"Describe a small town in Arizona," I write on the board as a journal prompt. Immediately an uproar.
"Ms., what do you mean by small?"
"Does it have to be in Arizona?"
"But I've never been to Arizona."
"I know a small town in Minnesota."
"What exactly is a small town?"
I tell them to trust their imaginations. There is no right or wrong. Seventeen-year-old smart-asses, "Is New York a small town?" I say no. "Then there is a right or wrong."
I grin at the banter. "Explore the spectrum closer to small."
"How much do we have to write?"
"A paragraph. Like we always do -- five to eight sentences."
"But what if we use semicolons?"
"Yeah, the independent clauses could be sentences. So, then would we only have to write three?"
"What if it's commands? Stop. Go. Stop. Go. Stop. There's my five sentences."
" You write five lines with letters the size of 10 pitch Times New Roman."
It quiets down though it is never completely silent. Then my coteacher asks them to share out. Flat. But wait I think there're mountains in Arizona. It might be in the mountains. Dust. Hot. Everyone knows everybody. It's not on the map like the big cities are (this from the one troubled by the size of small). It doesn't have a star. Shops and stores. Swimming pools. Racism. Native American reservations. Those bricks that are made out of mud. Adobe. Aliens. Oh wait, that might be New Mexico. Dust storms. Illegal activities. You're thinking of Breaking Bad. That's in New Mexico. Mines. Root beer. Tumble weeds. Single corporation economy. Everyone depends on that one corporation for jobs. Mexicans. Palm trees. No water. Beige, yellow, red, brown. Maybe green if there is water. But that's only where the rich people are. Coyotes. Lizards. Snakes. Critters. Donkeys. Empty spaces.
Tapping in to background knowledge. Exposure to vocabulary. Ready to start reading Animal Dreams. Love these kids.
