Expository Reading & Writing Homework: Overkill or Essential? |
“Homework: Overkill or Essential?” is an expository reading and writing unit developed for seventh grade and will take approximately two weeks of class time. Students will read and analyze claims made about the importance of homework in a variety of articles. After completing several pre-reading and reading strategies, the final writing assignment asks students to demonstrate understanding of the debate about homework, to take a position, and present it in the format of a persuasive letter to their school board. Although the unit is aligned to Common Core State Standards for 7th grade, this unit can be adapted for grades above or below grade seven. Supplemental video links are also available to support the teaching of this unit.
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Expository Reading & Writing
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This unit covers a variety of expository reading and writing strategies for use with the article “Talking, Walking Objects” by Carla Diana. The unit was designed for use in the seventh grade but can be adapted for other grade levels. Students will view two videos about modern technology and robots, create their own robot, and explore the meaning of a variety of vocabulary words. The final writing assignment is a memo (memorandum) to the CEO of a fictional robot design company. Embedded in this one-to-two week unit are informal speaking and listening activities.
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Free Reading & Writing Adventure
You will begin your adventure by reading about historical fiction. Next, you will listen to an interview with an historical fiction author, read a picture book and an excerpt of a historical fiction novel. You will answer some questions about the sources. For your final project, you will plan, write, and revise your own historical fiction narrative. You will post your final product on pen.io.
After reading about historical fiction, answer the questions to the right.
STEP #3
Read excerpt from Crispin: A Cross of Lead
England, A.D. 1377
“In the midst of life comes death.” How often did our village priest preach those words. Yet I have also heard that “in the midst of death comes life.” If this is a riddle, so was my life.
Chapter 1
The day after my mother died, the priest and I wrapped her body in a shroud and carried her to the village church. Our burden was not great. In life she had been a small woman with little strength. Death made her even less.
Her name had been Asta.
Since our cottage was at the village fringe, the priest and I bore her remains along the narrow, rutted road that led to the cemetery. A steady, hissing rain had turned the ground to clinging mud. No birds sang. No bells tolled. The sun hid behind the dark and lowering clouds.
We passed village fields where people were at work in the rain and mud. No one knelt. They simply stared. As they had shunned my mother in life, so they shunned her in now. As for me, I felt, as I often did, ashamed. It was as if I contained an unnamed sin that made me less than nothing in their eyes.
Other than the priest, my mother had no friends. She was often taunted by the villagers. Still, I had thought of her as a woman of beauty, as perhaps all children think upon their mothers.
The burial took place amongst the other paupers’ graves in the walled cemetery behind our church. It was there the priest and I dug her grave, in water-laden clay. There was no coffin. We laid her down with her feet toward the east so when the Day of Judgment came she would-may God grant it-rise up to face Jerusalem.
As the priest chanted the Latin prayers, whose meaning I barely understood, I knelt by his side and knew that God had taken away the one person I could claim as my own. But His will be done.
No sooner did we cover my mother’s remains with heavy earth than John Aycliffe, the steward of the manor, appeared outside the cemetery walls. Though I had not seen him, he must have been watching us from astride his horse.
“Asta’s son, come here,” he said to me.
Head bowed, I drew close.
“Look at me,” he commanded, reaching down and forcing my head up with a sharp slap of his gloved hand beneath my chin.
It was always hard for me to look on others. To look on John Aycliffe was hardest of all. His black-bearded face-hard, sharp eyes frowning lips-forever scowled at me. When he deigned to look in my direction, he offered nothing but contempt. For me to pass near was to invite scorn, his kicks, and sometimes, his blows.
No one ever accused John Aycliffe of any kindness. In the absence of Lord Furnival he was in charge of the manor, laws, and the peasants. To be caught in some small transgression-missing a day of work, speaking harshly of his rule, failing to attend mass-brought an unforgiving penalty. It could be a whipping, a clipping of the ear, imprisonment, or a cut-off hand. For poaching a stag, John the ale-maker’s son was put to death on the commons gallows. As judge, jury, and willing executioner, Aycliffe had but to give the word, and the offender’s life was forfeit. We all lived in fear of him.
Aycliffe stared at me for a long while as if in search of something. All he said, however, was “With your mother gone you’re required to deliver your ox to the manor house tomorrow. It will serve as the death tax.”
“But … sir,” I said-for my speech was slow and ill formed- “if I do … I … I won’t be able to work in the fields.”
“Then starve,” he said and rode away without a backward glance.
Father Quinel whispered into my ear: “Come to church, Asta’s son. We’ll pray.”
Too upset, I only shook my head.
“God will protect you,” he said, resting his hand on my shoulder. “As he now protects your mother.”
His words only distressed me more. Was death my only hope? Seeking to escape my heart’s cage of sorrow, I rushed off toward the forest.
Barely aware of the earth beneath my feet or the roof of trees above, I paid no mind into what I ran, or that my sole garment, a gray wool tunic, tore on brambles and bushes. Nor did I care that my leather shoes, catching roots or stones, kept tripping me, causing me to fall. Each time I picked myself up and rushed on, panting, crying.
Deeper and deeper into the ancient woods I went, past thick bracken and stately oaks, until I tripped and fell again. This time, as God in His wisdom would have it, my head struck stone.
Stunned I lay upon the decaying earth, fingers clutching rotting leaves, a cold rain drenching me. As daylight faded, I was entombed in a world darker than any night could bring.
Read excerpt from Crispin: A Cross of Lead
England, A.D. 1377
“In the midst of life comes death.” How often did our village priest preach those words. Yet I have also heard that “in the midst of death comes life.” If this is a riddle, so was my life.
Chapter 1
The day after my mother died, the priest and I wrapped her body in a shroud and carried her to the village church. Our burden was not great. In life she had been a small woman with little strength. Death made her even less.
Her name had been Asta.
Since our cottage was at the village fringe, the priest and I bore her remains along the narrow, rutted road that led to the cemetery. A steady, hissing rain had turned the ground to clinging mud. No birds sang. No bells tolled. The sun hid behind the dark and lowering clouds.
We passed village fields where people were at work in the rain and mud. No one knelt. They simply stared. As they had shunned my mother in life, so they shunned her in now. As for me, I felt, as I often did, ashamed. It was as if I contained an unnamed sin that made me less than nothing in their eyes.
Other than the priest, my mother had no friends. She was often taunted by the villagers. Still, I had thought of her as a woman of beauty, as perhaps all children think upon their mothers.
The burial took place amongst the other paupers’ graves in the walled cemetery behind our church. It was there the priest and I dug her grave, in water-laden clay. There was no coffin. We laid her down with her feet toward the east so when the Day of Judgment came she would-may God grant it-rise up to face Jerusalem.
As the priest chanted the Latin prayers, whose meaning I barely understood, I knelt by his side and knew that God had taken away the one person I could claim as my own. But His will be done.
No sooner did we cover my mother’s remains with heavy earth than John Aycliffe, the steward of the manor, appeared outside the cemetery walls. Though I had not seen him, he must have been watching us from astride his horse.
“Asta’s son, come here,” he said to me.
Head bowed, I drew close.
“Look at me,” he commanded, reaching down and forcing my head up with a sharp slap of his gloved hand beneath my chin.
It was always hard for me to look on others. To look on John Aycliffe was hardest of all. His black-bearded face-hard, sharp eyes frowning lips-forever scowled at me. When he deigned to look in my direction, he offered nothing but contempt. For me to pass near was to invite scorn, his kicks, and sometimes, his blows.
No one ever accused John Aycliffe of any kindness. In the absence of Lord Furnival he was in charge of the manor, laws, and the peasants. To be caught in some small transgression-missing a day of work, speaking harshly of his rule, failing to attend mass-brought an unforgiving penalty. It could be a whipping, a clipping of the ear, imprisonment, or a cut-off hand. For poaching a stag, John the ale-maker’s son was put to death on the commons gallows. As judge, jury, and willing executioner, Aycliffe had but to give the word, and the offender’s life was forfeit. We all lived in fear of him.
Aycliffe stared at me for a long while as if in search of something. All he said, however, was “With your mother gone you’re required to deliver your ox to the manor house tomorrow. It will serve as the death tax.”
“But … sir,” I said-for my speech was slow and ill formed- “if I do … I … I won’t be able to work in the fields.”
“Then starve,” he said and rode away without a backward glance.
Father Quinel whispered into my ear: “Come to church, Asta’s son. We’ll pray.”
Too upset, I only shook my head.
“God will protect you,” he said, resting his hand on my shoulder. “As he now protects your mother.”
His words only distressed me more. Was death my only hope? Seeking to escape my heart’s cage of sorrow, I rushed off toward the forest.
Barely aware of the earth beneath my feet or the roof of trees above, I paid no mind into what I ran, or that my sole garment, a gray wool tunic, tore on brambles and bushes. Nor did I care that my leather shoes, catching roots or stones, kept tripping me, causing me to fall. Each time I picked myself up and rushed on, panting, crying.
Deeper and deeper into the ancient woods I went, past thick bracken and stately oaks, until I tripped and fell again. This time, as God in His wisdom would have it, my head struck stone.
Stunned I lay upon the decaying earth, fingers clutching rotting leaves, a cold rain drenching me. As daylight faded, I was entombed in a world darker than any night could bring.
QUESTION TIME
Answer the questions below. Your answers will help you think about the sources you’ve read and viewed, which should help you write your narrative. You may refer to your notes you wrote.
1. What elements of historical fiction are mentioned in both the article, “What is Historical Fiction?” and the video interview with author Avi. Use details from the article and the video to support your answer.
2. Grandfather’s Journey is based on real people and events. Crispin: A Cross of Lead is about a made-up character during a real time period. Analyze how these differences impact the way the authors tell the stories.
Use details from the sources to support your answer.
3. Explain why you agree or disagree with the following statement: “Even though historical fiction stories are not true, they develop more accurate and true understandings of real events from the past.” Use details from the sources to support your answer.
Answer the questions below. Your answers will help you think about the sources you’ve read and viewed, which should help you write your narrative. You may refer to your notes you wrote.
1. What elements of historical fiction are mentioned in both the article, “What is Historical Fiction?” and the video interview with author Avi. Use details from the article and the video to support your answer.
2. Grandfather’s Journey is based on real people and events. Crispin: A Cross of Lead is about a made-up character during a real time period. Analyze how these differences impact the way the authors tell the stories.
Use details from the sources to support your answer.
3. Explain why you agree or disagree with the following statement: “Even though historical fiction stories are not true, they develop more accurate and true understandings of real events from the past.” Use details from the sources to support your answer.