Here, for your pleasure and information, are just a few examples of written work from students in previous semesters.

As you enjoy these writings, you will get some insight into the kinds of assignments that make up the course...

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Spandex Attack!!!

NOTE: What you are about to read is based on actual events.Out of a concern to protect the people in this story, names have been changed. If you think you might know or are related to the persons discussed in this story, just pretend you don't/aren't. If you think this story might be about you, keep quiet. Look the other way. Smile and nod.

It's Monday morning. Us girls have just gotten changed in the cold, dank (but nowhere near as smelly as the boys') changing room. We huddle together on the bleachers, nervously whispering as we examine each other's new runners. Katie has a kick-ass pair of Reeboks—an explosion of colour. I wonder if I canconvince my mom to buy me another new pair 'cause, after all, mine suck. They're pink and turquoise.

KARANG! And we all snap to attention, craning our necks to see who's coming through the heavy steel door. It's Mr. Gesepee, our new P.E. teacher. The whispers stop. Mouths ever so slowly drop open. Barely detectable early-morning saliva strings glisten in the light of the long fluorescent bulbs that stretch across the ceiling.

"ARRRIGHT!" he half growls, half barks from all the way across the gym—but we hear him as if he's looming over top of us. "EVERRYONE. ON THE FLOOR. NOW. THIRTEEN LAPS. LET'S GO!!!"

His blue-blue eyes spark like a blown fuse, and suddenly we are awake. My stomach lurches in protest as we pound around the gym.

"Man, this gym seems bigger than it ever was," I pant to Sarah, who's steadily inching ahead of me.

"NO-O TALKING!" Gesepee snarls in my direction.

When we've finally finished the thirteen, and we're draped across the gym floor, heaving and gasping for air, the truth sinks in. Mr. Gesepee is entirely clad from his tiny white runners to his twitching, sand-coloured moustache, in Spandex . And when I say Spandex I mean SPAN-DEX. Tight, stretchy, shiny material, taut across his slim legs and undetectable stomach. GROSS. Back in the change room, somebody says, "How 'bout Mr.Spandex, huh? Strutting around with a stick up his butt!"

The jokes start to fly. All of the grade ten nastiness we can muster (and us girls can get pretty dang nasty) is focussed on Mr. Gesepee. From then on, we hate him, bonded together in our common cause. The rumours fly.

"Last week I saw him hitting on Rochelle—right outside the library on Tenth Avenue, in GREEN and GOLD Spandex!" Sarah informs me. (Neither of us like Rochelle much. She has too many boyfriends and we don't have any). "I had to go ask Gesepee to sign my absent note," Byron tells us, "and when I got to the office, he was having a shower—"

"EWWW!" we screech."—and I saw a picture of him on his desk, wearing a fireman's hat and a red and yellow one-piece Spandex jumpsuit!" (Byron never lies, his dad is a preacher, so we have no reason to doubt this).

One rare day, Mr. Gesepee is away (rumor has it he is undergoinga tricky operation in attempt to remove the flag pole which he accidentally got stuck up his...).

So, on the run through the forest and out along the road, Sarah, Katie, Byron and I (and a few others, following our lead) cheat and cut a huge part of it. The student helper from grade twelve who is wearing a pair of black Spandex shorts) watches us but doesn't say anything.

Next P.E. class, the grade twelve helper is mysteriously away (the betraying chicken!) and we all get it from Gesepee.

"WHADAYA SOFTIES THINK YER DOING, EH?!!!" Gesepee yells, as I note he has a new Spandex suit on—pink and purple. "IT'S TOO DAMN BAD ALL THE CHEATERS AREN'T HERE TODAY."

I have to re-run the run with only two other people, whom I don't know, in the rain, with Gesepee watching from under his umbrella. All I can think is to thank the blessed government for allowing teens a choice, next year, in grade eleven, to take P.E. or not.

***********

It's grade eleven. My creative writing teacher recently published a piece of writing I did in the school newsletter, 'cause he said it was my best work ever. I'm pleased, but haven't thought much more about it. English class just ended, and I'm plodding down the hall with all the other students, to my next class when....

"MARRAH!" I look up to see Spandex in all its tight n' shiny glory, twinkling in the dull light of the hallway. Mr. Gesepee...

My throat tightens up; I suddenly feel out of breath, like I just went for a run (though I have taken a stand against that vile activity and vowed never to do it again). I begin to sweat, and wobble on my four inch heels. "Marah, I just wanted to say, I really enjoyed reading that piece of writing you did. I'm glad Mr. Saterson published it in the newsletter—that's gotta be the best move he's ever made. Actually, I was telling my wife that it's the best piece of writing I've read in years—way better than the garbage they write in newspapers—I read it to my four-year-old, and he loved it. You really do have a marvelous talent, keep on writing."

I can't speak. Suddenly his eyes are no longer shooting off sparks, and his moustache makes him look somewhat cuddly. He has a wife? He has a four-year-old ? I somehow manage to choke out a smile and a feeble "thank you," but it's weird, 'cause everything I think I know about him is in question.

How can a Spandex-obsessed P.E. teacher appreciate a piece of writing? Why does he remember my name? He's not supposed to like anything about me—I cheated on the run and I've stopped taking P.E.

A few days later, in Creative Writing Class, Mr. Saterson stops me to say how much Mr.Gesepee likes my writing. For some reason, he adds, thinking aloud, "You know, it's funny, I don't think manypeople know this, but he has an English degree. He could take over this class no problem."

***********

Two years after I graduate, I am in Starbucks with Sarah. We're happily gossiping about old times when Sarah's eyebrows shoot sky-high. "Hey, it's Mr. Spandex!" Sarah hisses and nudges me. I gulp, a piece of cappuccino biscotti lodges in my throat.

There he is, Mr. Gesepee, wearing a fairly conservative Spandex shirt-'n-shorts combo, his moustache gently waving in the breeze as he walks through the door. He sees us.

"HELLO GIRRLS!" his growly voice calls, and he looks quite pleased. We politely answer his questions about how university is going, and Sarah tells him that she runs every day (she was always a bit of a suck-up).

Then he directs his attention to me.

"Marah, are you still writing?"

I nod, feeling my double-tall mocha lurch in my stomach.

"SUPERB! I'm watching for you to be published. Keep it up." And then he's gone.

***********
I haven't seen Mr. Gesepee again. I tried to explain how I think he's different from the growly, flag-pole-up-his.... that we thought he was, but my friends still call him Mr. Spandex.

I still think about Mr. Spandex whenever I write, and I marvel at how a P.E. teacher I despised ended up teaching me some crucial life-long lessons. He didn't just give me extra confidence about my writing, but he opened my eyes. People aren't what they seem to be. From Mr. Gesepee I learned that you can't always understand a person, or know what his or her life story is by what appears on the surface. Mr. Gesepee made me realize that every person has a life behind their actions that is far different from what you may suppose.

The Psychic Was Right

Maybe it was the date I was set up with: he suggested I pay for not only my own movie ticket but his as well. Or it might have been the 'friend' who charged me $4 for gas every time she drove us to a mutual destination. Whatever it was, I realized selfishness was not a trait I wanted to possess. Over time, I came to see the difference between the generous, likeable people in my life and those looking out only for themselves.

I vowed I would be remembered as a giving person; and I strived to always help others out as much as I could.

I'd been giving swimming lessons to two girls, four and six and absolutely adorable. I felt like I was really accomplishing something when they did their first float by themselves, or breathed their first breath underwater. But the best was when these girls, up to then scared to death of water, would come to the pool with huge grins to tell me how they'd been anxiously waiting to practise a new skill or to "play that fun game again". This made my work with them worth more than the money I received from it.

After five months of lessons, an hour each, twice a week, and with steady progress, I was given some sad news. The girls' father had cancer, he was in the hospital, and he could no longer afford my services.

I felt terrible for the family! What could I possibly do to help?

I had come to depend on the regular income, and had etched out a permanent four hour slot a week to devote to their lessons.

I would miss our time together.

I wouldn't see them reach their full potential, or hear their laughter as we played our games in the water.

Most of all, I would miss learning from the girls, as their creative little minds strived to outdo my own with imaginative games and activities that I would take with me to the full-sized classes I taught.

Well, I figured, if I could volunteer for nine months to get a teaching position, I could surely give of my time to help those in need. So I told the family I would continue the classes free of charge as long as was needed. It felt even better to be doing something extra for someone without any expectations whatsoever.

From this act, I learned a lot about myself, about giving, and about my priorities and purposes.

Shortly after this, I happened to visit a psychic. She said she saw me giving of my time and expertise, and that every act of kindness would come back threefold.

I ended up receiving a letter of recommendation which helped me secure a substitute teaching position. The experience was freeing and prompted me to open my heart to other opportunities for giving.

I also found that not only do others like me more when I am giving, but, in turn, they want to help me out. I like myself more, too.

The psychic was right.

Learning How to Talk

You might think I’m going tell you how I learned how to talk as an infant—all that “dada” and “mama” stuff. That learning to talk is certainly an important part of my life but, actually, I don’t remember a thing about it.

I didn’t really learn how to talk until much later in life.

In those formative toddler years, my exploration of language was like that of most other kids, except that my parents divorced when I was three. Things around our house became very quiet.

This was the beginning of a bond of silence between my younger siblings and me. No one ever told us what was happening. We never questioned where we were going. We just knew Daddy wasn’t coming back to us.

Our mother became the dominant force in our lives.

Visits with dad were limited and somewhat artificial. When you are a little kid how do you get to know someone who doesn’t know himself? For many years, we answered questions and listened to what a terrible person our mother was.

We kept quiet, remained loyal to both our mom and dad and didn’t confide in each other.

With a working mother, I became the missing parent. I was in charge of after-school chores and preparing dinner. I was responsible, and I took it seriously. I was ten... going on thirty.

Most of the communication between me and my siblings was about resentment and anger. Most of it was in long, silent stretches or vicious verbal attacks. We didn’t know how to talk to each other.

I was good at keeping my feelings suppressed. I didn’t want to burden my mom with anything so trivial. I believed my input was of no value. If I did have the courage to express myself, most of the time my feelings were considered to be irrelevant. At timesmy mother humiliated me in front of my friends—and left to pick up the pieces.

I usually didn’t have the confidence to speak up about much of anything.

I struggled through school, sitting at the back of the class, rarely participating. I was afraid to talk. I might say something stupid. I had a small group of friends I felt comfortable with. They accepted me as the quiet one in the group and left it at that.

As an adult, I put on a good front. I married a man who expected me to be quiet. I got a job as a very quiet, responsible accounting clerk. I hated my life.

* * *

My divorce left me alone in a silent, painful world. I searched for help and found it with a group of people who wanted to make changes in their lives. This is how I learned how to talk.

It was a slow, painful process. We were a small group of people sitting in a circle. I remember the knots in my stomach, the dryness in my mouth, and the sweat of my fear. My lips would part but I couldn’t say anything - I was too scared. Before each session I would shake with nervousness, so afraid that I would say something wrong. It took me several tries to even share a little bit about myself.

The responses I got were different from I expected. People were listening to me. They were compassionate, understanding and supportive. As the weeks and months passed, I learned what it was like to feel safe and accepted. I learned a lot about myself as I shared about my childhood and my family. I was not the only one who felt unloved. Other people had gone through similar experiences as mine. Somehow that was comforting to know.

Not only did I learn how to talk but I learned that I loved to be with other people. We didn’t always agree but I learned about sharing and acceptance of other people’s feelings. I became more confident about who I was and what I wanted in life.

I began to take more risks outside of this comfort zone—even simple things like food and clothing. I had always gone along with everyone else. I was learning to express my opinion with confidence and not be afraid to change my mind or make mistakes. I wasn’t afraid to make decisions.

* * *

Now, I find it upsetting when I meet people who are afraid to talk. Their silence reminds me of my pain and I empathize with their fears. I don’t doubt that some people have a quiet nature. I’ve encountered children like this in my classroom. The difference is that they participate and speak with confidence. The children who are quiet and do not talk are the ones who concern me the most.

I find myself drawn to them. I take time to stop by their desk and ask them something special. Sometimes they respond but most often they are painfully nervous. As they begin to know me and the other children, they relax. I spend a bit more time with them in conferences and try to learn something special about their lives. I give lots of encouragement but usually in a quiet way. They don’t want to be noticed. If a child is really nervous about sharing a special book or a special something, I’ll practice with him or her. We sit together in the big comfy chair. The child leads, I encourage. The other children sense this child is scared and are quick to say something positive. They model their behaviour on mine.

Children need opportunities to talk. They need a safe and encouraging environment where they can express their ideas and not be afraid to make mistakes.

Children need to be exposed to situations where they can learn about themselves and gain confidence as they talk.

Children need to know people are listening and not judging.

Children need to talk about their lives to make sense of it. To find out who they are and where they’re going. If we want to educate children we need to help them find their “voice” so they can engage in learning.

All this is a life-long process. I’m learning more about talking. I still get nervous when I talk in front of my colleagues. I remind myself that what I have to say is important and I calm myself. I’m taking more risks to talk about who I am and invite people to share with me. I’m learning how to be a better listener. I’m learning how to talk to myself as I write papers and take time to reflect.

As parents, friends and educators, we need to be aware of people who are afraid to talk. We can show them compassion and give them encouragement. We could make a difference in their lives.

Asking a family and, in particular, a fifteen-year-old teen, to alter their reality is a bit like expecting salmon to stop swimming upstream. They do what they do, because it is what they know.

I've been slowly and gingerly pampering my family into a new reality—the reality that it's time for me to move on. I have gone back to school.

Though the kids at first thought I had lost it—why would anyone want to go to school—they’re becoming pretty good about it.

I'm looking forward to be able to read when I want to and write when I want to, instead of thinking of five people, their schedules, and needs all at once.

But then the guilt flashes in front of me.

Maybe I’m being selfish, maybe I should wait till all the kids graduate, till they leave home, till they’re financially independent, till the grandkids grow up.

Then there’s my husband. Maybe I should wait till he can take more time away from his business, till he gets another partner, till he’s less stressed out, till he retires.

But I think it's like having kids—there is no one pre-ordained, best time. Sometimes you’ve just got to go for it. And so, I have.

I was working at the computer last Tuesday afternoon. Michelle, the fifteen-year-old, came twirling into my office to show me the dress she was wearing to the school dance that evening. After the oohs and ahhhs, and discussion on who’s driving and time frames, she pranced out of the office informing me that she didn’t have to be a school until 9:30 the following morning. Her mind works like this. `Isn’t it great? I get to sleep in an hour later tomorrow.'

My 'new reality’ mind works like this:

'Wooooooo—time out, here. Just because you get to sleep in doesn’t mean everybody else does.'

I gently explained that since I had a class at 9:30 the following morning, the car pool, which I drive on Wednesdays, would be leaving at the regularly scheduled time.

Of course, I softened the blow with nurturing words, because I understand teens instinctively resist realities other than their own.

Back came the reasonable fifteen year old solution: “Just tell your prof that you’re late because you had to drive us to school.”

An acceptable solution, one could argue. Except that I didn’t WANT to be late.

But have you ever tried to explain to a teenager that you want to go to school? They can look at you like you’ve just lost all sense of the real world, while they go about looking up the number of the closest neighbourhood psychiatrist.

Michelle’s second solution then, was simply to stay home. If I was so possessed with school that I had to be there on time, then she would just have to tell her teachers that she didn’t have a ride.

Experience has taught me that this is not a decision I wanted to engage in head-on...so I simply asked her to tell the kids, who would be at the dance, that the van was leaving at the regular time.

Sticking true to her convictions, Michelle informed me that she wasn’t going to tell them any such thing, because it was I who was changing the plans —and being unfair.

While Michelle was at the dance that evening, I had to wrestle with how much to believe her last statement. Stubbornness goes hand and hand with being fifteen, and yet, deep down inside, I didn’t believe that she would really be that obstinate. Just to cover my bases though, I did phone the other parents just to make sure they knew when I’d be leaving. As for telling the kids, I’d leave that up to Michelle.

Michelle came into our bedroom later that night, and told us all about the dance. We did the regular about the music, who was there, who wore what, and who danced with whom.

When her father started his ritual interrogation of who asked you to dance routine, I told her I loved her and gave her a hug goodnight. No mention of the impending departure time—I had to trust her.

I breathed a sigh of relief the next morning when I heard her footsteps in the bathroom. She was up on time, as were the others. I thanked her for being ready, and that was the end of the discussion, except for her letting me know that she was reeeaaalllyyyy tired.

How do we teach our children that our lives can’t always revolve around just them, when the truth is they live in the center of our hearts? I don’t really know.

Except to maybe nurture them with gentleness and humour and trust, as we guide them to find new rivers for their journey upstream (and, maybe, sometimes quietly phone the carpool parents!)

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Lateral Thinking

I trudged up the slush-covered steps to the front door of the school, back pack in hand, brain still in sleep mode. Through the hallways. To my classroom, twisting my feet to make the rubber soles of my boots squeak. The bustle of fellow students faded as I rounded the last corner to my class. My class was quiet: Mrs. Bradshaw didn't appreciate talking in her classroom,

I removed my jacket and boots, and slid into my seat, oblivious to the fact that it wasn't even Mrs. Bradshaw up front.

The substitute teacher launched into the routine of writing his name on the board—Mr. Eagen—and telling us a little about himself. I turned around to chat with Graham. But already Mr. Eagen was towering over me—a wide grin on his face.

"Sorry to interrupt you, but... your name?"

"Here comes another trip to the office," I thought: "Ryan Neufeld." "Well, Ryan, nice to meet you. Guess what? You just volunteered to be my first example. Come on up to the front of the class." He grinned again.

I followed behind, dragging my feet, hanging my head to show him just how uninterested I was in being his example.

He pulled up a stool and had me sit on it in the front of the class. Then he began talking ...

"This morning, we're going to be creative," he said. "I'm going to get you guys and girls (politically correct too! he's good) to start thinking laterally. What that means is that you're going to have to think of solutions that aren't very normal or obvious. I'll ask you a riddle and you have to answer it by thinking of the... craziest answers you can. Ryan here has volunteered himself to demonstrate lateral thinking to all of us."

A collective giggle went up at this and I pumped my fists in the air. More laughter.

"Okay Ryan, here is your riddle," said Mr. Eagen still grinning away.

"A young boy and his father were driving to the mall when they were hit by another vehicle and sent crashing into a tree. They father was fine but the young boy was badly hurt and needed medical attention. A bystander called 911 and the ambulance arrived in minutes, rushing the boy and his anxious father to the hospital. When they arrived they were rushed into the emergency room where a surgeon was waiting. When the boy was placed on the table the surgeon backed away and looked at the father saying, 'I'm sorry but I can't work on this boy. He is my son!' How can this be?" asked Mr. Eagen.

I sat dumbfounded. How could this boy have two fathers?

Then it hit me: "Easy," I said, "one of them is his step dad."

"Good try, Ryan, but that's not the correct answer. I didn't say 'stepfather'—I said 'father'. Does anybody else know the answer?"

"Maybe they adopted him," shouted someone at the back.

"No, that's not it either. But good try. I'd have told you if he was adopted."

Answers were slowly offered up—in between stretches of silence. Each answer seemed crazier than the last. Finally, after someone suggested that the fathers were involved in some sort of experiment where they both were the dad for one mom and son, Mr. Eagen gave in and told us the answer.

"The solution is actually simple," he said. "The surgeon was the boy's mother."

The class sat in stunned silence. Slowly the words sunk in. Smirks appeared on some faces; the laughter rose. In one small moment, we had grasped what lateral thinking was all about.

But Mr. Eagen didn't stop there. We began talking about what the riddle had taught us—about thinking creatively, about sexism. Because we'd all assumed the surgeon was a man, we failed able to solve the riddle.

That afternoon we did our math problems. our science quiz, and our spelling assignment, but I will never forget that morning when I learned so much about myself, about life—and about thinking laterally.

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