ChatGPT is now my writing coach. I threw a couple of blog posts at it to see what it would send back. The feedback, not unsurprisingly, is helpful, well-articulated, and actionable. It’s great descriptive feedback, something I find difficult to offer my students.
The plan is for me to run each blog post through ChatGPT. It’ll then offer me strengths, suggestions, and a mini challenge, something for me to try in my next post. For today, I’m meant to pick a small moment from my day and describe it using at least two senses, ending with a reflection that ties to my mood or larger thought.
With that…
I often hear the neighbourhood kids playing when the office window is open. While I’m sitting at my desk, one of the cats, usually Genevieve, is likely to be perched on the window hammock, a couple of blinks away from a nap. The noise of the children doesn’t bother her as much as the sound of another cat.
The neighbourhood cats like to curl up in the bushes just outside the office window. There’s a small gap between the bushes and the wall, enough for a cat to comfortably curl up into. Most of the time both cats will rest after sizing each other up. There is one cat, who we haven’t seen in a while, that sets Eloise off. She gets so angry that she pisses herself.
There are moments throughout the school day when I feel like Eloise. I don’t like raising my voice to get students’ attention, nor do I want to piss myself. Honestly, they’d likely not even notice. Most of the time, I feel like Genevieve, separated from the world of an outdoor cat by a pane of glass. I can see and hear what the students are doing, but I’m stuck behind my perspective, unable to reach them. My words pass through a screen before reaching them, often muffled by the mesh.
Ouli just likes to nap up there, seemingly unbothered by whatever else is going on. Come to think of it, he often faces into the office. I wish I could be more like him.
The sound of kids playing in the neighbourhood, enjoying the company of their peers and parents, is joyous. The sound of kids playing in a classroom, enjoying the company of their peers, is exhausting. It echoes, making the room feel smaller. The space warms up with my frustration. My words bounce off the invisible glass between me and them, sliding down like condensation, pooling at the bottom.
I can’t rest on the perch held up precariously by suction cups. From inside, I’m responsible for these outdoor cats. I have to try to reach them. When I do, the sound of kids learning enjoyably is wonderful.
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