would be okay if the men didn’t “break”?
Rationale
Deeper Reading specifically states that “the first chapter of a book is usually the most
confusing for students, and it’s the place where an immature reader is most likely to lost focus.”
By using this activity for the first chapter of a novel, students are encouraged to focus on the
text. This strategy also teaches students that it is okay to be confused or have questions when
you are reading a novel.
Reading Symbols
The Grapes of Wrath, Chapter 1 by John Steinbeck
Students are to keep a written log as they read. These longs must include predictions as
to what they think will happen next, make note of the author’s use of literary devices, make
connections to other texts, make judgments about the characters, and challenge the author or
anything in the text that they do not agree with. Students will then trade logs, and make notes
as they read their peer’s comments by using symbols.
These symbols are:
P-Prediction
LT- Literary Terms
C-Connections
J-Judgments
?- Challenges
Rationale
This strategy makes students look at the text deeper than just the surface level. They
know that someone else will be reading their notes, which will motivate them. They will also
have to look deeper when they analyze their peers notes. This strategy works well when
reading novels, as the knowledge they gain can help them further understand the rest of the
book as they continue reading.
“The Jilting of Granny Wheaterall” by Katherine Anne Porter
She flicked her wrist neatly out of Doctor Harry’s pudgy careful fingers and pulled the sheet up to her chin. The
brat ought to be in knee breeches. Doctoring around the country with spectacles on his nose! “Get along now.
Take your schoolbooks and go. There’s nothing wrong with me.”
Doctor Harry spread a warm paw like a cushion on her forehead where the forked green vein danced and made
her eyelids twitch. “Now, now, be a good girl, and we’ll have you up in no time.”
“That’s no way to speak to a woman nearly eighty years old just because she’s down. I’d have you respect your
elders, young man.”
“Well, Missy, excuse me.” Doctor Harry patted her cheek. “But I’ve got to warn you, haven’t I? You’re a marvel,
but you must be careful or you’re going to be good and sorry.”
“Don’t tell me what I’m going to be. I’m on my feet now, morally speaking. It’s Cornelia. I had to go to bed to get
rid of her.”
Her bones felt loose, and floated around in her skin, and Doctor Harry floated like a balloon around the foot of
the bed. He floated and pulled down his waistcoat, and swung his glasses on a cord. “Well, stay where you are, it
certainly can’t hurt you.”
“Get along and doctor your sick,” said Granny Weatherall. “Leave a well woman alone. I’ll call for you when I
want you…Where were you forty years ago when I pulled through milk-leg and double pneumonia? You weren’t
even born. Don’t let Cornelia lead you on,” she shouted, because Doctor Harry appeared to float up to the ceiling
and out. “I pay my own bills, and I don’t throw my money away on nonsense!”
She meant to wave good-by, but it was too much trouble. Her eyes closed of themselves, it was like a dark
curtain drawn around the bed. The pillow rose and floated under her, pleasant as a hammock in a light wind. She
listened to the leaves rustling outside the window. No, somebody was swishing newspapers: no, Cornelia and
Doctor Harry were whispering together. She leaped broad awake, thinking they whispered in her ear.
“She was never like this, never like this!” “Well, what can we expect?” “Yes, eighty years old…”
Well, and what if she was? She still had ears. It was like Cornelia to whisper around doors. She always kept things
secret in such a public way. She was always being tactful and kind. Cornelia was dutiful; that was the trouble with
her. Dutiful and good: “So good and dutiful,” said Granny, “that I’d like to spank her.” She saw herself spanking
Cornelia and making a fine job of it.
“What’d you say, mother?”
Granny felt her face tying up in hard knots.
“Can’t a body think, I’d like to know?”
“I thought you might like something.”
“I do. I want a lot of things. First off, go away and don’t whisper.”
She lay and drowsed, hoping in her sleep that the children would keep out and let her rest a minute. It had been
a long day. Not that she was tired. It was always pleasant to snatch a minute now and then. There was always so
much to be done, let me see: tomorrow.
Tomorrow was far away and there was nothing to trouble about. Things were finished somehow when the time
came; thank God there was always a little margin over for peace: then a person could spread out the plan of life
and tuck in the edges orderly. It was good to have everything clean and folded away, with the hair brushes and
tonic bottles sitting straight on the white, embroidered linen: the day started without fuss and the pantry shelves
laid out with rows of jelly glasses and brown jugs and white stone-china jars with blue whirligigs and words painted
on them: coffee, tea, sugar, ginger, cinnamon, allspice: and the bronze clock with the lion on top nicely dusted off.
The dust that lion could collect in twenty-four hours! The box in the attic with all those letters tied up, well, she’d
have to go through that tomorrow. All those letters – George’s letters and John’s letters and her letters to them
both – lying around for the children to find afterwards made her uneasy. Yes, that would be tomorrow’s business.
No use to let them know how silly she had been once.
While she was rummaging around she found death in her mind and it felt clammy and unfamiliar. She had spent
so much time preparing for death there was no need for bringing it up again. Let it take care of itself for now.
When she was sixty she had felt very old, finished, and went around making farewell trips to see her children and
grandchildren, with a secret in her mind: This was the very last of your mother, children! Then she made her will
and came down with a long fever. That was all just a notion like a lot of other things, but it was lucky too, for she
had once and for all got over the idea of dying for a long time. Now she couldn’t be worried. She hoped she had
better sense now. Her father had lived to be one hundred and two years old and had drunk a noggin of strong hot
toddy on his last birthday. He told the reporters it was his daily habit, and he owed his long life to that. He had
made quite a scandal and was very pleased about it. She believed she’d just plague Cornelia a little.
“Cornelia! Cornelia!” No footsteps, but a sudden hand on her cheek. “Bless you, where have you been?”
“Here, Mother.”
“Well, Cornelia, I want a noggin of hot toddy.”
“Are you cold, darling?”
“I’m chilly, Cornelia.” Lying in bed stops the circulation. I must have told you a thousand times.”
Well, she could just hear Cornelia telling her husband that Mother was getting a little childish and they’d have to
humor her. The thing that most annoyed her was that Cornelia thought she was deaf, dumb, and blind. Little hasty
glances and tiny gestures tossed around here and over her head saying, “Don’t cross her, let her have her way,
she’s eighty years old,” and she sitting there as if she lived in a thin glass cage. Sometimes granny almost made up
her mind to pack up and move back to her own house where nobody could remind her every minute that she was
old. Wait, wait, Cornelia, till your own children whisper behind your back!
In her day she had kept a better house and had got more work done. She wasn’t too old yet for Lydia to be
driving eighty miles for advice when one of the children jumped the track, and Jimmy still dropped in and talked
things over: “Now, Mammy, you’ve a good business head, I want to know what you think of this?…” Old. Cornelia
couldn’t change the furniture around without asking . Little things, little things! They had been so sweet when they
were little. Granny wished the old days were back again with the children young and everything to be done over. It
had been a hard pull, but not too much for her. When she thought of all the food she had cooked, and all the
clothes she had cut and sewed, and all the gardens she had made – well, the children showed it. There they were,
made out of her, and they couldn’t get away from that. Sometimes she wanted to see John again and point to
them and say, Well, I didn’t do so badly, did I? But that would have to wait. That was for tomorrow. She used to
think of him as a man, but now all the children were older than their father, and he would be a child beside her if
she saw him now. It seemed strange and there was something wrong in the idea. Why, he couldn’t possibly
recognize her. She had fenced in a hundred acres once, digging the post holes herself and clamping the wires with
just a negro boy to help. That changed a woman. John would be looking for a young woman with a peaked Spanish
comb in her hair and the painted fan. Digging post holes changed a woman. Riding country roads in the winter
when women had their babies was another thing: sitting up nights with sick horses and sick negroes and sick
children and hardly ever losing one. John, I hardly ever lost one of them! John would see that in a minute, that
would be something he could understand, she wouldn’t have to explain anything!
It made her feel like rolling up her sleeves and putting the whole place to rights again. No matter if Cornelia was
determined to be everywhere at once, there were a great many things left undone on this place. She would start
tomorrow and do them. It was good to be strong enough for everything, even if all you made melted and changed
and slipped under your hands, so that by the time you finished you almost forgot what you were working for.
What was it I set out to do? She asked herself intently, but she could not remember. A fog rose over the valley, she
saw it marching across the creek swallowing the trees and moving up the hill like an army of ghosts. Soon it would
be at the near edge of the orchard, and then it was time to go in and light the lamps. Come in, children, don’t stay
out in the night air.
Lighting the lamps had been beautiful. The children huddled up to her and breathed like little calves waiting at
the bars in the twilight. Their eyes followed the match and watched the flame rise and settle in a blue curve, then
they moved away from her. The lamp was lit, they didn’t have to be scared and hang on to mother any more.
Never, never, never more. God, for all my life, I thank Thee. Without Thee, my God, I could never have done it.
Hail, Mary, full of grace.
I want you to pick all the fruit this year and see nothing is wasted. There’s always someone who can use it. Don’t
let good things rot for want of using. You waste life when you waste good food. Don’t let things get lost. It’s bitter
to lose things. Now, don’t let me get to thinking, not when I’m tired and taking a little nap before supper….
The pillow rose about her shoulders and pressed against her heart and the memory was being squeezed out of it:
oh, push down the pillow, somebody: it would smother her if she tried to hold it. Such a fresh breeze blowing and
such a green day with no threats in it. But he had not come, just the same. What does a woman do when she has
put on the white veil and set out the white cake for a man and he doesn’t come? She tried to remember. No, I
swear he never harmed me but in that. He never harmed me but in that…and what if he did? There was the day,
the day, but a whirl of dark smoke rose and covered it, crept up and over into the bright field where everything
was planted so carefully in orderly rows. That was hell, she knew hell when she saw it. For sixty years she had
prayed against remembering him and against losing her soul in the deep pit of hell, and now the two things were
mingled in one and the thought of him was a smoky cloud from hell that moved and crept in her head when she
had just got rid of Doctor Harry and was trying to rest a minute. Wounded vanity, Ellen, said a sharp voice in the
top of her mind. Don’t let your wounded vanity get the upper hand of you. Plenty of girls get jilted. You were
kilted, weren’t you? Then stand up to it. Her eyelids wavered and let in streamers of blue-gray light like tissue
paper over her eyes. She must get up and pull the shades down or she’d never sleep. She was in bed again and the
shades were not down. How could that happen? Better turn over, hide from the light, sleeping in the light gave
you nightmares. “Mother, how do you feel now?” and a stinging wetness on her forehead. But I don’t like having
my face washed in cold water!
Hapsy? George? Lydia? Jimmy? No, Cornelia and her features were swollen and full of little puddles. “They’re
coming, darling, they’ll all be here soon.” Go wash your face, child, you look funny.
Instead of obeying, Cornelia knelt down and put her head on the pillow. She seemed to be talking but there was
no sound. “Well, are you tongue-tied? Whose birthday is it? Are you going to give a party?”
Cornelia’s mouth moved urgently in strange shapes. “Don’t do that, you bother me, daughter.”
“Oh no, Mother. Oh, no…”
Nonsense. It was strange about children. They disputed your every word. “No what, Cornelia?”
“Here’s Doctor Harry.”
“I won’t see that boy again. He left just five minutes ago.”
“That was this morning, Mother. It’s night now. Here’s the nurse.”
“This is Doctor Harry, Mrs. Weatherall. I never saw you look so young and happy!”
“Ah, I’ll never be young again – but I’d be happy if they’d let me lie in peace and get rested.”
She thought she spoke up loudly, but no one answered. A warm weight on her forehead, a warm bracelet on her
wrist, and a breeze went on whispering, trying to tell her something. A shuffle of leaves in the everlasting hand of
God, He blew on them and they danced and rattled. “Mother, don’t mind, we’re going to give you a little
hypodermic.” “Look here, daughter, how do ants get in this bed? I saw sugar ants yesterday.” Did you send for
Hapsy too?
It was Hapsy she really wanted. She had to go a long way back through a great many rooms to find Hapsy
standing with a baby on her arm. She seemed to herself to be Hapsy also, and the baby on Hapsy’s arm was Hapsy
and himself and herself, all at once, and there was no surprise in the meeting. Then Hapsy melted from within and
turned flimsy as gray gauze and the baby was a gauzy shadow, and Hapsy came up close and said, “I thought you’d
never come,” and looked at her very searchingly and said, “You haven’t changed a bit!” They leaned forward to
kiss, when Cornelia began whispering from a long way off, “Oh, is there anything you want to tell me? Is there
anything I can do for you?”
Yes, she had changed her mind after sixty years and she would like to see George. I want you to find George. Find
him and be sure to tell him I forgot him. I want him to know I had my husband just the same and my children and
my house like any other woman. A good house too and a good husband that I loved and fine children out of him.
Better than I had hoped for even. Tell him I was given back everything he took away and more. Oh, no, oh, God,
no, there was something else besides the house and the man and the children. Oh, surely they were not all? What
was it? Something not given back… Her breath crowded down under her ribs and grew into a monstrous
frightening shape with cutting edges; it bored up into her head, and the agony was unbelievable: Yes, John, get the
Doctor now, no more talk, the time has come.
When this one was born it should be the last. The last. It should have been born first, for it was the one she had
truly wanted. Everything came in good time. Nothing left out, left over. She was strong, in three days she would be
as well as ever. Better. A woman needed milk in her to have her full health.
“Mother, do you hear me?”
“I’ve been telling you – “
“Mother, Father Connolly’s here.”
“I went to Holy Communion only last week. Tell him I’m not so sinful as all that.”
“Father just wants to speak with you.”
He could speak as much as he pleased. It was like him to drop in and inquire about her soul as if it were a
teething baby, and then stay on for a cup of tea and a round of cards and gossip. He always had a funny story of
some sort, usually about an Irishman who made his little mistakes and confessed them, and the point lay in some
absurd thing he would blurt out in the confessional showing his struggles between native piety and original sin.
Granny felt easy about her soul. Cornelia, where are your manners? Give Father Connolly a chair. She had her
secret comfortable understanding with a few favorite saints who cleared a straight road to God for her. All as
surely signed and sealed as the papers for the new forty acres. Forever…heirs and assigns forever. Since the day
the wedding cake was not cut, but thrown out and wasted. The whole bottom of the world dropped out, and there
she was blind and sweating with nothing under her feet and the walls falling away. His hand had caught her under
the breast, she had not fallen, there was the freshly polished floor with the green rug on it, just as before. He had
cursed like a sailor’s parrot and said, “I’ll kill him for you.” Don’t lay a hand on him, for my sake leave something to
God. “Now, Ellen, you must believe what I tell you….”
So there was nothing, nothing to worry about anymore, except sometimes in the night one of the children
screamed in a nightmare, and they both hustled out and hunting for the matches and calling, “There, wait a
minute, here we are!” John, get the doctor now, Hapsy’s time has come. But there was Hapsy standing by the bed
in a white cap. “Cornelia, tell Hapsy to take off her cap. I can’t see her plain.”
Her eyes opened very wide and the room stood out like a picture she had seen somewhere. Dark colors with the
shadows rising towards the ceiling in long angles. The tall black dresser gleamed with nothing on it but John’s
picture, enlarged from a little one, with John’s eyes very black when they should have been blue. You never saw
him, so how do you know how he looked? But the man insisted the copy was perfect, it was very rich and
handsome. For a picture, yes, but it’s not my husband. The table by the bed had a linen cover and a candle and a
crucifix. The light was blue from Cornelia’s silk lampshades. No sort of light at all, just frippery. You had to live forty
years with kerosene lamps to appreciate honest electricity. She felt very strong and she saw Doctor Harry with a
rosy nimbus around him.
“You look like a saint, Doctor Harry, and I vow that’s as near as you’ll ever come to it.”
“She’s saying something.”
“I heard you Cornelia. What’s all this carrying on?”
“Father Connolly’s saying – “
Cornelia’s voice staggered and jumped like a cart in a bad road. It rounded corners and turned back again and
arrived nowhere. Granny stepped up in the cart very lightly and reached for the reins, but a man sat beside her and
she knew him by his hands, driving the cart. She did not look in his face, for she knew without seeing, but looked
instead down the road where the trees leaned over and bowed to each other and a thousand birds were singing a
Mass. She felt like singing too, but she put her hand in the bosom of her dress and pulled out a rosary, and Father
Connolly murmured Latin in a very solemn voice and tickled her feet. My God, will you stop that nonsense? I’m a
married woman. What if he did run away and leave me to face the priest by myself? I found another a whole world
better. I wouldn’t have exchanged my husband for anybody except St. Michael himself, and you may tell him that
for me with a thank you in the bargain.
Light flashed on her closed eyelids, and a deep roaring shook her. Cornelia, is that lightning? I hear thunder.
There’s going to be a storm. Close all the windows. Call the children in… “Mother, here we are, all of us.” “Is that
you Hapsy?” “Oh, no, I’m Lydia We drove as fast as we could.” Their faces drifted above her, drifted away. The
rosary fell out of her hands and Lydia put it back. Jimmy tried to help, their hands fumbled together, and granny
closed two fingers around Jimmy’s thumb. Beads wouldn’t do, it must be something alive. She was so amazed her
thoughts ran round and round. So, my dear Lord, this is my death and I wasn’t even thinking about it. My children
have come to see me die. But I can’t, it’s not time. Oh, I always hated surprises. I wanted to give Cornelia the
amethyst set – Cornelia, you’re to have the amethyst set, but Hapsy’s to wear it when she wants, and, Doctor
Harry, do shut up. Nobody sent for you. Oh, my dear Lord, do wait a minute. I meant to do something about the
Forty Acres, Jimmy doesn’t need it and Lydia will later on, with that worthless husband of hers. I meant to finish
the alter cloth and send six bottles of wine to Sister Borgia for her dyspepsia. I want to send six bottles of wine to
Sister Borgia, Father Connolly, now don’t let me forget.
Cornelia’s voice made short turns and tilted over and crashed. “Oh, mother, oh, mother, oh, mother….”
“I’m not going, Cornelia. I’m taken by surprise. I can’t go.”
You’ll see Hapsy again. What bothered her? “I thought you’d never come.” Granny made a long journey outward,
looking for Hapsy. What if I don’t find her? What then? Her heart sank down and down, there was no bottom to
death, she couldn’t come to the end of it. The blue light from Cornelia’s lampshade drew into a tiny point in the
center of her brain, it flickered and winked like an eye, quietly it fluttered and dwindled. Granny laid curled down
within herself, amazed and watchful, staring at the point of light that was herself; her body was now only a deeper
mass of shadow in an endless darkness and this darkness would curl around the light and swallow it up. God, give a
sign!
“The Lottery” by Shirley Jackson
The morning of June 27th was clear and sunny, with the fresh warmth of a full-summer day; the flowers
were blossoming profusely and the grass was richly green. The people of the village began to gather in
the square, between the post office and the bank, around ten o'clock; in some towns there were so many
people that the lottery took two days and had to be started on June 2th. but in this village, where there
were only about three hundred people, the whole lottery took less than two hours, so it could begin at ten
o'clock in the morning and still be through in time to allow the villagers to get home for noon dinner.
The children assembled first, of course. School was recently over for the summer, and the feeling of
liberty sat uneasily on most of them; they tended to gather together quietly for a while before they broke
into boisterous play. and their talk was still of the classroom and the teacher, of books and reprimands.
Bobby Martin had already stuffed his pockets full of stones, and the other boys soon followed his
example, selecting the smoothest and roundest stones; Bobby and Harry Jones and Dickie Delacroix-- the
villagers pronounced this name "Dellacroy"--eventually made a great pile of stones in one corner of the
square and guarded it against the raids of the other boys. The girls stood aside, talking among themselves,
looking over their shoulders at rolled in the dust or clung to the hands of their older brothers or sisters.
Soon the men began to gather. surveying their own children, speaking of planting and rain, tractors and
taxes. They stood together, away from the pile of stones in the corner, and their jokes were quiet and they
smiled rather than laughed. The women, wearing faded house dresses and sweaters, came shortly after
their menfolk. They greeted one another and exchanged bits of gossip as they went to join their husbands.
Soon the women, standing by their husbands, began to call to their children, and the children came
reluctantly, having to be called four or five times. Bobby Martin ducked under his mother's grasping hand
and ran, laughing, back to the pile of stones. His father spoke up sharply, and Bobby came quickly and
took his place between his father and his oldest brother.
The lottery was conducted--as were the square dances, the teen club, the Halloween program--by Mr.
Summers. who had time and energy to devote to civic activities. He was a round-faced, jovial man and he
ran the coal business, and people were sorry for him. because he had no children and his wife was a
scold. When he arrived in the square, carrying the black wooden box, there was a murmur of
conversation among the villagers, and he waved and called. "Little late today, folks." The postmaster, Mr.
Graves, followed him, carrying a three- legged stool, and the stool was put in the center of the square and
Mr. Summers set the black box down on it. The villagers kept their distance, leaving a space between
themselves and the stool. and when Mr. Summers said, "Some of you fellows want to give me a hand?"
there was a hesitation before two men. Mr. Martin and his oldest son, Baxter. came forward to hold the
box steady on the stool while Mr. Summers stirred up the papers inside it.
The original paraphernalia for the lottery had been lost long ago, and the black box now resting on the
stool had been put into use even before Old Man Warner, the oldest man in town, was born. Mr.
Summers spoke frequently to the villagers about making a new box, but no one liked to upset even as
much tradition as was represented by the black box. There was a story that the present box had been
made with some pieces of the box that had preceded it, the one that had been constructed when the first
people settled down to make a village here. Every year, after the lottery, Mr. Summers began talking
again about a new box, but every year the subject was allowed to fade off without anything's being done.
The black box grew shabbier each year: by now it was no longer completely black but splintered badly
along one side to show the original wood color, and in some places faded or stained.
Mr. Martin and his oldest son, Baxter, held the black box securely on the stool until Mr. Summers had
stirred the papers thoroughly with his hand. Because so much of the ritual had been forgotten or
discarded, Mr. Summers had been successful in having slips of paper substituted for the chips of wood
that had been used for generations. Chips of wood, Mr. Summers had argued. had been all very well
when the village was tiny, but now that the population was more than three hundred and likely to keep on
growing, it was necessary to use something that would fit more easily into he black box. The night before
the lottery, Mr. Summers and Mr. Graves made up the slips of paper and put them in the box, and it was
then taken to the safe of Mr. Summers' coal company and locked up until Mr. Summers was ready to take
it to the square next morning. The rest of the year, the box was put way, sometimes one place, sometimes
another; it had spent one year in Mr. Graves's barn and another year underfoot in the post office. and
sometimes it was set on a shelf in the Martin grocery and left there.
There was a great deal of fussing to be done before Mr. Summers declared the lottery open. There were
the lists to make up--of heads of families. heads of households in each family. members of each
household in each family. There was the proper swearing-in of Mr. Summers by the postmaster, as the
official of the lottery; at one time, some people remembered, there had been a recital of some sort,
performed by the official of the lottery, a perfunctory. tuneless chant that had been rattled off duly each
year; some people believed that the official of the lottery used to stand just so when he said or sang it,
others believed that he was supposed to walk among the people, but years and years ago this p3rt of the
ritual had been allowed to lapse. There had been, also, a ritual salute, which the official of the lottery had
had to use in addressing each person who came up to draw from the box, but this also had changed with
time, until now it was felt necessary only for the official to speak to each person approaching. Mr.
Summers was very good at all this; in his clean white shirt and blue jeans. with one hand resting
carelessly on the black box. he seemed very proper and important as he talked interminably to Mr. Graves
and the Martins.
Just as Mr. Summers finally left off talking and turned to the assembled villagers, Mrs. Hutchinson came
hurriedly along the path to the square, her sweater thrown over her shoulders, and slid into place in the
back of the crowd. "Clean forgot what day it was," she said to Mrs. Delacroix, who stood next to her, and
they both laughed softly. "Thought my old man was out back stacking wood," Mrs. Hutchinson went on.
"and then I looked out the window and the kids was gone, and then I remembered it was the twentyseventh and
came a-running." She dried her hands on her apron, and Mrs. Delacroix said, "You're in time,
though. They're still talking away up there."
Mrs. Hutchinson craned her neck to see through the crowd and found her husband and children standing
near the front. She tapped Mrs. Delacroix on the arm as a farewell and began to make her way through
the crowd. The people separated good-humoredly to let her through: two or three people said. in voices
just loud enough to be heard across the crowd, "Here comes your, Missus, Hutchinson," and "Bill, she
made it after all." Mrs. Hutchinson reached her husband, and Mr. Summers, who had been waiting, said
cheerfully. "Thought we were going to have to get on without you, Tessie." Mrs. Hutchinson said.
grinning, "Wouldn't have me leave m'dishes in the sink, now, would you. Joe?," and soft laughter ran
through the crowd as the people stirred back into position after Mrs. Hutchinson's arrival.
"Well, now." Mr. Summers said soberly, "guess we better get started, get this over with, so's we can go
back to work. Anybody ain't here?"
"Dunbar." several people said. "Dunbar. Dunbar."
Mr. Summers consulted his list. "Clyde Dunbar." he said. "That's right. He's broke his leg, hasn't he?
Who's drawing for him?"
"Me. I guess," a woman said. and Mr. Summers turned to look at her. "Wife draws for her husband." Mr.
Summers said. "Don't you have a grown boy to do it for you, Janey?" Although Mr. Summers and
everyone else in the village knew the answer perfectly well, it was the business of the official of the
lottery to ask such questions formally. Mr. Summers waited with an expression of polite interest while
Mrs. Dunbar answered.
"Horace's not but sixteen vet." Mrs. Dunbar said regretfully. "Guess I gotta fill in for the old man this
year."
"Right." Sr. Summers said. He made a note on the list he was holding. Then he asked, "Watson boy
drawing this year?"
A tall boy in the crowd raised his hand. "Here," he said. "I'm drawing for my mother and me." He blinked
his eyes nervously and ducked his head as several voices in the crowd said things like "Good fellow,
lack." and "Glad to see your mother's got a man to do it."
"Well," Mr. Summers said, "guess that's everyone. Old Man Warner make it?"
"Here," a voice said. and Mr. Summers nodded.
A sudden hush fell on the crowd as Mr. Summers cleared his throat and looked at the list. "All ready?" he
called. "Now, I'll read the names--heads of families first--and the men come up and take a paper out of
the box. Keep the paper folded in your hand without looking at it until everyone has had a turn.
Everything clear?"
The people had done it so many times that they only half listened to the directions: most of them were
quiet. wetting their lips. not looking around. Then Mr. Summers raised one hand high and said, "Adams."
A man disengaged himself from the crowd and came forward. "Hi. Steve." Mr. Summers said. and Mr.
Adams said. "Hi. Joe." They grinned at one another humorlessly and nervously. Then Mr. Adams reached
into the black box and took out a folded paper. He held it firmly by one corner as he turned and went
hastily back to his place in the crowd. where he stood a little apart from his family. not looking down at
his hand.
"Allen." Mr. Summers said. "Anderson.... Bentham."
"Seems like there's no time at all between lotteries any more." Mrs. Delacroix said to Mrs. Graves in the
back row.
"Seems like we got through with the last one only last week."
"Time sure goes fast.-- Mrs. Graves said.
"Clark.... Delacroix"
"There goes my old man." Mrs. Delacroix said. She held her breath while her husband went forward.
"Dunbar," Mr. Summers said, and Mrs. Dunbar went steadily to the box while one of the women said.
"Go on. Janey," and another said, "There she goes."
"We're next." Mrs. Graves said. She watched while Mr. Graves came around from the side of the box,
greeted Mr. Summers gravely and selected a slip of paper from the box. By now, all through the crowd
there were men holding the small folded papers in their large hand. turning them over and over nervously
Mrs. Dunbar and her two sons stood together, Mrs. Dunbar holding the slip of paper.
"Harburt.... Hutchinson."
"Get up there, Bill," Mrs. Hutchinson said. and the people near her laughed.
"Jones."
"They do say," Mr. Adams said to Old Man Warner, who stood next to him, "that over in the north
village they're talking of giving up the lottery."
Old Man Warner snorted. "Pack of crazy fools," he said. "Listening to the young folks, nothing's good
enough for them. Next thing you know, they'll be wanting to go back to living in caves, nobody work any
more, live hat way for a while. Used to be a saying about 'Lottery in June, corn be heavy soon.' First thing
you know, we'd all be eating stewed chickweed and acorns. There's always been a lottery," he added
petulantly. "Bad enough to see young Joe Summers up there joking with everybody."
"Some places have already quit lotteries." Mrs. Adams said.
"Nothing but trouble in that," Old Man Warner said stoutly. "Pack of young fools."
"Martin." And Bobby Martin watched his father go forward. "Overdyke.... Percy."
"I wish they'd hurry," Mrs. Dunbar said to her older son. "I wish they'd hurry."
"They're almost through," her son said.
"You get ready to run tell Dad," Mrs. Dunbar said.
Mr. Summers called his own name and then stepped forward precisely and selected a slip from the box.
Then he called, "Warner."
"Seventy-seventh year I been in the lottery," Old Man Warner said as he went through the crowd.
"Seventy-seventh time."
"Watson" The tall boy came awkwardly through the crowd. Someone said, "Don't be nervous, Jack," and
Mr. Summers said, "Take your time, son."
"Zanini."
After that, there was a long pause, a breathless pause, until Mr. Summers. holding his slip of paper in the
air, said, "All right, fellows." For a minute, no one moved, and then all the slips of paper were opened.
Suddenly, all the women began to speak at once, saving. "Who is it?," "Who's got it?," "Is it the
Dunbars?," "Is it the Watsons?" Then the voices began to say, "It's Hutchinson. It's Bill," "Bill
Hutchinson's got it."
"Go tell your father," Mrs. Dunbar said to her older son.
People began to look around to see the Hutchinsons. Bill Hutchinson was standing quiet, staring down at
the paper in his hand. Suddenly. Tessie Hutchinson shouted to Mr. Summers. "You didn't give him time
enough to take any paper he wanted. I saw you. It wasn't fair!"
"Be a good sport, Tessie." Mrs. Delacroix called, and Mrs. Graves said, "All of us took the same chance."
"Shut up, Tessie," Bill Hutchinson said.
"Well, everyone," Mr. Summers said, "that was done pretty fast, and now we've got to be hurrying a little
more to get done in time." He consulted his next list. "Bill," he said, "you draw for the Hutchinson
family. You got any other households in the Hutchinsons?"
"There's Don and Eva," Mrs. Hutchinson yelled. "Make them take their chance!"
"Daughters draw with their husbands' families, Tessie," Mr. Summers said gently. "You know that as
well as anyone else."
"It wasn't fair," Tessie said.
"I guess not, Joe." Bill Hutchinson said regretfully. "My daughter draws with her husband's family; that's
only fair. And I've got no other family except the kids."
"Then, as far as drawing for families is concerned, it's you," Mr. Summers said in explanation, "and as far
as drawing for households is concerned, that's you, too. Right?"
"Right," Bill Hutchinson said.
"How many kids, Bill?" Mr. Summers asked formally.
"Three," Bill Hutchinson said.
"There's Bill, Jr., and Nancy, and little Dave. And Tessie and me."
"All right, then," Mr. Summers said. "Harry, you got their tickets back?"
Mr. Graves nodded and held up the slips of paper. "Put them in the box, then," Mr. Summers directed.
"Take Bill's and put it in."
"I think we ought to start over," Mrs. Hutchinson said, as quietly as she could. "I tell you it wasn't fair.
You didn't give him time enough to choose. Everybody saw that."
Mr. Graves had selected the five slips and put them in the box. and he dropped all the papers but those
onto the ground. where the breeze caught them and lifted them off.
"Listen, everybody," Mrs. Hutchinson was saying to the people around her.
"Ready, Bill?" Mr. Summers asked. and Bill Hutchinson, with one quick glance around at his wife and
children. nodded.
"Remember," Mr. Summers said. "take the slips and keep them folded until each person has taken one.
Harry, you help little Dave." Mr. Graves took the hand of the little boy, who came willingly with him up
to the box. "Take a paper out of the box, Davy." Mr. Summers said. Davy put his hand into the box and
laughed. "Take just one paper." Mr. Summers said. "Harry, you hold it for him." Mr. Graves took the
child's hand and removed the folded paper from the tight fist and held it while little Dave stood next to
him and looked up at him wonderingly.
"Nancy next," Mr. Summers said. Nancy was twelve, and her school friends breathed heavily as she went
forward switching her skirt, and took a slip daintily from the box "Bill, Jr.," Mr. Summers said, and Billy,
his face red and his feet overlarge, near knocked the box over as he got a paper out. "Tessie," Mr.
Summers said. She hesitated for a minute, looking around defiantly. and then set her lips and went up to
the box. She snatched a paper out and held it behind her.
"Bill," Mr. Summers said, and Bill Hutchinson reached into the box and felt around, bringing his hand
out at last with the slip of paper in it.
The crowd was quiet. A girl whispered, "I hope it's not Nancy," and the sound of the whisper reached the
edges of the crowd.
"It's not the way it used to be." Old Man Warner said clearly. "People ain't the way they used to be."
"All right," Mr. Summers said. "Open the papers. Harry, you open little Dave's."
Mr. Graves opened the slip of paper and there was a general sigh through the crowd as he held it up and
everyone could see that it was blank. Nancy and Bill. Jr.. opened theirs at the same time. and both
beamed and laughed. turning around to the crowd and holding their slips of paper above their heads.
"Tessie," Mr. Summers said. There was a pause, and then Mr. Summers looked at Bill Hutchinson, and
Bill unfolded his paper and showed it. It was blank.
"It's Tessie," Mr. Summers said, and his voice was hushed. "Show us her paper. Bill."
Bill Hutchinson went over to his wife and forced the slip of paper out of her hand. It had a black spot on
it, the black spot Mr. Summers had made the night before with the heavy pencil in the coal company
office. Bill Hutchinson held it up, and there was a stir in the crowd.
"All right, folks." Mr. Summers said. "Let's finish quickly."
Although the villagers had forgotten the ritual and lost the original black box, they still remembered to
use stones. The pile of stones the boys had made earlier was ready; there were stones on the ground with
the blowing scraps of paper that had come out of the box Delacroix selected a stone so large she had to
pick it up with both hands and turned to Mrs. Dunbar. "Come on," she said. "Hurry up."
Mr. Dunbar had small stones in both hands, and she said. gasping for breath. "I can't run at all. You'll
have to go ahead and I'll catch up with you."
The children had stones already. And someone gave little Davy Hutchinson few pebbles.
Tessie Hutchinson was in the center of a cleared space by now, and she held her hands out desperately as
the villagers moved in on her. "It isn't fair," she said. A stone hit her on the side of the head. Old Man
Warner was saying, "Come on, come on, everyone." Steve Adams was in the front of the crowd of
villagers, with Mrs. Graves beside him.
"It isn't fair, it isn't right," Mrs. Hutchinson screamed, and then they were upon her.
Current
Events
Dad plants bug on autistic son to confirm school mistreatment - CNN.com
By Leigh Remizowski , CNN
updated 10:53 AM EDT, Thu April 26, 2012
CNN.com
(CNN) -- A New Jersey man has launched a website to publicize what he calls "a culture of bullying" by teachers in
his son's Cherry Hill classroom after sending the boy -- who has been diagnosed with autism -- to school with a
covert recording device.
Stuart Chaifetz said he placed the recorder in the pocket of his 10-year-old son, Akian, in an attempt to find out why
staffers at Horace Mann Elementary School had reported that the boy had been acting out and hitting his teachers.
What surfaced was more than six hours of recordings of what he says are teachers and aides apparently talking about
alcohol and sex in front of the class, punctuated by yelling at his son to "shut your mouth."
Chaifetz posted the recording online Monday, which has since led to disciplinary actions, including the removal of
at least one teacher, school officials said.
Public support for dad who wired son
At one point, an adult female voice can be heard saying in the recording, "I had a bottle of wine with my girlfriend
last night." The second female voice asks if she spent the morning "heaving."
"Oh my God, so bad," the first woman responds. "The wine won."
Chaifetz said he reached out to school officials to report the alleged actions of the teacher and her aides.
"The school district was as horrified as I was," he said.
In an online statement, Cherry Hill Public Schools Superintendent Dr. Maureen Reusche said that the district
investigated the recordings and "responded swiftly and appropriately."
"I want to assure our parents that the individuals who are heard on the recording raising their voices and
inappropriately addressing children no longer work in the district and have not since shortly after we received the
copy of the recording," she said.
Chaifetz -- who said he didn't think the disciplinary action went far enough -- posted a video on YouTube of himself
denouncing the incident, interspersed with the recordings. He also launched a website called "No More
Teacher/Bullies," with additional audio clips of the incident.
He said his son can be heard screaming and crying in the recording.
Chaifetz said an earlier meeting with school officials about his son's behavior prompted the decision to place the
recording device in the boy's pocket. He wasn't getting answers as to why Akian had been acting out, so he decided
to bug the boy, he said.
It was unlike his son to misbehave and hit his teachers, Chaifetz said, though he had difficulty getting answers from
Akian because he struggles with speaking.
"He wasn't able to come home and say, 'Dad, they called me a name today.'"
Chaifetz says he wants an apology from the teachers and claims one of them apparently has been transferred to a
local high school in the same district. CNN cannot independently confirm that claim.
School officials said they would not comment on personnel issues.
CNN's Mary Snow contributed to this report.
© 2012 Cable News Network. Turner Broadcasting System, Inc. All Rights Reserved.
K-W-L-R Charts
“Dad Plants Bug on Autistic Son to Confirm School
Mistreatment”by Leigh Remizowski
K-W-L-R Charts activate the student’s prior knowledge. They then build upon that prior
knowledge before reading the text. “K” stands for what they already know. “W” stands for what
they what they want to know by the time they finish reading the text. “L” stands for what they
learned while reading. The “R” stands for post reading research. The students will fill out the
“K” and “W” sections before they read, the “L” section after they read, and the “R” section at
home that night.
Rationale
I chose K-W-L-R Charts for this article, because I know that some students may be
unfamiliar with autism, “bug” listening devices, and the kinds of services that autistic children
receive. This activity will encourage students to use their prior knowledge on these subjects,
state what they learned from the article so they will actually pay attention to what they are
reading, and hopefully pique their curiosity about the topics in the article so they will want to
know more information.
What are Occupiers really fighting for?
Editor’s Note: Dr. Maha Hosain Aziz is a Professor of Politics (adjunct) in the Master’s Program at New York University, a Senior Analyst at
geopolitical consultancy Wikistrat and an Asia Insight Columnist for Bloomberg Businessweek.
By Maha Hosain Aziz – Special to CNN
Occupy Wall Street has been about more than just corporate greed and income inequality. Occupy protesters around the globe may not
realize it but, at various points in the past six months, many have been fighting for the same cause as the peasant communities of rural
Vietnam during the 1930s - the moral economy.
Theorists have typically used moral economy rhetoric to explain rural movements where protesters felt their basic right to subsistence
was being threatened. In the case of Vietnam, the onset of colonial capitalism in the Great Depression contributed to a food crisis for
peasant farmers, prompting significant protests. In effect, an informal contract had been broken between the governing power and the
governed involving the individual’s basic right to feed himself.
Today, a similar “contract” has been broken between governing powers and the governed.
Since its global launch in October 2011, the Occupy movement has effectively evolved to challenge governments for depriving citizens of
their basic right to subsistence in the Great Recession (or its aftermath) - to work, afford basic goods, or in some cases keep their homes.
Gradually, with the disbanding of many encampments, some Occupy members are moving beyond the broad focus of corporate greed
and income inequality. Instead, using different strategies, they have narrowed in on specific national policies that have hindered their
basic right to subsistence, which has been defined by different groups in different ways in their conception of the moral economy.
In the Philippines, for instance, Occupy Mendiola highlighted their subsistence demands in terms of unemployment and rising prices that
they felt the Aquino administration failed to tackle with its policies. In early December 2011, student and labor union groups clashed with
police officers’ batons and water cannons as they marched towards the Presidential Palace in protest. An Occupy offshoot has since
strengthened - Kilusang 99% - led by a local Catholic bishop and comprising labour groups, farmers, fishermen and the urban poor. Their
emphasis continues to be welfare, particularly in terms of job programs and fair wage policies.
In the U.S., employment emerged as a key subsistence demand in early December. American Occupy protesters took the necessary
step to talk to political leaders directly: thousands of unemployed Occupy members demanded meetings with Congress in Washington
DC about the jobs bill and unemployment benefits. In early January, hundreds held protests during the Iowa caucuses, challenging both
Republican and Democrat parties and presidential candidates on specific employment policies.
Another U.S. subsistence demand surfaced in early December: housing.Occupy Your Home members in over 25 cities rallied to raise
awareness about the government’s role in the ongoing housing crisis. One estimate suggests that banks have taken over four million
homes since 2006. The movement has since bypassed local and national government officials, successfully moving homeless families
back into foreclosed houses for short-term relief in various cities, including Los Angeles, Cincinnati and Atlanta. Last week in Miami, an
83-year old woman who defaulted on her refinanced loan was saved from eviction with the help of Occupy members.
In Nigeria, the Occupy members have focused their struggle on the rising cost of basic necessities like food and utilities - triggered in part
by the government’s decision to remove billions of dollars in fuel subsidies in early January. This caused a dramatic hike in fuel prices
overnight from $1.70 to $3.50 per gallon, leading to demonstrations and protests around the country.
Two weeks later, in cities like Lagos, Kano and Abuja, the situation became violent as thousands of protesters sparred with police armed
with batons and tear gas. A week later, President Goodluck Jonathan announced an immediate 30% drop in gas prices, which appeared
to appease protesters. Last month, however, Occupy Nigeria resurfaced with a public statement to the president about the economic
plight of its members.
As the Occupy movement’s strategy continues to evolve worldwide, its significant message of a subsistence crisis faced by the average
citizen in the Great Recession has crystallized. Short of a dramatic shift in tactic by policymakers, this movement for a moral economy
will keep resurfacing around the world.
The views expressed in this article are solely those of Maha Hosain Aziz.
Focus Groups
“What are the Occupiers Really Fighting For?” by MahaHosain Aziz
When using the Focus Groups strategy, students are placed into groups and each group
is given a specific topic to discus. When the discussion is completed, a group representative
shares what their group discussed with the whole class. The class is to take notes on what each
group talked about.
Focus Group topics for this article could include:



Do you agree with the Occupy movement? Why or why not?
How does the Occupy movement relate to The Grapes of Wrath?
What is a moral economy?
Rationale
I chose Focus Groups for this article, because I feel that older students have a lot more
to say about what goes on in the world than most people give them credit for. This activity
allows them to discuss real events happening in the present that they can relate to, and then
shows them how the text they are reading relates to what is going on in the world today.
Flip Side Chart
“What are Occupiers really fighting for?”
This activity helps students to see both sides to a story or situation. They must first write
a column of statements, facts, or opinions from the text they have read. Then will they write a
second column that is the “flip side” to each statement.
Example:
The Story
The Flip Side
“Since its global launch in October 2011, the
Occupy movement has effectively evolved to
challenge governments for depriving citizens of
their basic right to subsistence in the Great
Recession (or its aftermath) - to work, afford
basic goods, or in some cases keep their
homes.”
The Occupy movement has also disrupted
normal functioning at public places, such as
schools and government buildings, and has
recently caused destructive riots and looting.
Rationale
I selected this strategy for a current event, because it helps students to think critically
about what they are reading. To fill out the chart, they must look deeper beyond the surface
level of the text. It also helps them to see both sides of a story/situation, and aides them in
making up their own mind on the subject of the article.
Play
The Merchant of Venice by William Shakespeare
You can access the full text here:
http://shakespeare.mit.edu/merchant/full.html
Anticipation Guide
The Merchant of Venice by William Shakespeare
Students are given Anticipation Guides before they read a selected text to help set them
up for what they should be looking for when they read. Anticipation Guides contain a series of
statements. The student must decide before reading if they agree or disagree with the
statement, and then write a sentence or two explaining their position. Students will be invited
to share their opinions, and state why that is how they feel. These guides will be revisited after
reading to see if their opinions have changed based on what they read.
Rationale
I chose this focusing activity for The Merchant of Venice, because many students have a
difficult time reading Shakespeare due to the unfamiliar language. By doing an Anticipation
Guide, you help set up the students to know what they are looking for when reading the play,
which will help them not to feel so lost. Also, Anticipation Guides set up the students for critical
thinking and analysis of the themes of a given text.
Anticipation Guide
Testing your partner is the key to a successful marriage.
People often break their marriage vows.
Life is a lottery over which we have no control.
Mercy is a concept that transcends justice.
The law should be used to help us get justice in our lives.
Obeying rules is crucial in life.
Parent/child relationships are important in shaping our characters.
Money is essential for happiness.
Through the ages outsiders have become victims of abuse.
Racism is a feature of mankind and will continue to be so.
Revenge is sweet.
Religious beliefs define our outlook on life.
Character Charts
The Merchant of Venice by William Shakespeare
Character charts help students keep up with the many characters in the text they are
reading. The chart includes as many or as few characters as you want the students to record.
You can give them blank character charts that are already prepared with specific character’s
names, or have the students create a column for each new character that is introduced. The
charts include important information or personality traits about each character, including their
relationship to other characters, their strongest and weakest qualities, their “defining moment”
in the text, an “essential” question for that character, and a symbol or picture that best
represents them. This can be used as reading comprehension aides, study guides, or even tests.
Rationale
I chose this activity for The Merchant of Venice, because I know that Shakespeare’s
plays can be difficult to read, especially for those who are unfamiliar with reading his works.
Also, the character names are not names that we normally encounter in our society. A tool that
helps students remember who each character is will help them have better comprehension of
what is going on in the play.
Say/ Mean Chart
The Merchant of Venice by William Shakespeare
The Say/Mean Chart is a simple T-chart that helps students understand what is being
said in the text. They write a quote from the text on one side of the chart, and then on the
other side write what is happening in their own words.
Example:
What does it say? (Literal)
What does it mean? (What can we infer?)
Shylock:
Shylock is saying here that everyone is the same.
Everyone, no matter if male or female, not matter
what race or religion you are, we all have the same
bodily organs, the same reactions to the seasons, the
same emotions, and the same mortality. We all live,
breath, laugh, love, fight, cry, and die. He has been
relentlessly bullied by Christian men. He says that
Christian men will take revenge when wronged, and
since everyone is alike, so will Jews, so they better
watch out!
I am a Jew. Hath not a Jew eyes? Hath not a Jew
hands,
organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions;
fed with the same
food, hurt with the same weapons, subject to the
same diseases,
heal'd by the same means, warm'd and cool'd by
the same winter
and summer, as a Christian is? If you prick us, do
we not bleed? If
you tickle us, do we not laugh? If you poison us,
do we not die?
And if you wrong us, do we not revenge? If we are
like you in the
rest, we will resemble you in that.
Rationale
I think that this strategy is the perfect one to use when teaching Shakespeare. His
writing can be difficult to understand, even for adults. This activity will help keep the students
from feeling lost when they are reading the play, and will help with their overall comprehension
of the character dynamics and the plot.
Trouble Slips
The Merchant of Venice by William Shakespeare
Trouble Slips are a bookmark sized piece of blank paper that the students keep in their
books. As they read, they write any questions that they may have about the text on their
Trouble Slip. The students will then be placed in groups and will share the questions they had
with their peers. Through discussion, students gain a deeper understanding of the text.
Rationale
This is a great strategy to use when reading Shakespeare. The unfamiliar language is
likely to leave students feeling confused or lost. Trouble Slips help students to understand that
they are not the only ones who have questions or are confused. It will help student’s
confidence when reading to know that their peers have questions as well, and maybe even
have the same question as they do.
The Grapes of Wrath (1940) directed by John Ford
You can purchase a copy of The Grapes of Wrath here:
http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_ss_c_2_10/182-1577406-0049726?url=search-alias%3Dmoviestv&field-keywords=the+grapes+of+wrath&sprefix=the+grapes%2Caps%2C212
Theme Spotlights
The Grapes of Wrath (1940) directed by John Ford
Theme Spotlights help to focus students on the one central theme of a text. You will state the
central theme, and then begin a class discussion about why the theme is relevant, how that theme
relates to modern times, etc. You may revisit Theme Spotlights after reading, and have students list
examples of the theme found in the text.
Example Discussion Prompt:
One of the central themes of The Grapes of Wrath is discrimination of the lower class. What does
“discrimination” mean to you?
Rationale
I chose Theme Spotlights for The Grapes of Wrath, because I felt that it was a good way to get
students thinking about the theme of the film before they watch it. By actively discussing the theme
before the film begins, the theme will be present in their minds as they watch the move, and the
instances when the theme is presented will stand out to them more.
Text Frames With Gaps
The Grapes of Wrath (1940) directed by John Ford
Students are given an outline of the text, with blanks where certain plot points should
be, and as they read (or watch the film) they must fill in the blanks. If the film is shown before
the text is read, it will help the students have a better understanding of the plot as it occurs in
the novel.
Rationale
I chose Text Frames with Gaps for the film as a way to help students better understand
the plot. Also, this will insure that they are paying attention to the film, and not dozing off or
doing anything but pay attention to the film, because I would have them turn in their
completed plots at the end of class. They could later use these as study material.
Literary Dominoes
The Grapes of Wrath (1940) directed by John Ford
Literary dominoes are a graphic organizer of the plot of a text. The first domino, or plot
point, triggers the next, and then the next, and so on. You can either give your students a
handout with all of the dominoes blank, or you can fill in a few for them, and have your
students fill in the plot holes.
Example:
Literary Dominoes for The Grapes of Wrath (1940)
Tom gets
home
from jail,
but his
family is
gone.
Tom
accidentally kills
a camp guard
while trying to
protect Casy. He
is now a wanted
man.
Tom leaves his
family, vowing
to carry on
Casy’s legacy
and strive for
social equality.
Rationale
This is a great strategy to use when teaching a movie, as it is an easy visual reference of
the plot line. Some students have trouble following films, and this strategy is a great way to
help them determine which plot points are important, as well as be a useful study guide for
tests. It could also be useful as daily work to make sure that your students are paying attention
to the film that you are watching in class.