The document summarizes the author's experience volunteering at a monastery school in Ladakh, India to teach English to young monks. Over the course of two weeks, the author introduced a variety of creative exercises using materials like origami, newspapers, and found objects to make learning enjoyable and improve the students' reading, writing, and vocabulary skills. The author found the students and community to be very receptive and developed an appreciation for the simple life in Ladakh compared to his busy life in the city. He was reminded of the importance of giving back and being grateful by small acts of kindness from the local community members.
(Завершено)
Миа Оуэнс и ее мать только что переехали в Калифорнию из Англии, чтобы найти лучшую жизнь.
Миа просто хочет жить спокойно, ходить в школу, проводить время с друзьями ... это было до тех пор, пока Йен Марш не перевернул свою жизнь с ног на голову.
Ян Марш богат и популярен и может получить все, что захочет, но есть одна вещь, которую он хочет больше всего, одна вещь, которую его деньги и обаяние не могут получить ... Миа!
Будет ли он работать за один раз , чтобы получить ее и держать ее?
Позволит ли Миа помочь ей?
The purpose of the Images Art Acquisition is to support and honor the role of the arts in education and recognize the creative and expressive powers of students and teachers in the Ottawa Area Intermediate School District.
This leased collection includes works by high school students from many of our local districts. The walls of the Educational Services Building are enhanced and enriched through the showcasing of student works that promote excellence in creativity and student learning. A special thanks to Dreese Fine Art for framing all of the student artwork.
Through the High School Visual Arts programs within the OAISD, students use art as a tool for higher level thinking, problem solving, analyzing, evaluating, creating and communicating. Truly, through the eyes and work of these young artists we can catch a glimpse of their world.
These visual images may not be transferred, printed, or in any way removed with the intent to create products for sale, resale, or for profit in any manner without the expressed written consent from the artist.
(Завершено)
Миа Оуэнс и ее мать только что переехали в Калифорнию из Англии, чтобы найти лучшую жизнь.
Миа просто хочет жить спокойно, ходить в школу, проводить время с друзьями ... это было до тех пор, пока Йен Марш не перевернул свою жизнь с ног на голову.
Ян Марш богат и популярен и может получить все, что захочет, но есть одна вещь, которую он хочет больше всего, одна вещь, которую его деньги и обаяние не могут получить ... Миа!
Будет ли он работать за один раз , чтобы получить ее и держать ее?
Позволит ли Миа помочь ей?
The purpose of the Images Art Acquisition is to support and honor the role of the arts in education and recognize the creative and expressive powers of students and teachers in the Ottawa Area Intermediate School District.
This leased collection includes works by high school students from many of our local districts. The walls of the Educational Services Building are enhanced and enriched through the showcasing of student works that promote excellence in creativity and student learning. A special thanks to Dreese Fine Art for framing all of the student artwork.
Through the High School Visual Arts programs within the OAISD, students use art as a tool for higher level thinking, problem solving, analyzing, evaluating, creating and communicating. Truly, through the eyes and work of these young artists we can catch a glimpse of their world.
These visual images may not be transferred, printed, or in any way removed with the intent to create products for sale, resale, or for profit in any manner without the expressed written consent from the artist.
"What is my name" lesson prescribed for class X English by APSCERT and TGSCERT syllabus. PPT prpepared by Sharanya of Class VI, Little Angels High School, Malakpet, Hyderabad.
An Official Wacky Boolprop Challenge: Chapter 11Rflong7
It's a large update... I wanted to get to the Heir Vote. 3 girls are ready to be the heir to the family but only one can do it. Who will it be? It's up to the votes to see... Please vote- Ends April 13th. Thanks so much-
http://boolprop.prophpbb.com/topic3622.html
Superman and Me Sherman Alexie I learned to read with .docxdeanmtaylor1545
Superman and Me
Sherman Alexie
I learned to read with a Superman comic book. Simple enough, I suppose. I
cannot recall which particular Superman comic book I read, nor can I remember which
villain he fought in that issue. I cannot remember the plot, nor the means by which I
obtained the comic book. What I can remember is this: I was 3 years old, a Spokane
Indian boy living with his family on the Spokane Indian Reservation in eastern
Washington state. We were poor by most standards, but one of my parents usually
managed to find some minimum-wage job or another, which made us middle-class by
reservation standards. I had a brother and three sisters. We lived on a combination of
irregular paychecks, hope, fear and government surplus food.
My father, who is one of the few Indians who went to Catholic school on purpose,
was an avid reader of westerns, spy thrillers, murder mysteries, gangster epics,
basketball player biographies and anything else he could find. He bought his books by
the pound at Dutch's Pawn Shop, Goodwill, Salvation Army and Value Village. When he
had extra money, he bought new novels at supermarkets, convenience stores and
hospital gift shops. Our house was filled with books. They were stacked in crazy piles in
the bathroom, bedrooms and living room. In a fit of unemployment-inspired creative
energy, my father built a set of bookshelves and soon filled them with a random
assortment of books about the Kennedy assassination, Watergate, the Vietnam War and
the entire 23-book series of the Apache westerns. My father loved books, and since I
loved my father with an aching devotion, I decided to love books as well.
I can remember picking up my father's books before I could read. The words
themselves were mostly foreign, but I still remember the exact moment when I first
understood, with a sudden clarity, the purpose of a paragraph. I didn't have the
vocabulary to say "paragraph," but I realized that a paragraph was a fence that held
words. The words inside a paragraph worked together for a common purpose. They had
some specific reason for being inside the same fence. This knowledge delighted me. I
began to think of everything in terms of paragraphs. Our reservation was a small
paragraph within the United States. My family's house was a paragraph, distinct from the
other paragraphs of the LeBrets to the north, the Fords to our south and the Tribal
School to the west. Inside our house, each family member existed as a separate
paragraph but still had genetics and common experiences to link us. Now, using this
logic, I can see my changed family as an essay of seven paragraphs: mother, father,
older brother, the deceased sister, my younger twin sisters and our adopted little brother.
At the same time I was seeing the world in paragraphs, I also picked up that
Superman comic book. Each panel, complete with picture, dialogue and narrative was a
three-dimensional p.
"What is my name" lesson prescribed for class X English by APSCERT and TGSCERT syllabus. PPT prpepared by Sharanya of Class VI, Little Angels High School, Malakpet, Hyderabad.
An Official Wacky Boolprop Challenge: Chapter 11Rflong7
It's a large update... I wanted to get to the Heir Vote. 3 girls are ready to be the heir to the family but only one can do it. Who will it be? It's up to the votes to see... Please vote- Ends April 13th. Thanks so much-
http://boolprop.prophpbb.com/topic3622.html
Superman and Me Sherman Alexie I learned to read with .docxdeanmtaylor1545
Superman and Me
Sherman Alexie
I learned to read with a Superman comic book. Simple enough, I suppose. I
cannot recall which particular Superman comic book I read, nor can I remember which
villain he fought in that issue. I cannot remember the plot, nor the means by which I
obtained the comic book. What I can remember is this: I was 3 years old, a Spokane
Indian boy living with his family on the Spokane Indian Reservation in eastern
Washington state. We were poor by most standards, but one of my parents usually
managed to find some minimum-wage job or another, which made us middle-class by
reservation standards. I had a brother and three sisters. We lived on a combination of
irregular paychecks, hope, fear and government surplus food.
My father, who is one of the few Indians who went to Catholic school on purpose,
was an avid reader of westerns, spy thrillers, murder mysteries, gangster epics,
basketball player biographies and anything else he could find. He bought his books by
the pound at Dutch's Pawn Shop, Goodwill, Salvation Army and Value Village. When he
had extra money, he bought new novels at supermarkets, convenience stores and
hospital gift shops. Our house was filled with books. They were stacked in crazy piles in
the bathroom, bedrooms and living room. In a fit of unemployment-inspired creative
energy, my father built a set of bookshelves and soon filled them with a random
assortment of books about the Kennedy assassination, Watergate, the Vietnam War and
the entire 23-book series of the Apache westerns. My father loved books, and since I
loved my father with an aching devotion, I decided to love books as well.
I can remember picking up my father's books before I could read. The words
themselves were mostly foreign, but I still remember the exact moment when I first
understood, with a sudden clarity, the purpose of a paragraph. I didn't have the
vocabulary to say "paragraph," but I realized that a paragraph was a fence that held
words. The words inside a paragraph worked together for a common purpose. They had
some specific reason for being inside the same fence. This knowledge delighted me. I
began to think of everything in terms of paragraphs. Our reservation was a small
paragraph within the United States. My family's house was a paragraph, distinct from the
other paragraphs of the LeBrets to the north, the Fords to our south and the Tribal
School to the west. Inside our house, each family member existed as a separate
paragraph but still had genetics and common experiences to link us. Now, using this
logic, I can see my changed family as an essay of seven paragraphs: mother, father,
older brother, the deceased sister, my younger twin sisters and our adopted little brother.
At the same time I was seeing the world in paragraphs, I also picked up that
Superman comic book. Each panel, complete with picture, dialogue and narrative was a
three-dimensional p.
Example 1 Student Example Professor C.N. Myers .docxSANSKAR20
Example 1
Student Example
Professor C.N. Myers
English 1010-E01
5 May 2009
Don’t Ever Let Someone Tell You That You Can’t Do Something:
A Literacy Narrative
I will never forget learning how to read and write for the very first time. I used to closely
watch my sister do her work for college. Then, I would innocently sit by her and read a book to
mimic her. This memory immediately comes to my head when I think about how I learned to
read. I remember my sister getting me ready for a bath on one warm summer night before my
first day of kindergarten. I told her how excited I was for the next day and asked her, “Will I
learn how to read and count?” She replied with “Yes, you’re going to learn your ABCs and your
123s and everything else.” I went onto to ask her, “But what are ABCs?” She said, “You’ll find
out.” Then, I washed up quickly and continued to get ready for the next day.
Ever since that first day, I would annoyingly show my sister my books and worksheets
and ask her about every word I couldn’t pronounce. She would tell me to just sound them out
instead of telling me every one of them. So I did exactly that. I would patiently sit there every
day and analyze words that I couldn’t say. I broke them down word by word, never giving up. I
would divide the words up by their letters as if they were math problems. I built word upon word
every day. I was fascinated by books series such as Arthur and The Bernstein Bears. I loved
everything about them from the way they felt in my hand to the world that they took me into just
by reading. I also mimicked my brother when he did his reading for school. I loved being
around my siblings and doing everything they did, no matter what it was. So while they were
Example 2
reading to accomplish goals in school, my earliest recollections of reading and writing were
simply for the enjoyment of being closer to the people I loved the most.
As I went through elementary school, I always especially enjoyed reading books and
writing. I used to read books such as Dav Pilkey’s Captain Underpants and Jeff Kinney’s Diary
of a Wimpy Kid. I would read the books then rewrite my own version of a certain chapter
because I thought my version would be more interesting and whimsical. I had composition
books full of my imaginative writings. They also had different cartoon sketches I would make
up. Those books were amazingly colorful due to the fact that I wrote mostly with colored
pencils. I spent months upon months perfecting those composition notebooks that I called books.
Page by page, I would fill them up. I remember also asking my friends for help along the way.
They weren’t as interesting; in fact, they may have thought it was a little silly for me to actually
think my writings were real books. I remember days where I used to get in trouble for writing
those things in school without permission. Books that I read throug ...
This poem was published today on Edudemic.com. Here is a visual about the reality of teaching on a daily basis. The slide also covers the dedication to students and the endearing love of the profession.
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1. Things happen when man and mountains meet
It began with unfinished business.
My last affair with Ladakh was short lived when the finishing line of that
incomplete trip turned a friendship sour. Two years later, I got a second chance
to visit the land of high passes by a vehicle called Avalokitesvara Trust, with
some pending distances to be covered on the map, and some journeys to be
made inwards by following the inner compass.
You forget how much you can give when there are no takers for your learnings,
experiences, stories and love. Like those unsent emails saved in the drafts
folder. I was there to teach little monks in a monastery school, and my
preparation was exactly how I used to study for my school exams. Starting late
which leaves you unsure with last minute anxiety.
I reached the school and sensed being a foreign body to those little monks. 26
in total, ranging from class 1 to 5. I decided to park that lesson planning
module, and for the next two days I mostly listened to them, talked a little,
and we laughed a lot when someone farted in the classroom. It came from the
fact that I'm a kind of person who takes some time, and sometimes a whole lot
of time to open up with people. Thanks to friends at Cartoon Network for
providing two cartons full of games and stories which helped me break the ice.
"Why are you here?", asking me in walks the Bodhi language teacher.
"That's one of the biggest questions of philosophy", I tried to ignore him.
"Why have you come here?", he rephrased.
"As you know, to teach these kids", I sent it back straight.
"But, why here?", the question, like a tennis ball, was again in my court.
2. Before I could answer, he asked again "Where are you from?"
"Chakradharpur. It's a small town in Jharkhand and I work in Mumbai", I
replied.
"Less privileged kids even there need education. So, why here?", he repeated.
After a pause I broke my silence, "There is a selfish reason. I live in a city
where being stuck is the new vacation. Stuck on that song looping in your
head, stuck in traffic, stuck in jobs, between jobs, stuck at ideas or having no
idea, stuck in EMIs, stuck in-and-out of relationships and so on. This is not an
escape from that stuckness. It's about navigating that stuckness. I can't afford
to buy a house there with rates as high as Rs 17000 per sq. ft. And I don't
want to. So I climbed up to an altitude of 17000 ft. instead. As a volunteer, I
have the privilege of staying here for a longer duration. Where you're not in
the human race but a human being. In return, I can teach these kids with
whatever little I know."
"Ain't you missing something? People are receptive here. And that makes the
difference", he said after hearing me patiently.
He further added, "Try teaching underprivileged kids in your hometown or in
Mumbai and sooner or later some people will stop you from doing so."
I recalled having met an Indo-Canadian girl some time back who was making a
documentary on a school for slum kids in Dharavi and she had told me how the
founder of that NGO was threatened by the goons to shut it.
"You will know it.", the Bodhi teacher interrupted my thoughts and smiled as if
there is more to this than meets the eye.
I started with Dolch Word List. It's a list of 220 frequently used english words
that even a child with learning disability can easily recognize. My objective was
to make the kids familiar with those words; the lowest common denominator.
I had collected some original stories written by a few other copywriter friends
using those limited Dolch words. I married those stories with Origami and so
"Storigami" was born, the next in my to-teach list. This exercise was meant to
make reading enjoyable for the kids. Having a library is one thing. Cultivating a
habit of reading in childhood is another. Also, if you're not having fun you're
not doing it right. When they made a paper piano, I let them play music on a
piano app on my mobile phone.
3. Something commonly available and as easily ignored is a newspaper. It has
plenty of words. But what if you are asked to keep the words you want and
blackout the rest? What remains is called "Newspaper Blackout". The objective
of this exercise was to help those kids understand sentence formation and
improve their writing skills. The kids painted the newspaper-canvas with black
and each one of them turned out to be a piece of art, still hung on the walls of
their classrooms.
4. Long ago I had submitted an idea to a client, a notebook brand. It was about
writing a story using Google auto-suggestions. As you type, Google shows you
words and phrases in the drop down list. Writing a story based on those words.
But, the client didn't buy it. It always remained in the back of my mind and I
5. wanted to vent it out. Again, I chose newspaper as medium for the next
exercise, "Once Upon a Time". Instructions were simple, cut the words from
the newspapers and paste it on a cardboard to complete the story. Words
formed sentences and sentences formed a story. The tale was waiting to be
told.
The next in my to-do list was "Say The Same Thing". It's a vocabulary building
exercise where 2 players start with random words each, and keep on saying
words common to both, until they utter the same word.
Eg.
A: Cup B: Sky (two random words)
A: Water (cup & sky both hold water) B: Blue (blue cup, blue sky)
A: Sea B: Sea (blue water is sea)
Did the kids understand at all? They picked up slowly and then found God.
6. By now I was clocking a simple life. Waking up at 6:30 am. Breakfast at 8 am.
9:30 - 10 am, school prayer which still echoes in my head at times. 10 am - 3
pm classes, includes lunch break in between at 1 pm. 3:30 pm - 5 pm,
watching the wild horses graze on the great Indus river bank. Being isolated,
freezing those moments of silence into notes and poetry for myself. Unlike,
writing for a target audience whom you've never met to sell that McDonald's
burger. 6:30 pm calls for dinner. Helping the boys with homework till 8:30 pm
and then sliding into my sleeping bag.
7. A week later I went to Thikshey which is about 22 km from Leh and it was too
late an evening to return. I tried to hitchhike for a long time but in vain.
Finally, a taxi came to my rescue. While making a conversation I discovered
the taxi driver was an uncle of a class 5th boy in the school I was volunteering.
He dropped me at Leh and I opened my wallet to pay the fare.
"I can't. You're teaching my kid", he refused.
I insisted, "Please, it's your bread and butter".
"It's okay", he said and left.
I remembered Bodhi teacher's words.
Receptive.
I believe women are the utmost creative between the two genders with their
ability to create new life and shape it later. While a man finds the joy when his
brainchild sees light of the day. Being into advertising you strive for your ideas
to get that respect and the recognition it deserves. And many a times you
attend funerals in your mind when the loneliness of an idea kills it. It was not
about that 10 Rupee fare he refused to take. It was about the respect and the
recognition he gave back.
When I shared this incident with my pen friend she wrote back, "We carry our
world around us and one day you become a foreigner in your own hometown,
and an unknown place becomes your home."
I remembered my last semester in college when almost everyone in the batch
was having a job offer or two, and I was not getting through the campus
interviews. A professor stood by me back then. I wrote him a postcard saying I
was in his shoes, and thanked him again for taking me home, cooking for me
and feeding me each time I failed.
During my stay in the school, I noticed they burn down abandoned plastic
bottles and remembered Ladakhis are known to conserve. To remind them of
the same I taught the kids how to make a recycle broom out of those thrown
bottles. It was nothing less than Harry Potter's magical broomstick.
8. When I last went to Ladakh I was a different man. Arrogant, ruthless,
unforgiving and impulsive. I remember the day I reached. While looking for an
accommodation I knocked the gate of a guest house. There was no response
for a moment. I was about to leave and on that tick of the clock a woman, the
owner of the guest house opened the door. She apologized for the delay, but I
had made up my mind by then. I refused to stay there and just left.
This time, after two days of arrival and staying in that homely guest house, it
suddenly looked so familiar. Same lane. Similar gate. "Is it the same guest
house? And the same lady?", I tried to stitch the pieces of my memory. I asked
her about the past incident. But, she failed to recollect anything. My instincts
were telling me it's the same person. But I was not sure then, and I am not yet
sure about it. I told her, "Let's do one thing, I apologize to you for that rude
behaviour assuming it was you, and you forgive me as if you're her".
The last exercise I carried out in the school was "Found Object Assemblage".
It's an outdoor activity, for a change where I asked the little monks to find
whatever they could and then make something out of it. This is what they
made after collecting a pair of worn out shoes, a scruffy tyre, a crushed coke
can and more. We were struggling with how to fix the bottle caps as eyes and
one of them brings out the chewing gum from his mouth and says, "sir, stick
with it". And we burst into laughter.
9. Initially I was bit apprehensive about their hygiene, but the head lama of the
school told me not to worry as mother nature will take care of them. Later I
learned that many of them come from poor and broken families. They even
share sweaters. Few of them haven't been to their home for past two years.
This school has become their home. When they were watching an animated
film on the projector I was watching them having a good laugh.
And finally the moment knocked on the door to exchange "julleys". Did I get
more than I gave back? Perhaps, I didn't keep a count. Not even the total
expenditure of the trip.
On my way back, as I heard the announcement "the plane has safely landed",
in my mind I quickly ran a slideshow of all the pictures clicked.
"Welcome to Mumbai, sir." a pretty air hostess greeted. In my head the school
bell rang and I hummed that Pink Floyd song, "Welcome my son, Welcome to
the machine".