Making music out of sentence fragments: in those times when it seems impossible to connect with the joy of what matters most, go find a classroom.

In his new book, Blinte, Malcolm Gladwell explains the phenomena he labels "thin slicing"--those decisive glances that allow one to know in a second whether something is of value or not. Many school administrators "thin slice" when they walk into a classroom and know in an instant whether or not this class is "of quality." Research about what the unconscious processes so quickly in those first seconds inside a classroom door might discover that the questions answered include:

* Is there a sense of anticipation?

* Are students thinking at higher cognitive levels?

* Is there laughter?

* Is there attention to the task at hand?

* Is there an atmosphere of mutual respect?

The factors that create a "yes" to those questions are what attracted me to this profession. Yet budget cuts, undisciplined students, their pushy parents and accountability pressures often distract me from what matters most. They also contribute to a sense of futility that can lead to burnout. My antidote for burnout is to stubbornly focus on what led me to education as a career.

To that end I offer my version of Al Zolynas' poem, Love in the Classroom.

   It's a spring afternoon.
   Across the quad children sing
   a song of magic.
   Lyrics of joy and wonder
   float into the classroom.

   I stand in front of students
   telling them about sentence fragments.
   (Our scores are low,
   AYP AMO's may not be reached.

   There must be too many
   sentence fragments floating
   aimlessly in essays of persuasion,
   in fictional narratives).

   "Find the fragments, all 8 of them
   In the 20 sentences on the page."

   My students
   sincere,
   carefree,
   ready to play volleyball,
   somehow actually show enthusiasm
   for sentence fragments.

   Each bends over a desk.
   Michael's lips move as he follows
   a nonsensical line.
   Erica sits perfectly still
   awaiting Robert's answer
   which he gives in loud snorts.

   That melody,
   from the quad,
   floats around and through us,
   broken here and there, fragmented.
   Restarted, it's a tune of noticing
   trees of green,
   jazz,
   Southern.

   I sit at my desk,
   watching my students
   at work.
   Noticing
   Jason's smile
   Fred's earnestness
   Wendy's distracting toss
   of a pencil at Alex.

   It hits me from nowhere--a sudden
   sweet, almost painful love for my students.

   "Never mind," I want to cry out.
   "It doesn't matter about fragments!
   Finding them or not. Everything's
   a fragment and everything's not a fragment.
   Listen to the music, how fragmented,
   how whole, how we can't separate the
   music
   from the sun falling on its knees on all the
   greenness,
   from this movement, how this moment
   contains all the fragments of yesterday
   and everything we'll ever know of tomorrow!"

   My students keep searching
   for fragments.
   Susan asks,
   "How about that line from the music,
   'They're
   really saying, I love you,' is that a flagment?"

   I stop them all
   seeking every set of eyes,
   waiting until
   each locks on mine.
   And I say,
   "Let's sing along."
   And they do.
   Our fragment
   adding to the whole.
   Our whole
   adding to the fragment.

In those times when it seems impossible to connect to the joy of what matters most, go find a classroom. Take a thin slice. Feast on the fragment that adds to the whole. Then go back again and again and again.

Note: The italicized lines above are taken directly from the Al Zolynas poem, "Love in the Classroom," which can be found in the book, "Teaching with Fire" (Jossey-Bass, 2003).