Language Classroom: ESL
Level/L1: Intermediate to advanced
level students with a variety of L1s
Age: Adults
Skills: Reading (Pre-Reading)
Purpose: To preview and expand on some
possible vocabulary and concepts that might appear in the text.
Rationale: We chose this activity
because of the importance of using prior knowledge in understanding a text and
to encourage students to use semantic mapping in order to improve vocabulary
and reading comprehension. By previewing some possible vocabulary related to the
text the students will have an easier time reading and enjoying the text.
Time: 10 minutes
Preparation: Find an appropriate text
and print a copy for each student. (15 minutes) (See Appendix A)
Procedures:
- Explain to students that they will be reading a short story by Sherman Alexi, a Native American writer, about his experiences learning to read as a child.
- The students have used semantic mapping, specifically word roses, previously in the class so there is no need to explain it.
- Write the key concept word on the board and ask each student to make a word-rose with the word. (Ex: unemployment)
- In pairs have students discuss their word roses. (3 minutes)
- Make a word rose on the board with words from each pair of students. Call on each pair and have them contribute some of their words and possibly explain the connection to the key word. (5 minutes)
- If any important words from the text are not mentioned, add them to the word-rose and give students a brief explanation of the word. (Ex: Goodwill, Salvation Army, powwow) (2 minutes)
Appendix
A
Superman
and Me
by Sherman Alexie
Los Angeles Times,
April 19 1998
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 paragraph. In one panel, Superman breaks through a
door. His suit is red, blue and yellow. The brown door shatters into many
pieces. I look at the narrative above the picture. I cannot read the words, but
I assume it tells me that "Superman is breaking down the door."
Aloud, I pretend to read the words and say, "Superman is breaking down the
door." Words, dialogue, also float out of Superman's mouth. Because he is
breaking down the door, I assume he says, "I am breaking down the
door." Once again, I pretend to read the words and say aloud, "I am
breaking down the door" In this way, I learned to read.
This might be an
interesting story all by itself. A little Indian boy teaches himself to read at
an early age and advances quickly. He reads "Grapes of Wrath" in
kindergarten when other children are struggling through "Dick and
Jane." If he'd been anything but an Indian boy living on the reservation,
he might have been called a prodigy. But he is an Indian boy living on the
reservation and is simply an oddity. He grows into a man who often speaks of
his childhood in the third-person, as if it will somehow dull the pain and make
him sound more modest about his talents.
A smart Indian is a dangerous person,
widely feared and ridiculed by Indians and non-Indians alike. I fought with my
classmates on a daily basis. They wanted me to stay quiet when the non-Indian
teacher asked for answers, for volunteers, for help. We were Indian children
who were expected to be stupid. Most lived up to those expectations inside the
classroom but subverted them on the outside. They struggled with basic reading
in school but could remember how to sing a few dozen powwow songs. They were
monosyllabic in front of their non-Indian teachers but could tell complicated
stories and jokes at the dinner table. They submissively ducked their heads
when confronted by a non-Indian adult but would slug it out with the Indian
bully who was 10 years older. As Indian children, we were expected to fail in
the non-Indian world. Those who failed were ceremonially accepted by other
Indians and appropriately pitied by non-Indians.
I refused to fail. I was
smart. I was arrogant. I was lucky. I read books late into the night, until I
could barely keep my eyes open. I read books at recess, then during lunch, and
in the few minutes left after I had finished my classroom assignments. I read
books in the car when my family traveled to powwows or basketball games. In
shopping malls, I ran to the bookstores and read bits and pieces of as many
books as I could. I read the books my father brought home from the pawnshops
and secondhand. I read the books I borrowed from the library. I read the backs
of cereal boxes. I read the newspaper. I read the bulletins posted on the walls
of the school, the clinic, the tribal offices, the post office. I read junk
mail. I read auto-repair manuals. I read magazines. I read anything that had
words and paragraphs. I read with equal parts joy and desperation. I loved
those books, but I also knew that love had only one purpose. I was trying to
save my life.
Despite all the books I read, I am still surprised I became a
writer. I was going to be a pediatrician. These days, I write novels, short
stories, and poems. I visit schools and teach creative writing to Indian kids.
In all my years in the reservation school system, I was never taught how to
write poetry, short stories or novels. I was certainly never taught that
Indians wrote poetry, short stories and novels. Writing was something beyond
Indians. I cannot recall a single time that a guest teacher visited the
reservation. There must have been visiting teachers. Who were they? Where are
they now? Do they exist? I visit the schools as often as possible. The Indian
kids crowd the classroom. Many are writing their own poems, short stories and
novels. They have read my books. They have read many other books. They look at
me with bright eyes and arrogant wonder. They are trying to save their lives.
Then there are the sullen and already defeated Indian kids who sit in the back
rows and ignore me with theatrical precision. The pages of their notebooks are
empty. They carry neither pencil nor pen. They stare out the window. They
refuse and resist. "Books," I say to them. "Books," I say.
I throw my weight against their locked doors. The door holds. I am smart. I am
arrogant. I am lucky. I am trying to save our lives.
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