On Gatsby, Snowmobiles, and a Really Good Metaphor

Back when I started teaching, I could assign projects for no reason other than the sheer pleasure of doing a project and tapping into our creativity. But as education evolves, so do the expectations for projects: they must connect to standard mastery, they must address learning styles, they should have skill scaffolding, and if administered cooperatively, they should also address accountability. I need to know where their base learning is, measure their growth, and communicate an outcome based on said project. It's a little exhausting, honestly. Important! But exhausting. I'm always checking, checking, checking for understanding - are they getting something out of this project? Can they read closely? Do they understand how characters develop? Can they identify author's purpose? Is there any VALUE to this assignment?

I started The Great Gatsby with my sophomores this week. I love this book with my whole entire self. I love my sophomores too, and I LOVE this unit. I spent a LOT of time putting together a project that meets the above guidelines. Students have options, expectations, and rubrics. I was enjoying walking around today as they got started on them, discussing their project plan and getting an idea of where they were at so far in their understanding of the novel, its themes, and its characters.

As I worked with one group, I couldn't help but overhear the group next to me, deep in discussion, flipping through magazines. As I listened, one of them said, "I can't find anything in here with a picture of carbon-fiber." What? Carbon fiber? There's nothing in The Great Gatsby that even resembles carbon fiber, so I was pretty sure they were a little off task. I decided I'd better wander over and see what was going on. I saw they had poster board, glue sticks, scissors, and a pile of magazines on their table. They had chosen a collage project on four major settings present in the novel. They had a big stack of Minnesota Snowmobiling magazines they were flipping through and talking about. So far they had labeled the four quadrants, and had cut out some pictures of snowmobiles, engine parts, and some Ski-Doo logos. I was puzzled.

I gently inserted myself into the conversation, and then asked, "What does carbon fiber have to do with Gatsby, may I ask?"

One young man looked up at me, surprised. "It's really expensive! I need a picture of it for Gatsby's mansion, he's the only one who could probably afford it."

I'm not sure if you just had a moment, but I just had a moment. A moment where I realized exactly how much I DON'T know. A moment where I realized how much he DID understand about Gatsby, and a moment where I was smacked in the face with the reminder that the crossing over of interdisciplinary worlds is a REALLY BIG DEAL. It absolutely delighted me. I laughed out loud and said, "That is so awesome, I didn't know that. Show me what else you have on there."

He said, "Well, I put a Ski-Doo in Nick Carraway's quadrant because he's poor and they're junk." One of his friends laughed, but his partner said, "Hey! I have a Ski-Doo!" and then we all giggled. Then the partner said, "Yeah, actually, they are junk. That's probably where it belongs." I told them I had a lot to learn, and they would have to help me figure their project out a little bit.

The third group member said, "Gudahl, we're doing, like, metaphors. You get it?"

Yep. I get it. Carry on.

Piece By Piece

Once upon a time, a long long time ago, I had a broken heart. My parents made my house a place for mending broken things, so I holed up in my upstairs bedroom for a while and felt sorry for myself. My mom was especially good at solving problems, but this one was out of her wheelhouse. She let me wallow for a while, cooking dinners I didn't feel like eating and waiting for me to emerge. When I didn't, one evening she went rummaging around in the upstairs closet. She pulled out forgotten projects and suggested that I find something to do to take my mind off my troubles.

The bottom of the bin held a stash of vintage cotton fabric; I found remnants from a set of curtains she'd made for a much loved childhood bedroom. There was a pink calico from a set of doll clothes, a blue gingham from a familiar pillow backing and a pink candy cane stripe from a skirt she'd made for me once. Out of distraction more than anything, I gathered these pieces, cut some not very uniform squares, (I struggle a little bit with precise things like numbers and measuring) and decided to start piecing them together.

I didn't really have a plan. I don't sew, I certainly don't quilt, and Mom's sewing machine can really only accurately be described as a hostile adversary of mine. But the distraction kept me from crying too much, so I pressed onward. Over the course of 48 hours I listened to every sad song I could find in my CD/tape collection, and somehow I managed to piece together a quilt top. Most importantly, the ache in my chest was just a tiny little bit lighter than it was when I started.

Fast forward a whole bunch of years. Mom found that quilt top one day and brought it over to the house. I was so surprised - I'd forgotten it. Like memories do, though, I was sharply reminded upon seeing it of that broken heart and the bruise I carried from it. I took it to a quilter friend who helped me get it top-stitched, then all that was left to do was bind it.

And here's where another gigantic break in time happens. Binding is hard. Maybe not for a regular quilter, but for me? It's hard. I would have to sit still in one place for a LONG time. I would have to have some dexterity in my fingertips. I would have to care about things like the aforementioned numbers and measuring. Binding is not really a Sara Gudahl activity. So I boxed up the quilt top and stuffed it back in a closet.

Fast forward a whole bunch more years. Cleaning out a closet one day, I found that quilt top, and quilter friend Holly happened to be over. She said, "Seriously? You still haven't bound that quilt?" I think I maybe just grinned sheepishly. She scooped it up and took it home with her. Today she brought it back.

Somehow she found vintage cotton prints that so closely resemble the originals, they look like they belonged on it. She bound it so beautifully, and when I pulled it out of the bag, do you know what happened? I expected to feel the bite and sting of that original broken heart. I thought I would sharply remember the pain of it and the reason for making this quilt in the first place. But you know what they say about time and it's ability to soften things. Instead, I thought about my mom.

There's a big old metaphor just begging to be used here - my Mom solved problems like a Boss. She was the Master, the Queen Bee of problem solving. She was so good at it - there was almost nothing she couldn't do. But that particular winter, she knew she couldn't fix my problem; she couldn't keep my heart from breaking. But she did know that it needed to be stitched back together, and she knew I had to do it myself. So she brought me a bunch of scraps, some representatives of my childhood and reminders of things that mattered, and challenged to make something out of it. And look at that - I did.

Then she went and left me, and broke my dang heart all over again.

Holly, you know how important you are to me, friend. You said this wasn't a big deal - but it was. Thanks for finishing this for me. It's not just a binding, you know. You stitched together a few pieces of my broken heart, and for that - I can never say thank you enough.