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Homework and Assignments

Hello Students! Below you will find a detailed list of all your homework assignments.

​501 Parents: Some of your children received forms that need to be filled out. Please ask your child if  he/she received the papers. If so, please fill them out and have them in by Monday. Thanking you in advance! Also, if you haven't joined classdojo yet, please do so so that we can keep you informed of your child's progress. You can also get in touch with us if you have any questions or concerns.

October 18 Reading: Parents please monitor that your children are reading EVERY NIGHT and writing about their reading in their notebooks to show where they stopped to think about the text. Many children are not doing this and it is part of their reading homework. Also, please ask to see your child's notebooks and reading logs. It is important to keep an organized notebook and an accurate record of how much reading they are doing. This gives me valuable information. Thanking you in advance for your cooperation and dedication to your/our children. smiley

Reading Hw Due Monday the 17th: Readers, you were given a hand out for a reading poster project. Please refer to the hand out to complete the assignment. Don't forget to refer to the rubric and do your very best! I can't wait to read your book recommendations. Also, don't forget to have a minimum of 3 entries in your writing about reading section of your notebook per wk. I will be checking reading logs and notebooks next wk.

Social Studies Project- Due Thursday 10/13/16

extra point given if your child completes their project by Tuesday! 

 

October is Hispanic Culture Month. 

You must choose a Hispanic artist, painter, singer, dancer, Doctor, athlete, actor or inventor and do a 1 page research project about that person. Your individual can be from the past or present/alive or deceased. 

 

Your use paper MUST include:

-their first and last name 

- where they were born

- what are they famous for? What did they contribute to Hispanic Culture

- if you could ask this person one thing/ question what would it be? 

Include any other interesting information (fun facts)

your paper MUST be 1 page minimum! Write more if you need!! 

 

 Writing Homework: 

Please read the story about Rachel and answer the questions in the margins! This is your model narrative so be sure to take notes! 

 

 

 

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What they don't understand about birthdays and what they never tell you is that when you're eleven, you're also ten, and nine, and eight, and seven, and six, and five, and four, and three, and two, and one. And when you wake up on your eleventh birthday you expect to feel eleven, but you don't. You open your eyes and everything's just like yesterday, only it's today. And you don't feel eleven at all. You feel like you're still ten. And you are—underneath the year that makes you eleven. 

 

Like some days you might say something stupid, and that's the part of you that's still ten. Or maybe some days you might need to sit on your mama's lap because you're scared, and that's the part of you that's five. And maybe one day when you're all grown up maybe you will need to cry like if you're three, and that's okay. That's what I tell Mama when she's sad and needs to cry. Maybe she's feeling three. 

 

Because the way you grow old is kind of like an onion or like the rings inside a tree trunk or like my little wooden dolls that fit one inside the other, each year inside the next one. That's how being eleven years old is. 

 

You don't feel eleven. Not right away. It takes a few days, weeks even, sometimes even months before you say Eleven when they ask you. And you don't feel smart eleven, not until you're almost twelve. That's the way it is. 

 

Only today I wish I didn't have only eleven years rattling inside me like pennies in a tin Band-Aid box. Today I wish I was one hundred and two instead of eleven because if I was one hundred and two I'd have known what to say when Mrs. Price put the red sweater on my desk. I would've known how to tell her it wasn't mine instead of just sitting there with that look on my face and nothing coming out of my mouth. 

 

"Whose is this?" Mrs. Price says, and she holds the red sweater up in the air for all the class to see. "Whose? It's been sitting in the coatroom for a month." 

 

"Not mine," says everybody, "Not me." 

 

"It has to belong to somebody," Mrs. Price keeps saying, but nobody can remember. It's an ugly sweater with red plastic buttons and a collar and sleeves all stretched out like you could use it for a jump rope. It's maybe a thousand years old and even if it belonged to me I wouldn't say so. 

 

Maybe because I'm skinny, maybe because she doesn't like me, that stupid Sylvia Saldivar says, "I think it belongs to Rachel." An ugly sweater like that all raggedy and old, but Mrs. Price believes her. Mrs. Price takes the sweater and puts it right on my desk, but when I open my mouth nothing comes out. 

 

"That's not, I don't, you're not . . . Not mine." I finally say in a little voice that was maybe me when I was four. 

 

"Of course it's yours," Mrs. Price says. "I remember you wearing it once." Because she's older and the teacher, she's right and I'm not. 

 

Not mine, not mine, not mine, but Mrs. Price is already turning to page thirty-two, and math problem number four. I don't know why but all of a sudden I'm feeling sick inside, like the part of me that's three wants to come out of my eyes, only I squeeze them shut tight and bite down on my teeth real hard and try to remember today I am eleven, eleven. Mama is making a cake for me for tonight, and when Papa comes home everybody will sing Happy birthday, happy birthday to you. 

 

But when the sick feeling goes away and I open my eyes, the red sweater's still sitting there like a big red mountain. I move the red sweater to the corner of my desk with my ruler. I move my pencil and books and eraser as far from it as possible. I even move my chair a little to the right. Not mine, not mine, not mine. In my head I'm thinking how long till lunchtime, how long till I can take the red sweater and throw it over the schoolyard fence, or leave it hanging on a parking meter, or bunch it up into a little ball and toss it in the alley. Except when math period ends Mrs. Price says loud and in front of everybody, "Now, Rachel, that's enough," because she sees I've shoved the red sweater to the tippy-tip corner of my desk and it's hanging all over the edge like a waterfall, but I don't care. 

 

"Rachel," Mrs. Price says. She says it like she's getting mad. "You put that sweater on right now and no more nonsense." 

 

"But it's not—" 

 

"Now!" Mrs. Price says. 

 

This is when I wish I wasn't eleven because all the years inside of me—ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, and one—are pushing at the back of my eyes when I put one arm through one sleeve of the sweater that smells like cottage cheese, and then the other arm through the other and stand there with my arms apart like if the sweater hurts me and it does, all itchy and full of germs that aren't even mine. That's when everything I've been holding in since this morning, since when Mrs. Price put the sweater on my desk, finally lets go, and all of a sudden I'm crying in front of everybody. I wish I was invisible but I'm not. I'm eleven and it's my birthday today and I'm crying like I'm three in front of everybody. I put my head down on the desk and bury my face in my stupid clown-sweater arms. My face all hot and spit coming out of my mouth because I can't stop the little animal noises from coming out of me until there aren't any more tears left in my eyes, and it's just my body shaking like when you have the hiccups, and my whole head hurts like when you drink milk too fast. 

 

But the worst part is right before the bell rings for lunch. That stupid Phyllis Lopez, who is even dumber than Sylvia Saldivar, says she remembers the red sweater is hers! I take it off right away and give it to her, only Mrs. Price pretends like everything's okay. 

 

Today I'm eleven. There's a cake Mama's making for tonight and when Papa comes home from work we'll eat it. There'll be candles and presents and everybody will sing Happy birthday, happy birthday to you, Rachel, only it's too late. 

 

I'm eleven today. I'm eleven, ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, and one, but I wish I was one hundred and two. I wish I was anything but eleven, because I want today to be far away already, far away like a runaway balloon, like a tiny o in the sky, so tiny—tiny you have to close your eyes to see it.

How did the author capture the reader’s attention with her lead?

 

What does the author mean when she says, “And you are – underneath the year that makes you eleven”?

 

How does the author compare her different emotions to different ages?

 

How do the similes in this paragraph help us understand growing older?

 

 

 

 

 

Why does the author wish she didn’t only have eleven years rattling inside her?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

What do we learn about Rachel’s relationship with Sylvia?

 

 

Why do you think Rachel couldn’t speak up for herself?

 

Have you ever been in a situation where the adult is automatically right and you’re wrong?

 

Why does the author repeat “not mine” in this paragraph?

 

 

She’s repeating not mine again. How is the author feeling?

 

What do we learn about the author when she shares her plans for the red sweater?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

What does she mean that the years inside…are pushing at the back of her eyes?

 

 

 

The author doesn’t just tell us she was crying, she describes it.  How is her description detailed?

 

 

Who does the sweater really belong to?  Why do you think she waited to admit it was hers?

 

Why does Rachel think it’s too late?

 

How do you think she’ll remember her 11th birthday?  How did she let the reader know her feelings about this day?

 

 

 

​Wk of October 5th: 

​Reading: Readers, remember you should be reading  20 pages for every 30 minutes read. By now you should be reading at least 45 minutes daily at home. Don't forget to note your talking to the text using post it notes. Make sure you are recording how much you are reading in your reading log and bringing it to class daily. As you know, these are checked. Happy Reading!

September 28th- 

Writing: CLASS 503 ONLY- Please re-write your "what kind of writer do I want to be essay"- DUE FRIDAY

MORE WRITING HOMEWORK: Class 502, 501, 504- Please read the narrative- (worksheet) and score that piece of writing using the rubric given to you during class.  Please give feedback as to what that writer should add from our narrative list. 

Reading: 

 

Math: 

 

Social Studies: 

September 27th- 

Reading: Sep 27 504 501 502 : Rewrite your goal essay. Due tomorrow.

Math: 501 502 503 Multiply decimal worksheet and identify place value worksheet.

Each teacher will update their homework weekly! If you have any questions email us! 

Writing: Please finish your Black Boy Questions if you have not ( worksheet) 

September 26th-

Reading:  Wk of Sept 26: Read for a MINIMUM of 30 minutes. We are working on our reading stamina and the goal is to reach 60 minutes of uninterrupted reading at home. Choose one place where you did some deep thinking (remember we are drilling for oil when we are reading :) and write about your reading in your reading notebook. What deep thinking did you do? Show me with your words. Have fun reading readers!

This is your homework for the week! Don't forget to make sure your reading log is being updated when you read daily. 

Writing: (Below) 

Black Boy

DIRECTIONS: PLEASE READ THE EXCERPT FROM THE NOVEL AND THEN ANSWER THE QUESTIONS: 

My  mother finally went to work as a cook and left me and my brother alone in the flat each day with a loaf of bread and a pot of tea. When she returned at evening she would be tired and dispirited and would cry a lot. Sometimes, when she was in despair, she would call us to her and talk to us for hours, telling us that we now had no father, that our lives would be different from those of other children, that we must learn as soon as possible to take care of ourselves, to dress ourselves, to prepare our own food; that we must take upon ourselves the responsibility of the flat while she worked. Half frightened, we would promise solemnly. We did not understand what had happened between our father and our mother and the most that these long talks did to us was to make us feel a vague dread. Whenever we asked why father had left, she would tell us that we were too young to know.

One evening my mother told me that thereafter I would have to do the shopping for food. She took me to the corner store to show me the way. I was proud; I felt like a grown up. The next afternoon I looped the basket over my arm and went down the pavement towards the store. When I reached the come; a gang of boys grabbed me, knocked me down, snatched the basket, took the money, and sent me running home in panic. That evening I told my mother what had happened, but she made no comment; she sat down at once, wrote another note, gave me more money, and sent me out to the grocery again. I crept down the steps and saw the same gang of boys playing down the street. I ran back into the house.

‘What’s the matter?’ my mother asked.

‘It’s those same boys,’ I said. ‘They’ll beat me.’

‘You’ve got to get over that,’ she said; ‘Now, go on.’

‘I’m scared,’ I said.

‘Go on and don’t pay any attention to them,’ she said.

I went out of the door and walked briskly down the sidewalk, praying  that the gang would not molest me. But when I came abreast of them someone shouted.

‘There he is!,

They came towards me and I broke into a wild run towards home. They overtook me and flung me to the pavement. I yelled, pleaded, kicked, but they wrenched the money out of my hand. They yanked me to my feet, gave me a few slaps, and sent me home sobbing. My mother met me at the door.

‘They b-beat m-me,’ I gasped. ‘They t-t-took the m-money.’

I started up the steps, seeking the shelter of the house.       

‘Don’t you come in here,’ my mother warned me.

I froze in my tracks and stared at her.

‘But they’re coming after me,’ I said.

‘You just stay right where you are,’ she said in a deadly tone. ‘I’m going to teach you this night to stand up and fight for yourself.’

She went into the house and I waited, terrified, wondering what she was about. Presently she returned with more money and another note; she also had a long heavy stick.

‘Take this money, this note, and this stick,’ she said. ‘Go to the store and buy those groceries. If those boys bother you, then fight.’

I was baffled. My mother was telling me to fight, a thing that she had never done before.

‘But I’m scared,’ I said.

‘Don’t you come into this house until you’ve gotten those groceries,’ she said.

‘They’ll beat me; they’ll beat me,’ I said.

‘Then stay in the streets; don’t come back here!’

I ran up the steps and tried to force my way past her into the house. A stinging slap came on my jaw. I stood on the sidewalk, crying.

‘Please, let me wait until tomorrow,’ I begged.           ‘No,’ she said. ‘Go now! If you come back into this house without those groceries, I’ll whip you!’

She slammed the door and I heard the key turn in the lock. I shook with fright. I was alone upon the dark, hostile streets and gangs were after me. I had the choice of being beaten at home or away from home. I clutched the stick, crying, trying to reason. If I were beaten at home, there was absolutely nothing that I could do about it; but if I were beaten in the streets, I had a chance to fight and defend myself. I walked slowly down the sidewalk, coming closer to the gang of boys, holding the stick tightly. I was so full of fear that I could scarcely breathe. I was almost upon them  now.

‘There he is again!’ the cry went up.

They surrounded me quickly and began to grab for my hand.

‘I’ll kill you!’ I threatened.

They closed in. In blind fear I let the stick fly, feeling it crack against a boy’s skull. I swung again, lamming another skull, then another. Realizing that they would retaliate if I let up for a second, I fought to lay them low, to knock them cold, to kill them so that they could not strike back at me. I flayed with tears in my eyes, teeth clenched, stark fear making me throw every ounce of my strength behind each blow. I hit again and again,  dropping the money and the grocery list. The boys scattered, yelling, nursing their heads, staring at me in utter disbelief. They had never seen such frenzy. I stood panting, egging them on, taunting them to come and fight. When they refused, I ran after them and they tore out for their homes, screaming. The parents of the boys rushed into the streets and threatened me, and for the first time in my life I shouted at grownups, telling them I would give them the same if they bothered me. I finally found my grocery list and the money and went to the store. On my way back I kept my stick poised for instant use, but there was not a single boy in sight. That night I won the right to the streets of Memphis.

Extract from ‘Black Boy’ by Richard Wright

 

Directions: Answer the Questions Below

 

  1.  Using your emotions chart, write a response about how Richard felt during this moment- Think of at least 5 emotions that Richard felt.

 

  1. Please write a second response about what you would have felt and why. Would you have responded differently?

 

  1.  Is this a great narrative? Look back at your notes and give me THREE reasons from the narrative chart that support whether this is  a good narrative or not? 

 

 

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