You know about the segregation of black school children in the Jim Crow era, but do you know how it affected the Mexican American community?

For my third novel, I have done a lot of research about the experiences of Mexican Americans in schools in the 1930s. In reading about the logistics of segregating Mexican-American students in Texas, what stunned me most was that most kids were essential forced out of school by sixth grade. Enormously overcrowded classrooms  in the "Mexican" schools made learning difficult, putting the students further behind their white peers with each year.

On top of that, the school districts in Texas often divided each elementary grade into two years (for example, "lower first," "upper first") in "Mexican" schools. The result was that--by middle school--Hispanic students were often told they were "too old" for the grade they should have been able to join in the (white) middle school.

In Houston in the 30s, only a handful of Mexican-Americans (usually lighter skinned) graduated from high school at all despite a significant Hispanic population in the area. They faced discrimination in white schools, and there was no "Mexican" public high school as an option.

I also discovered that, unlike African-Americans, whose teachers--also African-American--were usually committed to helping students use education to combat their circumstances, Mexican-American children were almost invariably taught by white teachers, some of whom found theirs an "undesirable" placement and were quick to underestimate the abilities of their students.

None of this is at the center of novel #3, but an unfavorable educational situation in San Antonio acts as one of the catalysts for a key relocation. Some of these details will, I hope, find their place in the plot, though. Because the three-fold school segregation in Texas--and its powerful, negative legacy for our communities--needs to be acknowledged.

Last night I stumbled across these entries written in one of my notebooks during a trip to Belfast in 2005. I've typed it up for you because I still feel the same way about skies. And gratitude. Turns out I'm still, more or less, the same person as I was back then. Pinch myself and command myself to look up.

By 6:00 a.m. the sun is already alive high in the sky. A real blue sky, few clouds.  The tiny room I stay in is full to the ceiling with light.  ALL THAT LIGHT remembered through one small window. Light burning to the heart of my sleep.

Later each day I marvel at the morning sun’s precocious brilliance.  Oh I know it’s really a matter of latitudes, but in my mind the Belfast summer sun is simply ambitious, determined to get the work of the day started, and the sooner, the better.

If you want to see blue sky over here, you have to be equally ambitious.  6:30 a.m. ambitious.  Because by 10:00, that giant blue chalkboard is hidden, and the sun is lost behind bank after bank of clouds.  They blow in suddenly, blot everything out.  Even I, daughter of Texas (don’t like the weather?  Wait five minutes!) find this to be a fickle sky.  You can never trust it.  One minute it’s balmy.  Next, thunderheads have rolled in, and they don’t spare you any wetness, neither.  Raingear a must regardless of how the sky looks when you leave the house.

-

Today Julia and I went to Castle Hill, a high hill at the edge of town, a mountain by my Texas standards.  The weather was foul when we got off our bus and started climbing toward the park path.  The clouds flicked spiteful spit down on the pavement, dampening our hair, stilling hopes.

Then, suddenly: hot sun, blue sky.  We sweat up the steep path.  The perspiration rivers down my back, pools tellingly below my pack, dribbles down my arms.

Halfway up, Julia points out blueberry bushes she saw the last time she was here with Ralf.  We check them out, and though the peak of the season has passed, we find perfect, late-formed jewels hanging amid the tiny juice-stained leaves.  We pick and eat them until our hands are painted as well.

Julia tells me of her own berry-picking, mushroom-hunting childhood escapades. “Our dog was just the right height to graze straight from the bushes.  Of course, you didn’t want him around when you were picking, such a slobberer, but he was so funny coming home with his big happy grin and lolling purple tongue.”

Some two heaving hours later, we arrive at the top, at the cliff’s edge.  Wind so strong I fear it.  Julia remembers a dell (think: crater in the hillside) where we find shelter from the wind.  We plop down, lying on our jackets, and admire the green of the field and the blue of the sky. I squint up at the whipping seas of grasses.  Also the heather, a lavender wonder.  The real stuff of books.  (Macbeth’s witches: “We shall meet upon the heath.”)  I try to photograph the wild whipping of that grass, which puts me in mind of the celebrants of some ascetic sect for whom self-flagellation is a must.  Photographed, though, it seems to say only, GRASS.  Not “the grasses beating themselves under a broad blue sky.”

We are talking of past loves and fault lines in relationships.  Our backs press into the earth as we eat the butter and cheese sandwiches we carried up in our packs.

And then it happens.

Our eyes are closed to let lids soak up the wonder of it all, but we can still feel the change.  The sun vanishes from us.  Just like that.  Clouds whip across us fast, pitching raindrops in earnest.  “Jesus,” I mutter, “from where…?”

Julia, ever the geographer’s wife, explains.  Our nearness to the coast means that when the sun shines bright, it heats up the water of the sea.  Said water rises in vapor, forming clouds.  These clouds gather, then roll in on inland winds.

“But now it means we’ll get soaked,” I cry.

“Well, let’s hurry!”

Out of the dell we can see that half of the world is still holding strong under benevolent blue.  The other half is in the storm.  We run down a goat trail, sliding on the rocks.  I laugh hysterically as I skid left and right across the steep path.  Julia shouts caution.  As we find a real footpath and run down the hill it becomes clear that we are on the dividing line.

We’re running at the edge of the weather, tracing its skirt.

-

The sky at sunrise: suddenly, mountains of orange and gold, a sea of pink.  Rivers of light.  A whole changing skyscape.  Gone before I can raise anyone else in the house.  But I saw it.  Majestic.

Light flying toward heaven or space.  Heaven—ascension—angels—words we must have invented for skies like this.  A miracle of color and cloud.  How could you look at this and not see BEAUTY?  Beauty—a construct, yes.  Beauty—subjective, yes.  But... how could my heart not rise to that?  

 I try to send my gratitude in volleys heavenward.  Then I look up and see SKY and am amazed again. Simply:  I feel more thankfulness than I can give to other people.  I have to do something with it, send it somewhere.  Up feels right.

Here's the full Q: How do you work writing into your life?  I often find myself without any time to write, or if I do have the time, I am not in the "zone". I am tired, or worn, and so I end up going for months on end without writing. That makes it hard to get better and hard to get anything done. How do you manage this?*

 A: The first thing to know is that you are not alone; the practical problem of sitting down to write is one that every writer has to face. We all find our tricks for simply doing the work.

My number one piece of advice is to set a very, very small daily goal. Instead of beating yourself up for not spending three hours writing, give yourself lots of kudos for making twenty minutes (or even ten!) happen. I wrote a lot of my first novel in ten-minute chunks of writing with my students.

If you want more ideas on motivation to do what you want to do, check out my post on how to eat an elephant or my nerdy but effective way of making sure I meet my own small daily goals.

*Question courtesy of the National Writing Project·and readers of Figment.com for the National Day on Writing. Read highlights of the event in·this post·or listen to me and four other guests talk about the National Day on Writing for the NWP blogtalk radio program here.

I'm wrapping up a semester of teaching here in Paris, which always gets me reflecting on my practice--and on the relationships I've formed with students and other teachers. Recently someone asked me how I could put up with a certain class (notoriously difficult assignment where I am), and I had occasion to share my secret weapon with her. And so I thought I'd share it with you, too.

The idea is deceptively simple, and it comes from Randy Bomer's fantastic book, Time for Meaning. (I talk about Time for Meaning more here.) Here's what you do: whatever subject you are teaching, you write a letter to your students sharing some of your experiences (positive and negative). Next, you ask students to write back to you, personally, with some of their own stories. You can give them prompts, but you also want them to have the freedom to share whatever they'd like you to know. Finally, you read the letters and write back, personally, to each student. That's it.

Now, I know that last part--writing back--might sound a bit overwhelming, especially if you are teaching high school and have many students (one semester I had 210). But even in your case, it is so worth it. You will reap much in terms of connection--and increased motivation--because of this up-front investment of time.

Why does this work? By making yourself vulnerable to students--presenting yourself as a human whose had good and bad times, not the superman/superwoman ruling the universe--you make it easier for students to be real with you. When they are honest, they often reveal their particular blocks when it comes to your subject matter (whether it's math, English, foreign language, or another topic). Their letters will humanize their struggles to you, too, making you more willing to work with them. And by asking for--and proving you have read--their stories, you show that you are actually interested in them as human beings. I talk more about teaching through weakness (or vulnerability) here.

What does a literacy letter look like? I have a whole folder of lit letters I've written over the years; here's one from one of my high school English classes to give you the idea.

Dear Scholars,

I’m so glad to be here; I have high hopes for our time together. But let me get down to the point of this letter: who are we as readers and writers?

The fact that we can read and write--no matter how we feel about the subject--is a blessing we all owe to a teacher. Ms. Keyes, my kindergarten teacher, pointed a ruler at words and told the class to recite them. I hated the thwack her ruler made against the paper and the rasp of her voice calling, “Neeext?” But I loved how the words turned into pictures and ideas in my brain. Somehow, when she pointed at the word “apple,” a secret window in my mind opened to a shiny, sweet fruit. The word “forget” made me think of the sick feeling I got when I went to bed without remembering to tell my dad that I loved him.

With each book, I seemed to grow a little bit as a reader. I imagined myself as a vine climbing up a wall that extended infinitely far into the sky.  There was so much to learn--how characters thought and changed; the way places influence people; what happens when tragedy strikes; the way things work in other families, countries, time periods, or planets (in science fiction, of course).

Reading never got easy, but it got GOOD. I read everywhere. I worked in a photography lab as a teenager, and I always brought my book, a dictionary, and a stack of index cards with me.  While photographs developed in deep trays of chemicals, I would strain my eyes to see in the darkroom’s red light. When I came to a word I didn’t know, I would look it up and write it down on an index card. I’d even write a sentence to help me remember. (No, it was not a school assignment; I was just that dorky.) When I scan the top shelf of my book case where I put The Sound and the Fury, The God of Small Things, Snow Falling on Cedars, The Kite Runner, No Telephone to Heaven, Anna Karenina, and my other favorites, I remember the words I learned with each book.

All of this is just great, right? But my experiences with words have not been one long success story.  Every time I go to Mexico, I’m reminded of how vexing it is to have an idea but not know how to express it.  Since I speak Spanish as a second language, I sound like a stuck record repeating, “¿Cómo se dice…?” during conversations.  And when I first starting reading in Spanish--¡Ay, Dios mio! After four pages of a novel, I felt exhausted.  Writing a simple note took me an hour and lots of paper. By the end, my fingers were sliced with paper cuts from using my Spanish dictionary so much. Even now, years deeper into the language, I feel less intelligent, less interesting, and less funny when I try to express myself in Spanish.  It’s like I’m a shadow of myself--a shadow with bad grammar. But the language itself is worth it.  So are the relationships it’s made possible.  I keep plugging away.

Don’t think that I only struggle in Spanish, either.  This summer, I vowed to write a novel.  For two weeks, I stared out the window and drooled.  Nothing.  When I wrote a sentence, it looked to me like something an inebriated Chihuahua had composed.  I cried and complained. I felt sorry for myself and ate chocolate chip cookies.  Then I sat back down and tried again.  Instead of trying to write THE NOVEL, I focused on writing notes about the novel.  “Calm down,” I coached myself, “this is not the real thing. Just write it.” I read books about writing novels. I timed my sessions at my desk to keep myself from taking a break every 35 seconds.  I wrote more notes.  Then--praise the Lord--I finally started THE NOVEL.

It’s not finished.  I’ve got about 20 pages typed up, not the complete manuscript I hoped for.  But I do know where it’s going now, and I am going to do it.  I know it’ll hurt sometimes. I’ll hate the story I’m telling, and I’ll want to quit.  Don’t let me, please. I need encouragement (and a little pressure), too.

All these experiences--and many more--are with me as I teach you each day.  I have a passion for my subject, yet I also know that you’ve had many different experiences that may have affected how you see English, for better or worse.

In this room, there are enough stories to fill a book.  You don’t have to tell me everything, but write back to me and give me a piece of who you are as a reader and writer. How do you feel when you read or write? What books or writing are important to you? Why do they matter? I’d love to hear your stories.

Sincerely, your teacher,

Ashley Pérez

Keep in mind that you can change the focus of your letter depending on your subject matter. For example, when I teach Spanish as a foreign language, I focus on what it's like to encounter problems when I express myself in other languages... the point is to connect to some of the struggles your students may face.

If you find this helpful, you might also want to check out my other teacher resources here on the website.