Stones of Erasmus — for Teachers, Writers, & Philosophy Sprinkles Makers!

Theater Review: Every Brilliant Thing (Hudson Theatre, Broadway)

noreply@blogger.com (Greig Roselli) — Sun, 22 Feb 2026 23:13:00 -0500

On Saturday afternoon, I caught Daniel Radcliffe in Every Brilliant Thing—a one-person play (with a whole lot of “you might get drafted” audience participation) now in previews at the Hudson Theatre. I happened to be at the 2:00 p.m. matinee on February 21, 2026, which was the first preview performance (and, yes, there was also a performance later that night).

Daniel Radcliffe stars in a new one-man show on Broadway at the Hudson Theatre.
photo credit: Mary Ellen Matthews

Radcliffe is already onstage when you enter, moving through the space and quietly setting the evening’s social contract: this will be intimate, slightly unpredictable, and collaborative — even if you never lift a finger. Before the show officially begins, audience members are handed cards and assigned small roles. You can feel the play “building its cast” in real time, like a classroom activity that somehow stays tender instead of corny. And then suddenly Radcliffe is in character. The show begins. I loved the magic of the show’s start.

The staging at the Hudson helps. The setup is simple but warm: Radcliffe has a central playing area, surrounded by those old-school filament-style bulbs — big glass lights that make the whole stage glow like a human memory. There’s also seating placed onstage for audience members, reinforcing the show’s main idea: this story isn’t delivered to you so much as assembled with you.

If audience participation gives you hives, here’s the honest truth: you can absolutely attend as a watcher. I did. I wasn’t chosen, and I didn’t volunteer. I sat in the orchestra, content to be a kind of emotional voyeur, letting the story wash over me while other people occasionally stepped into small supporting parts.

And those parts matter because Every Brilliant Thing is not just a monologue. It’s a carefully structured act of communal storytelling about depression, suicide, love, and the strange ways we try to keep each other alive. The premise is deceptively simple: a child begins a list of “brilliant things” (small pleasures, sensory joys, reasons to stay) after their mother’s suicide attempt. That list grows across the narrator’s life, reappearing when hope disappears, returning when it’s needed, vanishing when it can’t do the job anymore.

That last part is key: the play refuses the easy inspirational arc. It doesn’t claim the list “fixes” depression. It doesn’t pretend love is a cure. Instead, it shows what it’s like to keep trying. I resonated with the awkwardly, imperfectly, sometimes hilariously moppish way the show’s protagonist made me feel. You love someone and you don’t know what else to do. You love your job but feel empty. But I'm sounding preachy.

What surprised me most is how the play avoids two major traps: sentimentality and preachiness. For a story built around hope, it stays unsentimental—partly because the writing is genuinely funny, and partly because Radcliffe’s timing keeps the piece buoyant even when it turns dark. This Broadway production is co-directed by Jeremy Herrin and Duncan Macmillan (one of the writers), and you can feel the craft: the show is loose enough to breathe but tight enough to land its punches. I noticed a couple of tiny hiccups (the kind you’d expect in a first preview), but what I mostly felt was awe: he keeps the tone safe for the volunteers, keeps the story coherent for the rest of us, and makes the whole room feel like it’s doing something together.

Radcliffe, for his part, is exactly the kind of performer the piece requires: quick, emotionally nimble, and able to pivot from clowning to rawness without breaking the spell. That skill matters in a show where strangers are asked to become your dad, your girlfriend, your counselor, your librarian, your witness. I felt the vulnerable parts. Radcliffe goes on about needing therapy even though he's British. “And it was group,” he says denoting the audience in front of him. The show as therapy. Therapy is the show. Art acts as a salve.

The show also has a broader life beyond Broadway. It first became a phenomenon at the Edinburgh Fringe in the 2010s, has been performed widely around the world, and it was even adapted into a filmed stage version for HBO starring co-creator Jonny Donahoe. That matters, because it explains why the play feels so lived-in: it’s been tested, reshaped, and performed in many different contexts—and it’s built to flex. Apparently the script is updated with footnotes so the actor in the performance can attuned to possible fluctuations in the improvisational parts.

Back to the list. By the time Radcliffe reaches the later sections of the story — when adulthood complicates what childhood tried to solve — the list stops being a gimmick and becomes something more like a philosophy. Not “gratitude” in the Instagram sense. Not a bumper-sticker cure. More like this: attention is a moral act. Naming what is good doesn’t erase the bad. But it does carve out a space where the bad doesn’t get total control.

Walking out of the Hudson, I found myself making my own private additions—things I’d forgotten to notice lately:

hearing the silence inside a snowstorm
watching a film in French without subtitles and realizing you’re following it
that weirdly perfect moment of anticipation on a subway platform when the air changes and the express train barrels into the station

The play isn’t really asking you to adopt its list. It’s asking you to remember you can make one—and that making it is, sometimes, a way of staying.

Did the show fix me? No. But it did what art is supposed to do: it widened the room inside my head. It reminded me that a life doesn’t have to be heroic to be worth continuing. Sometimes it just has to be noticed.

Every Brilliant Thing is in a limited 13-week Broadway run at the Hudson Theatre, with an official opening on March 12, 2026, and it’s currently scheduled to run through May 24, 2026. Runtime is about 85 minutes, no intermission.

Student manifesto: Love of Learning = Desire for Something Bigger than Yourself

noreply@blogger.com (Greig Roselli) — Tue, 17 Feb 2026 19:05:00 -0500

When I was a Benedictine monk, we read The Love of Learning and the Desire for God, Jean Leclercq’s masterwork on monastic culture and spirituality. The book is a defining text by a twentieth-century monk of Clervaux Abbey. Its central insight has stayed with me: reading is, at its best, a kind of devotion. We read to go beyond ourselves—not only to gather information, but to pursue spiritual perception. That’s why, in the monastery, we were trained to take a short passage—often from Scripture and internalize it, returning to the same lines until they began to live in us. This is the practice monks call lectio divina: slow-burn reading that forms the soul as much as the mind.

Take a walk. Ponder a passage.

Here's the universal truth. Learning isn’t just collecting facts. It’s a way of turning your attention outward: toward truth, beauty, justice, craft, community, and the mysteries you can’t solve in one sitting.

When you really love learning, you stop asking only: “Will this be on the test?” You start asking: “What kind of person does this help me become?” and “What does this let me see that I couldn’t see before?”

In older traditions of reading and study — especially the slow, careful reading practiced in monasteries—books weren’t treated like vending machines for information. They were treated like teachers: something you listen to, wrestle with, return to, and let reshape you. Leclercq describes that tradition in The Love of Learning and the Desire for God, where study is meant to lead not just to knowledge, but to wisdom: a life ordered toward what matters most.

So here’s a better definition for our room:

Love of learning = the desire to join something larger than your own ego.
It’s curiosity with a backbone. It’s attention that refuses to be lazy. It’s the choice to be changed by what you read, what you hear, and what you discover.

A sentence to live by

If it makes me more awake, more honest, more capable of wonder, and more responsible to others—then it counts as real learning.

Three simple practices that build this mindset

The “Bigger-Than-Me” Question (daily, 2 minutes)
- After any text, discussion, or video, write:
  - What’s the biggest question this raises — one that matters beyond my life?
Commonplace + Commentary (weekly)
- Keep a page with:
  - 1 powerful line (quote)
  - 3 sentences of commentary: Why this matters. What it challenges. What it asks of me.
Slow Reading (Leclercq-style, 10–12 minutes)
- Read a short passage twice.
- Circle a phrase that “glows.”
- Write: What might this be telling a human being how to live?

One 45-minute lesson:

“Desire for Something Bigger”

1) Hook (5 min):
On the board: “Learning is ______.” Students fill it in. Then add:
“Love of Learning = Desire for Something Bigger than Yourself.” Quick reactions.

2) Text encounter (10 min):
Give a rich paragraph (poem, aphorism, philosophical excerpt, or a key speech). Slow Reading routine.

3) Discussion (15 min):
Use these prompts:

What does this text ask you to value?
What would change if you took that seriously?
What’s the “bigger-than-me” concern here (truth, justice, beauty, freedom, belonging, etc.)?

4) Writing (12 min):
Students write a “Learning Vow” that begins:

This year, I want my learning to make me…
I will practice attention by…
The ‘bigger thing’ I want to serve is…

5) Close (3 min):
Pair-share one line from the vow. Collect for portfolios.

PDF Copy for Printing

Adjuncting in Graduate School: Money Stress, Meaningful Teaching

noreply@blogger.com (Greig Roselli) — Thu, 5 Feb 2026 19:58:00 -0500

Let's get teaching!

In the following post, I write about my time as an adjunct professor. The title might sound abrupt and professional, but the reality of adjunct teaching is much less polished: you’re paid by the hour, which usually means you’re paid only for the hours your classes meet each semester. It kept me afloat, but it also made finances feel precarious.

I became an adjunct out of necessity while I was in graduate school in New York City. Between tuition, rent, and basic living expenses, my scholarship and support weren’t enough. I needed side income—plain and simple. But looking back, that time ended up being more rewarding than I expected. It wasn’t just about getting by; it became a formative stretch that taught me how to communicate academic ideas to students whose lives and goals weren’t necessarily built around the humanities.

My own educational background was classic liberal arts: humanities, philosophy, the kind of learning you pursue because you love it, surrounded by teachers and classmates who felt the same. Adjunct teaching was different. Many of my students were pursuing concrete credentials—health-related programs, business tracks, accounting certificates. They didn’t come to class thinking, How can philosophy change my life? They came thinking, How can I finish this requirement, get the degree, and improve my situation? That difference mattered. It forced me to ask a hard, useful question: How do you teach ethics, philosophy, epistemology—material that can feel “extra”—to people who are rightly focused on work, family, and survival?

A lot of my students were adults—some older than me—returning to school to earn a certification or an associate’s degree so they could get a promotion, switch careers, or rebuild momentum. Many of them also carried bruises from earlier schooling. You could feel it: skepticism, anxiety, a kind of guardedness around classrooms and teachers. Navigating that—respectfully, patiently, without condescension—became one of the defining challenges of the job.

And then there was the student body itself. Teaching in New York City introduced me to a level of heterogeneity I hadn’t experienced before: students from Eastern Europe, South Asia, China, and a wide range of Black and brown New Yorkers—many of them immigrants or children of immigrants—sitting in the same classroom, bringing different histories, languages, and relationships to school itself.

That contrast made me look back at my own education with new eyes. I grew up in Louisiana in a lower-middle-class family. We weren’t wealthy, but my parents worked full time, we had stability, and we owned our home. I also had grants and scholarships that opened doors. And yet, when I think back, my schooling was overwhelmingly white. In secondary school, I had one teacher who wasn’t white—Ms. Washington—and in college and graduate school I remember very few Black classmates, and no Black professors that I can recall. I’m not saying that for dramatic effect; I’m saying it because it’s clarifying. It points to something structural—how segregation and opportunity still shape who ends up where in the United States.

That’s part of why “diversity initiatives” matter now. They’re trying to correct a longstanding absence, not merely add a decorative layer of representation. But the work is hard because it challenges established norms—who gets access, who gets supported, who belongs in the room.

My time adjuncting in New York City gave me a lived perspective on all of this. It showed me what a truly mixed classroom can look like—and it also showed me how much effort it takes, institutionally and culturally, to make that kind of classroom feel normal everywhere.

The Fate of the Novel: A Reading of Ian Watt’s Formal Realism

noreply@blogger.com (Greig Roselli) — Wed, 4 Feb 2026 22:16:00 -0500

The Fate of the Novel

What follows is a long-form reading of Ian Watt’s idea of “formal realism”: the narrative method by which the modern novel embodies the contingencies of lived experience. Starting with Defoe, Richardson, and Fielding, posts trace how private reading, proper names, and a new sense of time reshape what fiction can claim about reality—and how those claims intersect (and sometimes clash) with philosophy, from Plato’s quarrel with poetry to modern debates about knowledge and selfhood.

How modern is the novel?

Formal Realism

To call the novel “new” is to recognise that the modern sense of novel crystallised in the early eighteenth century, when writers such as Daniel Defoe, Samuel Richardson and Henry Fielding developed long fictional narratives that departed from romance and epic conventions[5]. Ian Watt credits these authors with inaugurating a literary form that we still call the novel, but his interest lies less in their social circumstances than in the philosophical implications of their work. Watt argues that the fate of the novel hinges on its association with formal realism, a term he coins to describe the narrative method by which the novel embodies the circumstantial contingencies of life. The heart of this essay is to examine what novels can say about reality, how they shape our reading experience, and whether they are compatible with philosophical inquiry. Watt’s distinction between literary form and philosophy is often overstated—he never writes, as has been claimed, that “philosophy is one thing and literature is another.” Nevertheless, his analysis invites reflection on Plato’s banishment of poets from the Republic and the struggle to reintegrate imaginative literature into philosophical discourse.

The novel cannot be a direct observation of the world; it cannot mirror Kant’s noumenal thing‑in‑itself. Instead, it constructs a claim on reality through narrative. Like the lyric or the play, it is bound to storytelling, yet it is a modern invention that asserts the autonomy of the subject over the epic’s reliance on divine decree. For Watt, what distinguishes the novel is not its subject matter but the way it presents reality. He notes that the novel raises “the problem of the correspondence between the literary work and the reality which it imitates,” an epistemological question that philosophers are well suited to analyse[2]. By focusing on how novels organise words to evoke a world, Watt shifts attention from mimetic accuracy to the form’s underlying logic. This emphasis aligns the novel with modern thought that emphasises individual access to truth and the correspondence between words and things.

The Experience of Reading Novels

According to Watt, the novel promises the closest correspondence between life and art; its formal realism overwhelms earlier narrative forms. Homer’s epics contain flashes of everyday detail, but such realism is rare, whereas the novel devotes itself to the circumstantial. This shift matters because it signals a new reading experience. The epic was part of an oral tradition: in ancient Greece, bards and rhapsodes performed poems like the Iliad and the Odyssey aloud, sometimes with musical accompaniment[6]. By contrast, the novel is read in solitude. While prose fiction long predates the eighteenth century—Satyricon was written centuries before Moll Flanders—the rise of the novel is tied to the emergence of silent, private reading. Scholars debate which work counts as the first novel—some cite Cervantes’s Don Quixote (1605), others Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales, Richardson’s Pamela (1740) or Defoe’s Robinson Crusoe (1719)—but the crucial shift is from public storytelling to introspective reading.

The Use of the Proper

One of the novel’s most manageable innovations is its use of proper names. Watt observes that eighteenth‑century novelists began naming characters as individuals rather than types. Proper names are paradoxical: they designate a particular person yet remain arbitrary and potentially shared by others. Hobbes explains the distinction succinctly: a proper name “bringeth to mind one thing only,” whereas universal names recall any one of many[7]. Earlier literature used descriptive or symbolic names—Odysseus (“wrathful”) and Oedipus (“swollen foot”)—that situated characters within mythic archetypes. Novels, however, favour combinations of first and last names that sound realistic and subtly suggest character: Pamela Andrews, Clarissa Harlowe, Robert Lovelace, Mrs. Sinclair and Sir Charles Grandison. Even when an alias such as “Moll Flanders” appears, it carries the weight of a full name. By individualising characters, novelists anticipate Lockean and Humean theories of personal identity, which locate identity in consciousness and memory rather than in fixed essences[3].

Reading and Individuality

Theatre‑goers who attended Sophocles’ Oedipus Rex or Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream already knew the plots; the dramatic form, like the epic, is meant to be performed. The novel, by contrast, invites each reader into a private world. Augustine’s Confessions records his surprise at seeing Ambrose read silently: “when Ambrose read, his eyes ran over the columns of writing and his heart searched out the meaning, but his voice and his tongue were at rest”[1]. Silent reading was not unknown, but it was notable enough for Augustine to comment on it. In medieval and early modern Europe, reading often involved vocalisation; only gradually did silent, introspective reading become common. The novel’s introspection builds on this shift. Novels immerse readers in the particulars of everyday life—bathing, laundry, eating a sour grape, making love on an unmade bed—and linger on the mundane. Charles Dickens’s Great Expectations illustrates this attention to detail when Pip traces his fingers over the raised letters on his parents’ tombstone and imagines their physical presence. Such scenes exemplify the novel’s repudiation of epic universals and its commitment to particularity.

What Realism Is Not

Watt famously contends that the novel’s realism does not reside in the kind of life it presents but in the way it presents it[2]. Historians have sometimes defined realism as fiction depicting the “seamy side” of life—Moll Flanders is a thief, Pamela a hypocrite, Tom Jones a fornicator—but Watt argues that this definition obscures the novel’s originality. Realism, in his sense, is not naturalism, scientific pragmatism or a mere truism that novels are slices of life. Rather, it is a narrative convention that treats the world of the novel as if it were based on evidence given by an eyewitness, emphasising verisimilitude in description, time and space. The novel thus distances itself from both idealised romance and confessional rhetoric; it seeks authenticity through form.

Philosophical Realism, a False Step

Medieval scholastic “realism” held that universals—classes, forms or abstractions—are the true realities, independent of sensory perception. Nominalists challenged this view, arguing that only particulars exist and that universals are names. This scholastic debate seems far removed from the novel’s aesthetic concerns. Watt nevertheless attempts to connect the novel’s rise to modern philosophical realism, suggesting that thinkers such as Locke, Descartes, Aristotle and even Plato share a commitment to truth discovered by the individual through his senses. This grouping is strained. Locke certainly emphasises sensory knowledge and argues that personal identity consists in the continuity of consciousness[3]. Aristotle distinguished between universals and particulars but did not adopt a modern empiricist position. Descartes, however, prioritises rational introspection over sense experience. His famous cogito—“I think, therefore I am”—comes after methodic doubt that suspends reliance on the senses. Aligning Descartes with empiricist realism mischaracterises his dualism and overlooks the idealist elements of his thought. Watt’s invocation of Plato and Aristotle may gesture toward a longer history of debates about universals and particulars, but the connection to the novel remains tenuous.

Why Descartes?

Watt sees in Descartes’ prose style a precursor to the novel’s narrative techniques. The Meditations and Discourse on Method are written in the first person and invite readers to follow an individual’s reasoning. Yet this does not make Descartes a realist in Watt’s sense. Cartesian philosophy predates the novel by a century; its sceptical method locates certainty in the mind rather than in the external world. While Descartes describes his environment—a warm room near a fire, the wax that changes shape—these narrative touches serve philosophical argument rather than imitation of everyday life. Kant’s transcendental philosophy, which mediates between empiricism and rationalism, may align more closely with the novel’s concern for how the mind organises experience. Watt’s attempt to find a direct genealogy from Descartes to Defoe obscures the novel’s more complex intellectual inheritance.

Locke’s theory of personal identity offers a more convincing link between philosophy and the novel. In Book 2, Chapter 27 of An Essay Concerning Human Understanding, Locke defines a person as “a thinking intelligent Being… which can consider itself as the same thinking thing in different times and places” and asserts that “consciousness always accompanies thinking, and ’tis that, that makes everyone to be, what he calls self”[3]. Identity persists as far as consciousness can be extended backwards to past actions and thoughts[3]. Novelists literalise this notion by tracing characters’ memories across time; Hume and later philosophers would complicate this further. Such psychological continuity undergirds the novel’s interest in character development.

The Novel’s Sense of Time

Watt notes that novels conceive time differently from earlier genres: they use past experiences as causes of present actions and discriminate time more minutely. Letters in Richardson’s Pamela and the date headings in Clarissa locate events precisely. Fielding satirises Richardson yet still constructs a coherent time scheme. Novels such as Joyce’s Ulysses or Woolf’s Mrs Dalloway compress a day into a stream of consciousness that evokes the flux of mental life. This differs from the “unity of time” developed by neoclassical critics from Aristotle’s Poetics; the unity of time holds that the action of a play should take place within a single revolution of the sun, roughly twenty‑four hours[4]. The novel, by contrast, is historical by nature; it spans years, even lifetimes, and dwells on memory. Ortega y Gasset calls the novel “sluggish and long” because it imitates the languorous passage of time. Later works such as Marcel Proust’s In Search of Lost Time and W. G. Sebald’s The Emigrants foreground memory and temporality. Sebald intersperses his narratives with photographs; in The Emigrants a train‑track image appears alongside the account of Paul Bereyter’s suicide. These images are not simply illustrations but evoke the punctum of memory—what Roland Barthes describes as the piercing detail. The novel thus integrates temporal flux into its very form.

Conclusion

Space, time, plot and character in the novel work together to create an authentic account of individual experience. Watt shows that eighteenth‑century novelists abandoned traditional plots, epic characters and rhetorical flourishes in favour of detailed description, psychological development and causal coherence[8]. Philosophers likewise turned to the individual—Locke’s consciousness, Hume’s bundle of perceptions, Kant’s transcendental subject. Yet aligning the novel directly with philosophical realism risks oversimplifying both domains. Nominalist scepticism about universals encouraged attention to particulars, but the novel’s realism also stems from commercial print culture, the rise of a reading public and a secular interest in private life. Before the novel, fiction was often praised for its rhetorical beauty rather than its reference to reality; the novel claims verisimilitude by imitating human experience while acknowledging the mediation of language. Plato’s allegory of the cave reminds us that all knowledge is mediated: the novel sits between idealism and realism, neither claiming direct access to reality nor retreating into pure mind. Its fate lies in continuing to explore this middle ground, giving form to the flux of life.

PDF Copy for Printing

Works Cited

Augustine. Confessions. Translated by [Translator], [Publisher], [Year]. Book 6, chapter 3, paragraph 3.

Hobbes, Thomas. Leviathan. Edited by Jack Lynch, 1651. Accessed via Jack Lynch’s edition, www.jacklynch.net/Texts/leviathan.html[7].

Locke, John. An Essay Concerning Human Understanding. Edited by [Editor], [Publisher], 1690. Book 2, chapter 27[3].

Mallam, Sally. “Oral Storytelling.” The Human Journey, Journey of the Human Mind Project, 2020, humanjourney.us/ideas/stories-and-story-telling/oral-storytelling/[6].

“Three Unities of Tragedy Plays: The Ancient Greek Dramatists.” Reflections blog, 17 Aug 2023, reflections.live/articles/12802/three-unities-of-tragedy-plays-the-ancient-greek-dramatists-especially-aristotle-in-his-well-known-work-poeti-11140-llevrxgh.html[4].

Stauffer, John. “Lecture Notes on James Fenimore Cooper.” The James Fenimore Cooper Society, 2001[8].

Watt, Ian. The Rise of the Novel: Studies in Defoe, Richardson and Fielding. [Publisher], 1957. Chapters 1–2.

“Ian Watt and Moll Flanders.” COVE, editions.covecollective.org/content/ian-watt-and-moll-flanders[2].

Note: Missing publication details (publisher, year, translator or editor) should be supplied based on the specific editions used. All web sources were accessed on 4 Feb 2026.

[1] Was Silent Reading Unusual During Augustine's Time? : History of Information

https://www.historyofinformation.com/detail.php

[2] Ian Watt and Moll Flanders | COVE

https://editions.covecollective.org/content/ian-watt-and-moll-flanders

[3] Locke on Personal Identity (Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy)

https://plato.stanford.edu/entries/locke-personal-identity/

[4] Three Unities of Tragedy Plays: The ancient Greek dramatists especially Aristotle in his well-known work 'Poeti'

https://reflections.live/articles/12802/three-unities-of-tragedy-plays-the-ancient-greek-dramatists-especially-aristotle-in-his-well-known-work-poeti-11140-llevrxgh.html

[5] [8] Lecture Notes on James Fenimore Cooper

https://jfcoopersociety.org/content/04-crit/teaching/stauffer.htm

[6] Oral Storytelling - The Human Journey

https://humanjourney.us/ideas/stories-and-story-telling/oral-storytelling/

[7] Hobbes, Leviathan

https://jacklynch.net/Texts/leviathan.html

Story Time: Emotional Support Pickles and Chickens in the Classroom

noreply@blogger.com (Greig Roselli) — Fri, 30 Jan 2026 21:14:00 -0500

What if classroom management didn’t start with charts and systems — but with something soft, weird, and surprisingly effective? Meet the emotional-support pickle: a small, sensory tool that helps students reset, refocus, and get back to learning. Sometimes the simplest solutions really do work.

You can purchase emotional-support pickles online—just search for “emotional support pickles” and “plushy”.

For my school's Secret Elf gift exchange (everyone buys a gift for a “secret” person), I received these ridiculous plush emotional-support pickles and chickens. They were gifted to me, by lot, from the sweek school office lady, "Ms. Lia". They’re oddly perfect for managing the emotional weather of a high-strung middle and high school classroom. I love my school, but some days I just need to hug my emotional-support pickles.

Everyone’s out here talking about fancy classroom-management systems and color-coded behavior charts and the newest acronym-of-the-week. And I’m like: listen. Get some emotional-support pickles. Put them in your classroom. Especially if you teach sixth or seventh grade like I do.

Kids love sensory stuff. They love something tangible. And if a plush pickle helps a kid settle their nervous system and get back to learning, then fine. Call it “emotional regulation.” I call it: the pickle works.

First, you’ll have your Velcro students—the ones who will attach themselves to that pickle like it’s a life raft. They will want it all day. Forever. In perpetuity.

Second, you’ll have… let’s call them the tiny chaos scientists. One or two. The ones who look at an emotional-support chicken and think, What if I took this apart and learned what’s inside?

So yes: you are the therapist in this situation. You are also the bodyguard. You have to protect the emotional-support pickle at all costs.

Note: I don’t make any profit from the sale of these plushies. This post is simply based on my own experience.

And honestly, you can substitute any school-appropriate plushy toy and get the same effect: an axolotl, reindeer, oyster—whatever works for your kids.

PDF Copy for Printing

Quote Post: Tracy Letts Writes A Beautiful Analogy on the Passing of Time and Human Desire

noreply@blogger.com (Greig Roselli) — Wed, 14 Jan 2026 22:54:00 -0500

“My last refuge, my books: simple pleasures, like finding wild onions by the side of a road, or requited love.”

― Tracy Letts, August: Osage County

PDF Copy for Printing

It’s My Birthday — So, Here’s a Special Post

noreply@blogger.com (Greig Roselli) — Mon, 29 Dec 2025 17:44:08 -0500

I feel like I have good people I love and know scattered across this crazy world. I’m scattered. So it works. Today is my birthday. It’s always an in-between day, but I’ve learned to stop worrying and love the bomb — I mean — the day!

The People Who Take You There

noreply@blogger.com (Greig Roselli) — Thu, 11 Dec 2025 18:04:05 -0500

I think people carry with them certain memories—especially from early childhood into adolescence—that surface later in adult life, unbidden and strangely intact. Not the big moments. Not the milestones. But the people who were simply there.

I definitely had a coloring book
like this when I was a kid in the 80s!

One of those memories for me is getting on the school bus in LaPlace, Louisiana. I must have been in third, fourth, or fifth grade. LaPlace was—and still is—a small hamlet pressed up against the Mississippi River, defined less by buildings than by the levee system that holds the water at bay. The Bonnet Carré Spillway, that vast and mostly invisible protector, loomed in the background of daily life. Flooding was always a possibility. Order was something you trusted other people to maintain.

Every morning and afternoon, I got on the bus driven by a man named Mr. Barry.

That is the memory.

Mr. Barry was a quiet man, probably in his forties—or at least that’s how I remember him. He was dark brown, with a face worn gently by time, gray-black hair thinning at the crown. He didn’t say much. I don’t remember conversations. I don’t remember jokes or discipline or instruction. What I remember is his presence.

On cold days, I can see him sitting in the driver’s seat before we boarded, eating out of a lunch container—not a tin exactly, but a proper lunch box. Inside was red beans and rice. In Louisiana, that meal is more than food; it’s ritual, warmth, care. I somehow knew his wife—or someone who loved him—had made it. He ate it slowly, with relish, like it mattered.

I don’t even know when he ate it. Maybe between routes. Maybe in the afternoon before the ride home. Memory doesn’t care much for logistics. It keeps what it wants.

Mr. Barry wore jeans, usually a collared shirt with a T-shirt underneath—sometimes red-and-black checked. Once the bus got moving, he’d turn on the radio. Rock and roll, whatever was on FM at the time. Occasionally, in the mornings, the news. There were only so many stations then. The world arrived filtered and faint.

Here’s the strange part: I don’t remember how he drove. I don’t remember a single thing about his skill behind the wheel. I don’t remember rules or reprimands or even the sound of his voice. But I remember him. His face. His name. The constancy of seeing him every day.

He probably didn’t know my name.

And yet, decades later, I carry him.

In high school, I had another bus driver: Mr. Greg. He was different—more talkative, lanky, tall, with a mustache and an easy smile. He played country music. He was also a police officer in Madisonville, Louisiana, where I lived at the time. I knew more about him. I saw him occasionally outside the bus, sometimes in his patrol car. He had a brother who also drove a bus, though I can’t remember his name.

Mr. Greg had rules—bus drivers always do. Sit down. Don’t move. Don’t test the limits of a vehicle that is both transportation and controlled chaos. Bus driving is hard. You’re responsible for dozens of children while piloting something the size of a small building. You’re caretaker and authority and witness, all at once.

I don’t know where either of these men are now. Mr. Barry could be in his sixties, his nineties, or gone altogether. Mr. Greg is probably in his fifties or sixties. Time gets slippery when you start measuring it against your own life. I’m now roughly the age I once imagined Mr. Barry to be. Or maybe older. Or maybe not.

And that’s the point.

We spend so much time worrying about what will matter—what we’ll be remembered for, what impact we’re making, whether our actions register. But memory doesn’t work that way. People remember presence. Consistency. Care. The way someone showed up, quietly, day after day.

Mr. Barry and Mr. Greg probably have no idea they live in my mind. They weren’t teachers. They weren’t family. They weren’t friends. They were simply the men who took me from home to school and back again, safely, repeatedly, without drama.

And yet they carry a kind of solace for me now—a reminder of a time when I had less agency, less freedom, and other people quite literally carried me where I needed to go.

I know for certain I could never be a bus driver. That job requires patience, endurance, and a tolerance for chaos I do not possess.

So this is a quiet thank-you—to Mr. Barry, to Mr. Greg, and to all the people whose labor is invisible but essential. To the ones who never make speeches but leave an imprint anyway.

You never really know who will remember you.

And maybe that’s the grace of it.

PDF Copy for Printing

Teaching on the Edge of “Goodbye, Mr. Chips”

noreply@blogger.com (Greig Roselli) — Sat, 6 Dec 2025 09:55:00 -0500

I used to think teaching looked like a scene out of the novel-made-classic movie — the musical version I like is Goodbye, Mr. Chips, with Peter O’Toole in the title role. Mr. Chips is dapper. He nibbles biscuits, dispenses quiet wisdom through action, and his students adore him. That was my gestalt of teaching, a script I absorbed in childhood. I idolized my teachers — middle school, high school, even college — as if they could make order out of chaos (or show me the pattern inside the chaos, which is sometimes even better).

I became a teacher at twenty-eight, after a decade in the arms of Mother Church — first a seminarian, then a religious brother. I left that life for a parallel calling. And I’m still here, now in my forties, a little more tired, a little more rushed. The backstage parts of the job take up a lot of oxygen — grading, uploading this file and that one, posting grades, reading emails, responding to some of them. It’s office work except teaching isn’t an office job — it’s a command performance. The show thrills me; it also wrings me out.

This morning I cried in the shower. It was cold. My commute from Queens to my school in Washington Heights is about an hour and a half. I don’t love that part. I check my email and skim the news on my phone, but mostly it feels like time I can’t get back.

I started this year with gusto. Classic me — the Energizer Bunny. I’m either all-systems-go or in a deep morass of my own patheticness. People tend to like me when I’m bouncy and ready to wrangle sixth- and seventh-graders — the tribe I travel with these days. Teaching happens in the moment, but it demands a plan — lesson arcs, pacing calendars, data cycles. And yet my favorite moments are the improvised ones: a student’s random share, a series of unfortunate (and comic) events, that flash when a question sparks real curiosity. That’s the stuff that keeps me in it — kids doing, being, thinking, and seeing.

It’s my first time teaching in a public school after years in private — tuition-free places and tuition-paid ones. I got my certification after I’d already been in classrooms for a while. The shift to the public sphere is a whole story on its own. What I can say is: my students talk. They interrupt. They test boundaries. We’re nearing Christmas, and the behaviors have a pulse. That tracks. I should feel blessed — three more weeks and then hibernation. But I feel anxious.

Part of it is last year, which was a disaster. Let’s leave it there. Part of it is now: I’m learning two curricula, juggling four classes, and directing drama club (we meet once a week, which should be manageable, right?). I have a parent advocating hard for her seventh-grade son to get into a private school for eighth — which I respect — while I try to keep everyone learning today. I’m teaching everything new, following a set curriculum that still requires a million tweaks to fit the real humans in front of me. It drives me a little mad.

So I write. My therapist says writing is therapy; this is that. I’m not a naturally organized person. I survive on intuition. Sometimes I collapse under the pressure. I took a sick day today — I needed to breathe — and now I’m second-guessing the choice. My armor plate has shifted. I don’t feel as confident as I “should.” I’m not kind to myself; I can be brutal. When I stumble, the echo chamber inside me amplifies the mistake.

I’m not a perfectionist — far from it. I’m the teacher typing the slide deck minutes before students walk in. But like Mr. Chips, I believe in the humanity of this work. I’m teaching actual human beings — kids with desires and wishes, different from mine, but real. In the story, Mr. Chips falls in love. I always thought Goodbye, Mr. Chips felt a little queer-coded. There are plenty of us — gay men who found a home in the profession. When people ask (and they ask a lot), I sometimes joke that I’m saving myself for Mr. Right. I’ll even make up a beau — Marc Antony — no relation to the historical figure. He’s also been A.G. Millington or Uncle Faroger. It’s a little neurodivergent of me, maybe, to chat with my alter egos. It’s only a problem if they talk back, right?

My salve is Friday after school. New York City does something to me on Fridays — a little joie de vivre. I’ll walk along 37th Avenue in Queens, duck into a bodega, or browse a 99-cent store. I’ll treat myself to a café au lait (no sugar!) and remember that joy still sneaks in, even when I’m running on fumes.

Here’s what I know from my own mistakes: teaching isn’t osmosis. Papers don’t grade themselves. Lessons don’t float from the ether. But learning can be wondrous. I’ve built Stones of Erasmus from that conviction — it started “just for fun,” and in the pandemic it became a haven for the kinds of lessons I crave: resources that bring arts and letters to life, that challenge me and my students to go deeper. On my best days, I design the kind of work that makes adolescents sit up — not because it’s flashy, but because it’s alive with big ideas.

I’m still not Mr. Chips — I don’t want to be. He’s a sweet fantasy, a tidy narrative where the biscuits are always warm and the Latin epigrams always land. My classroom is messier, louder, more human. And when it’s all too much — when the commute freezes me, when the schedule crowds in, when the curriculum needs more tweaking than time allows — I remember why I came: to spark wonder, to foster thinking, to help kids map the disorder and sometimes find the hidden order inside it.

So, goodbye to the fantasy — and hello to the practice. I’ll keep showing up, tweaking, failing, trying again, and laughing at my own slide-deck-at-the-bell chaos. And on the days I manage to create a little stillness amid the storm — a circle of tea, a shared poem, a question that lingers — I nod to that dapper gentleman in my imagination and whisper, with gratitude and a grin: Goodbye, Mr. Chips.

PDF Copy for Printing

3 Things I Love About Teaching ❤️📚

noreply@blogger.com (Greig Roselli) — Fri, 21 Nov 2025 19:10:00 -0500

Hey, y’all. I know social media is full of teachers talking about how tough this job is (and honestly … they’re not wrong). But today I’m flipping the script. Here are three things that make teaching amazing for me:

1. I’m a celebrity.
Only at school, but still! Nothing beats leaving the building, turning a corner, and hearing, “Hey, Roselli!” from the same kids I was just trying to convince to take notes. I’ll take my hallway fame, thank you very much.

2. Kids' writing blows me away.
As an ELA teacher, I get to watch kids put their hearts on the page. My 7th graders are writing about A Long Walk to Water right now, connecting the story to compassion, responsibility, and the suffering of others. Sometimes their insights stop me in my tracks. They’re that good.

3. The beautiful mirror effect.
I’m older, I’ve got more mileage as a reader and thinker—but then I see students making connections, asking questions, and showing a spark that reminds me of my younger self. Sometimes they’re even sharper than I ever was. Watching their potential unfold is the best part of this job.

Sure, teaching is hard. But these moments? They’re why I stay.

(And yes, I’m rocking my Janus shirt. You can grab one on my store 😉)

PDF Copy for Printing

Gratitude Friday from a Middle School English Language Arts Teacher

noreply@blogger.com (Greig Roselli) — Fri, 14 Nov 2025 15:13:00 -0500

This video captures me at my most exuberant.

Commuting, Teaching, and the Strange Existential Quiet of 7:00 A.M.

Since September, my day has begun at 5:00 a.m. in Queens. By 6:00, I’m on the E train heading for Washington Heights — an hour and twenty-five minutes of subterranean meditation before first bell. I transfer at Port Authority, usually early enough to glimpse the city before it fully wakes. By the time the A pulls into 168th Street, the sky is pulling its first threads of light across the station roof.

I walk past the old Croton Aqueduct tower; a reminder of a New York that once survived on a narrow ribbon of water; and up toward my school. But most mornings, I barely register the history around me. I’m thinking about lesson plans, attendance sheets, and the unpredictable weather systems known as seventh graders.

Teaching has its rituals: unlocking the classroom before anyone arrives, flipping on the lights, setting the day in motion before the din begins. By 7:55, the “buffalo” arrive — loud, hilarious, tender, exhausting. On good days, I can match their energy. On others, I’m simply the adult keeping the world stitched together.

This year, the work has felt especially existential — not in the dramatic, philosophical sense, but in the way teaching forces you to be utterly present. A sixth grader whispers she’s bleeding and needs the bathroom. A student confides heartbreak. Someone forgot breakfast. Another kid, sensing I am taking care of someone else, decides to pick up a chair in a show of strength. "Make good choices," I say, partly to them, partly to myself. Someone else forgot how to be twelve. You meet all of it with whatever grace you can muster.

Lately, though, I’ve felt something quieter: a strange numbness, the kind that slips in when the body is tired and the mind has carried too much. No one tells you in teacher school that caring deeply has a metabolic cost.

But here’s what I’m learning: numbness isn’t failure. It’s a signal. A reminder that even teachers—keepers of routines, holders of storms—need tending, too.

And tomorrow, at 5:00 a.m., the alarm will ring again.

The city will rise.

So will I.

Not because I’m unshakeable, but because this work—messy, human, and profoundly alive—still calls me back.

I like to remind myself: "Self care, yes, mama!"

PDF Copy for Printing

Finding Purpose: How I Stay Creative Without Burning Out

noreply@blogger.com (Greig Roselli) — Sun, 26 Oct 2025 20:02:00 -0400

Hey y’all 💭 Feeling the Sunday scaries and thinking about what keeps me grounded lately. Erik Erikson talks about generativity— that stage when you want to give back, to nurture others. Teaching middle schoolers has me living that out every day. I don’t have biological kids, but I do have “brain children”—ideas, stories, and students I’ve helped grow. 🌱

Lately, I’m trying to stay creative and generous without burning out—through music, reflection, and connecting deeply with others. How do you tap into your own spiritual energy and stay generative?

#TeacherLife #SundayReflections #Generativity #ErikErikson #MindfulTeaching #CreativeEnergy

PDF Copy for Printing

Heracles the Lion-Hearted: Homeric Hymn Reading & Classroom Activity

noreply@blogger.com (Greig Roselli) — Tue, 23 Sep 2025 17:39:00 -0400

Heracles (Hercules)
as a constellation in the night sky

Hercules (or, in Greek, Heracles) is one of those mythological figures who never seems to fade away. Whether he’s wrestling lions, cleaning impossible stables, or starring in Disney movies, Heracles has captured imaginations for centuries. Today, let’s look at a short ancient hymn that celebrates him as the mighty son of Zeus.

This passage comes from a collection called the Homeric Hymns, written thousands of years ago in praise of the gods and heroes. It’s brief but powerful—just like Hercules himself.

📖 Reading Passage

Homeric Hymn XV: To Heracles the Lion-Hearted

I will sing of Heracles, the son of Zeus and much the mightiest of men on earth.
Alcmene bore him in Thebes, the city of lovely dances, when the dark-clouded Son of Cronos had lain with her.

Once, he used to wander over unmeasured tracts of land and sea at the bidding of King Eurystheus, and himself did many deeds of violence and endured many;

But now he lives happily in the glorious home of snowy Olympus, and has neat-ankled Hebe for his wife.

Hail, lord, son of Zeus! Give me success and prosperity.

📝 Vocabulary

Lion-hearted – exceptionally brave, courageous
Cronos – the Titan father of Zeus, often linked with time and power
Alcmene – mortal mother of Heracles
Eurystheus – the king who commanded Heracles to complete the famous Twelve Labors
Olympus – the mountain home of the gods in Greek mythology

❓ Five Quick Questions

Who are the parents of Heracles?
Where was Heracles born?
Who ordered Heracles to perform his famous labors?
According to the hymn, where does Heracles live now?
What request does the singer make at the end of the hymn?

✨ Teacher Tip

This short hymn is a perfect bell-ringer activity! Students can practice close reading, connect Heracles to what they know from popular culture, and review key mythological figures like Zeus, Cronos, and Hebe.

If you’d like ready-to-use Greek mythology resources—including reading cards, comprehension questions, writing prompts, and classroom activities—check out my growing collection on Stones of Erasmus, including Heracles. They’re great for middle and high school ELA and Humanities classrooms, aligned to standards, and designed to make mythology come alive.

Quick Question Key: The answer key is included in the easy-to-share PDF (see link at the end of this post).

👉 Explore my mythology teaching resources here!

PDF Copy for Printing

Crazy English — Why English is so Hard to Learn

noreply@blogger.com (Greig Roselli) — Fri, 12 Sep 2025 23:32:00 -0400

Why English Is So Hard to Learn

The following excerpt (often attributed to Richard Lederer’s Crazy English [1989]) highlights the delightful absurdities of the English language.

A Few Reasons Why English Confuses Learners

The bandage was wound around the wound.
The farm was used to produce produce.
The dump was so full that it had to refuse more refuse.
They were too close to the door to close it.
He could lead if he would get the lead out.
The soldier decided to desert his dessert in the desert.
Since there is no time like the present, he thought it was time to present the present.
A bass was painted on the head of the bass drum.
When shot at, the dove dove into the bushes.
I did not object to the object.
The insurance was invalid for the invalid.
There was a row among the oarsmen about how to row.
Don’t forget, we must polish the Polish furniture.
The buck does funny things when there are does present.
A seamstress and a sewer fell down the sewer line.
To help with planting, the farmer taught his sow to sow.
The wind was too strong to wind the sail.
After a number of injections, my jaw got number.
Upon seeing a tear in the painting, I shed a tear.
I had to subject the subject to a series of tests.
How can I intimate this to my most intimate friends?
We park on a driveway and drive on a parkway.

The Paradoxes of English

There is no egg in eggplant and no ham in hamburger; neither apple nor pine in pineapple.
English muffins weren’t invented in England, nor were French fries in France.
Quicksand can work slowly, boxing rings are square, and a guinea pig is neither from Guinea nor a pig.
Writers write, but fingers don’t fing, grocers don’t groce, and hammers don’t ham.

Plural forms also play tricks: one goose, two geese—but one moose, two moose. One index, two indices.

You can make amends, but never just one amend.

The Madness Continues

In what other language do people:

Recite at a play and play at a recital?
Ship goods by truck and send cargo by ship?
Have noses that run and feet that smell?

How can a slim chance and a fat chance mean the same thing, while a wise man and a wise guy are opposites?

English is full of contradictions: your house can burn up while it burns down; you fill in a form by filling it out; and an alarm goes off by going on.

PDF Copy for Printing

Stones of Erasmus | English Language Arts and Humanities Resources for the Middle and High School Classroom | Grades 6–12

noreply@blogger.com (Greig Roselli) — Thu, 4 Sep 2025 22:20:00 -0400

Plato’s Allegory of the Cave Lesson | IB MYP & ELA Resource

noreply@blogger.com (Greig Roselli) — Sun, 17 Aug 2025 16:01:00 -0400

Educational non-profits like the International Baccalaureate and others do a good job of standardizing practices that teachers have been using for decades — perhaps even generations. I made a lesson resource on teaching Plato's Allegory of the Cave. And it has served me well as an educator. However, I wondered if it would hold up to IB standards for the Middle Years Program and beyond. Let's see.

— Greig from Stones of Erasmus

I wondered aloud: Does "The Cave" lesson align with MYP by linking communication, perspective, and inquiry on truth? It does. Let’s break it down using International Baccalaureate language.

Image Credit: Stefano Pollio

IB Middle Years Program (Language & Literature)

Let’s think about how the Cave lesson ties to the IB’s scope: The IB MYP spans ~Grades 6–10 (Years 1–5). While I think it does a good job aligning standards to this grade band, it also works really well with Grades 11–12; Check out the end of this post — I include an optional IB Diploma Program bridge at the end.

Unit framing (ready to paste into the International Baccalaureate proprietary learning management system ManageBac/Atlas)

Subject group: Language & Literature (since IB schools use scores of other resources, please know that this lesson on the Cave can co-badge with Individuals & Societies)
Key concept: Communication (how representations convey/shape meaning)
Related concepts: Perspective, Representation, Intertextuality
Global context: Personal & cultural expression (how ideas of truth/reality are expressed)
Statement of inquiry: Representations of reality shape what we accept as truth.
Inquiry questions

Factual: What is an allegory? What happens in Plato’s cave?
Conceptual: How do perspectives and media filter our perception of reality?
Debatable: Are images and stories reliable ways to know what is “real”?

Approaches to Learning Skills (explicit teach/track)

Thinking: critical & creative (evaluate claims; generate analogies), transfer (text-to-world/media).
Research/Media literacy: source purpose, bias, provenance (incl. film clips, diagrams).
Communication: organizing ideas for oral seminar; crafting clear analytical paragraphs.
Self-management: goal setting for seminar roles; exit tickets for metacognition.

Learning experiences (adapting the Stones of Erasmus flow to the IB MYP)

Hook/Do-Now (5–7 min). Quick write to Essential Q (How do I know what’s real?)—keep. Tie to SOI/inquiry questions.
Close reading (15–20). Read the plain-language text of The Cave; annotate symbols and shifts (chains/shadows/fire/sun/return). Pair-share a gist paragraph. Note — all of these resources are turn-key and ready to go in the Stones of Erasmus learning resource.
Guided discussion (15). Use Qs 1–3; introduce Two Worlds chart with a Socratic “hot seat”: defend/critique Plato’s hierarchy (knowledge vs. opinion/images).
Intertextual link (10). Matrix/Truman Show clips; students record claim-evidence-reasoning on an organizer (media as “cave”).
Exit ticket (3–5). One way the allegory appears in their world (social media, VR, advertising).

Summative Assessment Ideas (MYP Years 2–5)

Task A — Literary analysis paragraph/mini-essay

Prompt: Explain how one symbol in the allegory develops Plato’s claim about reality and knowledge. Use precise textual evidence.

Assesses: Criterion A (Analysing) & D (Using language)
Success criteria (adapted from levels 5–8):

Adept selection of evidence; clear explanation of how form (allegory/symbol) creates meaning; coherent argument; accurate, sophisticated language.

Task B — Socratic seminar with media comparison

Prompt: To what extent is the “cave” a useful metaphor for today’s media environments? Bring one outside example.

Assesses: Criterion A (Analysing) & C (Producing text—spoken)
Products: Pre-seminar position card (organized notes), 10–15 min seminar, reflective paragraph on shifts in your view.
Criteria emphasis: Organization for purpose/audience; development and synthesis of ideas; clear oral expression and active listening.

Task C — Creative representation + rationale

Prompt: Redesign the cave metaphor for a modern context (comic strip, infographic, micro-fiction, short video) and write a 300–500 word rationale justifying your choices using allegory terminology.

Assesses: Criterion C (Producing text) & D (Using language)
Criteria emphasis: Purposeful structure, stylistic choices, vocabulary control, explanation of creative decisions using subject language.

Optional extension (Year 5): Comparative analysis of Plato and a contemporary thinker on reality/representation (e.g., Baudrillard excerpt), meeting A & D at higher sophistication.

MYP Criterion for The Allegory of the Cave in Plain Language

Stones of Erasmus resource element	MYP objective(s) it best serves	Notes / quick tweaks
Plain-language reading & gist	A (identify explicit/implicit ideas); D (accurate vocabulary)	Keep gist but add a one-pager of tiered vocabulary with sentence frames.
Comprehension Qs 1–15	A	Convert some to text-dependent “how/why” prompts to push analysis (Aiii).
Discussion Qs 1–6	A, C, D	Add discussion norms & roles for equitable talk.
Two Worlds chart	A	Add a mini-task: students critique or revise the hierarchy (does art only belong “below the line”?).
Suggested lesson plan	All (formative sequence)	Insert explicit ATL callouts and success criteria per activity.
Sample student visuals/notes	C, D	Keep creative outputs; add a required rationale paragraph (Cii/iii).

Quick MYP-ready Rubrics Ready-to-Use

Criterion A (Analysing)

7–8: Perceptive analysis of content/technique/context; well-chosen evidence; insightful conclusions.
5–6: Effective analysis with relevant evidence; clear conclusions.
3–4: Some analysis; uneven evidence.
1–2: Limited comprehension/description.

Criterion B (Organizing) (use for essay tasks where structure is assessed)

7–8: Purposeful organization; cohesive paragraphs; effective referencing.
... (scale down similarly)

Criterion C (Producing text)

7–8: Sophisticated choices for purpose/audience; coherent development; engaging style.
...

Criterion D (Using language)

7–8: Precise, varied vocabulary; accurate grammar; subject-specific terms used effectively.
...

Differentiation & inclusion (MYP-aligned)

Scaffolds: dual-coding (images + text), guided annotations, sentence starters for claims/rebuttals, glossary for allegory, epistemology, empirical, abstract.
Extensions: add a primary-source excerpt from Republic Book VII for close reading; student-led colloquy on whether art belongs “below the line.”
Wellbeing: pre-teach the “killing the freed man” as allegorical; offer opt-out from that specific detail if needed.

Strengths & Suggestions and Growth Areas

Strengths

Clear essential question and high-interest, accessible retelling—excellent for mixed-readiness classes.
Ready-to-use discussion/comprehension sets + answer keys; strong entry into philosophical thinking for ELA.
Authentic classroom provenance with student artifacts and teacher reflections (credibility + practicality).

Optional bridge to Grades 11–12 (IB DP)

TOK: Knowledge question—To what extent are sense perceptions reliable ways of knowing? Link Areas of Knowledge: The Arts vs Human Sciences using the cave as metaphor
Language A: Literature: Paper-2 style comparative prompt on representation vs. reality across texts/films.

PDF Copy for Printing

Wax Tablets & Ramen Dreams: Horace’s Hustle Through School in Ancient Rome

noreply@blogger.com (Greig Roselli) — Sun, 3 Aug 2025 14:14:00 -0400

Horace

In this post, I trace Horace’s wax‐tablet hustle and Cicero’s scroll‐toting swagger to today’s laptop lectures and TikTok chats, proving student life — status symbols, gossip, and big dreams — still beats with the same ancient pulse.

Why Horace’s Father Snubbed Rome’s Elite Prep School

“He wouldn’t send me to Flavius’ school, where the fine lads —sons of proud centurions — strode in with satchels and tablets on their left arms, eight coins of tuition clasped in hand on each Ides.”

—Horace, Satires 1.6. 75-79

From Clay Tablets to Campus Chats: Student Life in Ancient Rome vs. Today

In ancient Rome, heading to school meant carrying a tablet — and no, not the digital kind. Roman poet Horace dryly noted that wealthy students strolled to class with wax tablets and leather satchels, ready to pay their monthly tuition. Horace, however, didn’t come from money. His father, a freed slave, scraped together enough to send him to Rome for a proper education. Think of Horace as the scholarship kid living on the ancient equivalent of ramen and PB&J, while his classmates showed up with nicer gear and more lunch money.

Cicero, by contrast, grew up in an upper-middle-class family and received a top-tier education in literature, philosophy, and rhetoric. He likely had the finest tablets, an arsenal of scrolls, and perhaps even a capsarius — a servant to carry his school supplies. Imagine having someone attend class and take notes for you! Later in life, Cicero did just that, hiring his enslaved secretary, Tiro, to take dictation in shorthand. You could say he managed to outsource his homework after all.

Fast forward two millennia, and students now tote sleek laptops instead of wax tablets. But one thing hasn’t changed: the tech you carry still signals status. School has always been a social arena, where cool gear gives you a boost — whether it's the latest MacBook or a particularly fine stylus.

When it came to staying in touch with home, Cicero would’ve envied our instant messages and video calls. He once received a letter from Syria after 27 days. Imagine waiting over a month to hear from your mom! In an age of TikToks and texts, we forget that “mail” once meant a horse and a lot of hope. But even then, students grumbled about slow replies from home.

Gossip, Reputation, and Parental Oversight

Classrooms, ancient or modern, are more than places to learn — they’re breeding grounds for gossip. Horace took pride in avoiding slander and credited his father’s watchful parenting for keeping him out of trouble. “He guarded my innocence,” Horace wrote, recalling the day his father walked him to school. It turns out campus rumors aren’t a modern invention. Back then, a clever insult could be scribbled on a wax tablet and passed around — the Roman equivalent of a subtweet.

Horace’s father understood the risks of student life. He personally escorted young Horace to class and even sat in on lessons to shield him from bad influences. Today’s parents may not accompany their kids to lectures, but they show up at orientation, worry about safety, and dream big for their children’s future — often hoping they’ll be the first in the family to earn a college degree.

Horace’s father, once enslaved, dared to give his son a gentleman’s education — a radical act that still resonates. Like many modern parents, he saw learning as a way out, a step up, and a gateway to independence. And just like today, a student’s reputation mattered. Horace was proud no one could accuse him of greed or debauchery. Maintaining a good name was as vital in the Roman Republic as it is on today’s campuses — whether through whispered rumors or viral posts.

Rhetoric, Romance, and the Eternal Student Struggle

No PowerPoint? No problem. Roman students like Horace and Cicero gave speeches from memory — a high-pressure task that trained them for life in politics or public service. Rhetorical exercises were central to elite education, and being able to speak on the fly was the gold standard. Public speaking still makes palms sweat today, even if we now have slides and teleprompters to lean on.

Of course, student life isn’t all essays and exams. Horace’s poetry often reveals a heart caught up in love. In one Ode, he daydreams about a faithful lover — a glimpse into his emotional world that feels all too familiar. You can practically picture him in Athens, juggling crushes and classwork, trying to become a famous poet while nursing heartbreak.

Sound familiar? Modern students are still navigating late-night study sessions and love lives. Whether it’s a classmate who catches your eye or a messy breakup during finals week, the collision of romance and responsibility is timeless. Horace’s longing for a girl under the porticoes of Athens mirrors the modern dilemma: chase your dreams, but don’t flunk out while doing it.

And outside the classroom, Horace dabbled in extracurriculars — namely, writing poetry and briefly serving in Brutus’s army after Caesar’s assassination. Today’s students join clubs or advocate for causes. The urge to make a difference while balancing coursework? Eternal.

Changing Times, Timeless Traditions

So, what’s really changed since the days of Horace and Cicero? Scale, diversity, and freedom. Roman schools were small and socially exclusive. Today’s universities welcome students from all backgrounds, cultures, and genders — a scale and inclusivity Rome never imagined.

Freedom of choice has also evolved. In Horace’s time, education often locked students into a career path chosen by their family. Poet Ovid famously griped that his dad wanted him to be a lawyer — but he just wanted to write. Horace, too, chose poetry over politics, thanks to support from his patron Maecenas. It was a risky move, akin to turning down med school to join a garage band — but it was his dream.

Marriage expectations? Also very different. Rome pushed young adults into arranged marriages that served economic or political interests. Horace avoided that trap and remained a bachelor — even as Augustus tried to legislate marriage into fashion Horace managed to avoid that fate – he never married, remaining a bachelor with no kids. (Suetonius reports that Augustus Caesar passed laws against bachelorhood, essentially nudging men like Horace to marry and produce heirs, but Horace still did his own thing). Today, we marry (or don’t) on our own timeline. Education now symbolizes personal freedom rather than civic obligation.

Still, the heart of school life beats with familiar rhythms. Students today, like Horace and Cicero before them, juggle studies and social lives, battle homesickness, crave independence, chase ambition — and occasionally fall in love. Whether you’re writing verses in Latin or pulling an all-nighter in Python, you’re part of a tradition as old as civilization itself.

Same Human Story. Different Tools.

Clay tablets have become iPads, scrolls replaced by PDFs, and letters by instant messages. But the student experience — learning, laughing, gossiping, dreaming — remains remarkably unchanged. Horace and Cicero might raise an eyebrow at modern campuses, but they'd surely recognize the thrill, stress, and promise of student life.

Two thousand years on, we’re still trying to get to class on time, still trying to find our voice, and still wondering if the person three rows down might text us back.

Works Cited (MLA):

Cicero, Marcus Tullius. Letters to Atticus, translated by E. O. Winstedt. Gutenberg Project, 1921. (Letter of Aug. 15, 47 BC, showing a 27-day transit of a letter).
“Cicero.” NumberAnalytics Blog, 28 May 2025, pp. 1–3. (Early life of Cicero: wealthy equestrian family, top education).
Horace. Satires I.6, c. 35 BC. (Horace on school: wealthy kids with tablets; his father’s protective guidance).
Horace – Biography. Academy of American Poets, Poets.org. (Horace’s background: son of a freedman; finest school in Rome by Orbilius).
“Horace: The Son of a Slave Who Became Rome’s Leading Poet.” World History Encyclopedia, edited by Donald L. Wasson, World History Encyclopedia, 2020. (Horace’s later life: patronage of Maecenas; remained unmarried despite Augustus’s law).
New York Public Library Digital Collections, The Miriam and Ira D. Wallach Division of Art, Prints and Photographs: Print Collection. Horace. 1800-1910.
“Ovid.” World History Encyclopedia, edited by Donald L. Wasson, 2017. (Ovid’s early life: father urged him toward law and politics over poetry).
“Roman Education.” World History Encyclopedia, World History Publishing, 2019. (Overview of Roman schooling: students’ equipment, use of slaves, rhetorical exercises).
Tiro, Marcus Tullius. Wikipedia, Wikimedia Foundation, last modified Jan. 2023. (Cicero’s secretary Tiro and his duties: taking dictation, managing correspondence)

PDF Copy for Printing

5 Classroom Strategies That Actually Work (Even Without a Rubric)

noreply@blogger.com (Greig Roselli) — Thu, 31 Jul 2025 19:35:00 -0400

Five Things I Do in My Classroom That Just Work

(Even if there’s no rubric for them)

There are things I do in my classroom that just work—but I’m not sure there’s a teacher rubric for them. Maybe they’re not “standard” in education. Still, I do them anyway.

1. I give out stickers.

I know, I know. I’ve read all the teacher blog posts and watched the TikToks that say: “Get rid of the cute stuff. Kids need consistency, not stickers.” And I get it. I don’t hand out a sticker every single class period. But I do love giving out stickers. Cute ones. Fun ones. The kind that make a kid smile. And guess what? It works—with seniors, with middle schoolers. Kids like stickers. I like stickers. It’s a small gesture that makes the classroom feel human.

2. I build consistency—but I’m not married to the format.

Yes, I believe students need to know what to expect when they walk into the classroom. Maybe it’s a predictable structure: a warm-up on grammar, a chapter discussion, small group work, and an exit ticket. That kind of rhythm can be calming. But I also think it’s okay to play around with the model sometimes.

For example, sometimes I lecture. I know that’s considered a dirty word in modern pedagogy, but sometimes students need direct input. A 10–15 minute mini-lecture—on something visual and engaging, like Raphael’s School of Athens—can be powerful. Talk about Plato and Aristotle in the center, point out Raphael’s self-portrait. Deliver it like a college professor would. Then have students write Cornell notes, draft questions, or summarize the lecture. Students need input and output. The balance matters.

3. I prioritize discussion—and I make it real.

I love classroom discussion, but I know it can fall flat if the setup isn’t right. Sometimes teachers over-protocol it. Other times, the discussion questions just aren’t juicy enough. You’ve got to trust your kids and ground the discussion in something compelling.

Here’s a simple method that works for me: I put a theme on the board and ask students to find three textual moments that relate to it. I give them three minutes. Then I pull names from tongue depressors (old-school but effective). Each student shares one quote, and then we discuss it: “What do you think?” “What does someone else think about that?” “Who has a counter-opinion?” It’s structured, but not rigid. And it opens up rich conversations.

Sometimes, we skip the text entirely and go for the big questions:

What is the meaning of life?
How do you know if someone is truly your friend?

Those social, philosophical moments build community. They’re worth the time.

4. I preview everything.

One hard-earned lesson: Always preview activities with students. I used to spring things on them and then get frustrated when it didn’t go well. Now I let them know:

“Tomorrow we’re having a discussion. It’ll be 20 minutes, after our book work. No homework, but check Google Classroom if you want to see the questions ahead of time.”

Previewing helps students mentally prepare. And if I know certain students might struggle, I make a point of checking in with them ahead of time.

5. I believe in co-teaching—and wish more schools did too.

I’ve worked in co-teaching models, and I’m convinced: this is the future of education. The biggest problem in schools today is what I call scope creep. You start out as a sixth grade ELA teacher. Suddenly you’re also the debate coach, an advisor, the parent liaison, the field trip organizer… It’s too much.

Instead of pouring money into layers of admin, why not invest in teachers? Every class could have two teachers. Cap class sizes at 21. Let APs and coaches teach. Let co-teachers build a shared scope and sequence, check in weekly, and split responsibilities. I’ve seen it work. It can be transformative.

But instead, too many schools gaslight teachers:

“I don’t know why this class isn’t working out for you…”

Maybe because you’re expecting one human to do the work of three?

Final Thoughts

I’m not saying there’s one perfect way to teach. But I know what works for me. Stickers, mini-lectures, juicy discussions, transparent expectations, and a genuine co-teaching model. These things aren’t always in the playbook—but they should be.

PDF Copy for Printing

🎭 Out of Order in the East Village: Carl Holder’s Beautifully Disheveled One-Man Show

noreply@blogger.com (Greig Roselli) — Tue, 22 Jul 2025 21:12:00 -0400

Last night, I found myself in a basement in the East Village—The Basement, to be exact—watching Carl Holder perform Out of Order, his one-man show that unfolds, quite literally, out of order. What follows is my reflection on a play that’s part sketch, part confession, and wholly committed to the idea that live performance still matters in a fractured world.

Tonight, I saw Carl Holder’s play Out of Order in the East Village, at a venue called The Basement—because, quite literally, it’s in a basement. At the start of the show, Carl claims that when he turned forty, he realized he could no longer write theater. I mean, this is coming from someone who is clearly an accomplished playwright, a teacher, and someone who has devoted his life to the theatrical arts. That moment in the show could have fallen flat—it risks sounding like artifice: the artificer talking about his artifice. It’s like if God came down and said, “I built this world, and I’m proud of it, but I think I’m done.” But it doesn’t really play out that way.

Carl is genuinely heartfelt. You get the sense that he’s someone who thinks and feels deeply. In one sketch, he talks about his upbringing—how he mimicked characters from TV and movies, acting before he even knew what acting was. That rang true. Maybe it’s a universal experience—this intuitive pre-interest in something, even before we have a name for it. The world calls it being alive. Or maybe it’s like falling in love with a profession before realizing it is a profession.

I really appreciated that thread throughout the show. And yes, it’s called Out of Order because it’s literally presented out of order. A clear bowl sits in the center of the stage. Carl pulls cards from it, each with a word or phrase that reminds him of what to do next. There’s a sort of automatism to it—like a carnival of surprises. And there’s audience participation, too. In fact, it’s the only play I’ve attended where no one told us to turn off our phones. There’s even a moment when he asks us to take a photo—so of course I snapped one and posted it.

This isn’t the first time I’ve seen the show. I caught an earlier version at a bird sanctuary—yes, really—earlier this year. So I got to witness its evolution. The essence is still intact. It’s a one-man show, intimate, monologue-driven, though in this version, there’s a concession agent who plays a minor but delightful role—something new since the first time I saw it.

The production reminds me a bit of Wes Anderson, in its meta-awareness of its own performance. It plays with theatrical conventions while still tugging at something sincere. At its heart, I think the show is about failure—or the feeling of failure. It’s about wondering whether you’re enough. Carl seems to suggest that creatives—those who crave expressive outlets—often carry a persistent emptiness. Others might turn to drugs, alcohol, or sex; Carl turns to self-deprecating humor and radical vulnerability. Even the New York Times blurb picked up on that emotional core: it’s heartfelt, not hollow. It doesn’t feel fake.

There’s a moment where Carl reads from what appears to be his actual bank statement. And you find yourself wondering: Is this real? Is he really with Bank of America? That’s the magic of live theater—it can hold a mirror up to its audience. And that’s always been part of theater’s purpose, right? We’re watching, but we’re also being watched. And we start to ask: Is he talking about me? Am I the one in need of catharsis?

Carl even gives us a tongue-in-cheek run-through of classic dramatic structure—exposition, rising action, climax, falling action. He’s a consummate artist, and this one-hour-and-a-half performance he’s created in the Village is truly worth seeing. I believe it’s running for just eight more days, so time is of the essence. I’ll include the details below.

As someone who loves going to the theater—but isn’t a theater-maker myself—Out of Order reminded me why we go at all. I love the premise: a playwright unsure how to write a play. Carl talks openly about rejection—by grad programs, directors—and his own dogged desire to act. He presents many of the familiar tropes of being an actor today: the side hustles, the service jobs, the dreams of “making it.” But I don’t think Carl is chasing fame or fortune. I think he genuinely loves the theater. And it pains him when others don’t.

I’ll admit I have some bias—Carl and I used to work together when he was a theater teacher. So yes, this experience felt personal. There’s something really special about watching someone you know put themselves out there so fully. There’s a rawness to it, like a kid performing for their parents—but also a star putting on a show. The production loves its audience. Even when Carl awkwardly insists we post photos on social media—well, that’s the world we live in now.

Carl Holder's play Out of Order features numerous audience participation moments.

I loved this show. I really did. It raises vital questions about what it means to be productive in our increasingly fractured society. Maybe theater is more necessary now than ever—especially as arts programs are slashed, and creativity is under siege. In a world where people are dividing along ideological lines, Out of Order reminds us what it means to be human (with bills to pay).

So yes. Buy a ticket. Go see the show. Or claw your way in. It’s chaotic good. And it’s worth it.

Production Notes:

Written and Performed by Carl Holder

Developed with and Directed by Skylar Fox

Presented by Most Unwanted Productions

Out of Order

PDF Copy for Printing

3 Random Books from My Shelf: YA, Butts, and Hurricane Katrina 📚✨

noreply@blogger.com (Greig Roselli) — Fri, 4 Jul 2025 18:28:00 -0400

Hey y’all — happy Fourth of July! 🇺🇸

I was going through my books and grabbed three totally random picks from my personal library that I just had to share. Ready for a little literary detour?

📖 1. Fade by Robert Cormier

I read this one back in middle school. Cormier used to be the top dog in YA fiction. This book? Absolutely wild.

Imagine if you could turn invisible — now imagine every moral dilemma that comes with that. It gets real dark, real fast. I remember thinking, Oh my god, he really went there. It’s a book that dares to ask what you’d do if no one could see you — and whether you could live with the consequences. Not sure if it’s still in print, but it left a lasting impression on me.

📘 2. The Rear View: A Brief and Elegant History of Bottoms Through the Ages by Jean-Luc Hennig

Yes, it’s a whole book about butts — and I love it.

Surprisingly informative and smart, this nonfiction gem takes a historical jaunt through art, culture, and anatomy. It’s short, cheeky (pun intended), and honestly, great summer reading if you’re into quirky history or cultural studies.

🌊 3. The Great Deluge by Douglas Brinkley

I’m from New Orleans, so this one hits close to home.

Everyone remembers Hurricane Katrina, but not everyone knows the whole story — the systemic failures, the botched emergency responses, and the heartbreaking human toll. Brinkley, a Tulane historian, digs deep. What’s especially eerie is how the worst flooding didn’t happen during the storm — it was the next day, when man-made levees failed.

This is a book I’ve read multiple times. It’s worn, dog-eared, and one of the most important works about a tragedy that shaped my life and my city.

Anyway — those are my three picks! Hope you find something new to read.

And yes, I’m wearing my Dionysus T-shirt. 🍷😎

#BookshelfTour #YAfiction #NonfictionNerd #NewOrleansHistory #FourthOfJulyReads #StonesofErasmus

PDF Copy for Printing

Doubled-Headed Janus from the Villa Medici in Rome Unisex Staple Tee

noreply@blogger.com (Greig Roselli) — Wed, 25 Jun 2025 14:11:00 -0400

Janus of the Villa Medici Tee – Roman Mythology Style

Step into the rich world of Roman art and mythology with this unisex staple tee, featuring an intricately engraved bust of Janus—god of beginnings, doorways, and time—as seen in the gardens of the Villa of the Medicis. Rendered in fine-point, monochrome detail, the dual-facing profile captures Janus’s power to look both backward and forward. On the back, a discreet “stonesoferasmus.com” reminds you of your journey through the stones of history.

Perfect for classicists, humanities teachers, museum lovers, and anyone drawn to the magic of ancient Rome, this shirt pairs effortlessly with jeans, jackets, or layered under a blazer for an academic-chic look.

Unwrapping and Wearing My Roman God T-Shirt

I just got out of the shower, but I had to show y’all this new package I just got—it’s gonna be exciting!

So, I found this public domain image in a 19th-century book that featured illustrations of Roman villas. Since it’s out of copyright, I took the original image and used Adobe Illustrator to turn it into a vector graphic. I cleaned it up, and this inscription—originally carved in stone—was found in the gardens of Cardinal de Medici, near the villa of Pope Julius III.

I used a font (I think it’s Londrina Outline) to recreate the text. So, while the inscription isn’t from the original site, the rest of the design is based on historical artwork.

This is actually the first piece of merch from my Stones of Erasmus store (Link in Bio)! The design features a Roman god—if you know who it is, drop a comment. The shirt design is the same. Here’s the purchase info—well, this is the shirt I designed, and it’s available on my Stones of Erasmus website.

And check this out—this other shirt features Dionysus with a panther, which is one of his sacred animals. I found the image in the public domain and loved how expressive it felt. I hate those crinkly-feeling t-shirts—but this one? It’s so soft and smooth.

Oh, and I colored this one myself! The original illustration was in black and white, but I added the color. Fun fact: I also use these kinds of images in my educational resources, so it’s cool to see them on merch.

And yes—I can be a capitalist swine—check out stonesoferasmus.com 😄
I love how this stuff looks. It’s bold but not too loud.

Product Details

100% combed and ring-spun cotton (Heather colors contain polyester)
Fabric weight: 4.2 oz/yd² (142 g/m²)
Pre-shrunk fabric with side-seamed construction and shoulder-to-shoulder taping
Sublimated print for long-lasting clarity and detail
Unisex fit: flattering on all body types
In White, Silver, Ice Blue, Citron, Ash

Carry a piece of Roman heritage wherever you go—because every new chapter begins at your doorstep.

PDF Copy for Printing

From Marble to Myth: A Turnkey Alpheus & Arethusa Lesson (with Adonis, Hyacinth, and More)

noreply@blogger.com (Greig Roselli) — Fri, 20 Jun 2025 20:10:00 -0400

I have created educational resources to assist in teaching the myth of Alpheus and Arethusa. I included it in a complete, ready-to-go lesson plan on Io and Other Lovers and other tales of pursuit from Greek mythology! Let me guess—you're interested in and piqued by the story, so I will send you the materials if you buy me a cup of coffee.

Hey, y’all. I’m at the Metropolitan Museum of Art today, standing in front of a captivating marble sculpture that tells the dramatic myth of Alpheus and Arethusa. This piece, crafted by Battista di Domenico Lorenzi in the 17th century for a fountain at Alano Bandini’s villa near Florence, now serves as the centerpiece of a Spanish-style patio beside the Met’s main academic library. The scene depicts the river-god Alpheus lunging after Arethusa, who embodies the familiar trope of the relentless pursuer and the hunted maiden. According to legend, when Alpheus nearly captures her, Arethusa calls upon the goddess Diana (Artemis) for help. In response, Diana transforms her devotee into a living fountain, a moment immortalized in marble, where desperation, divine intervention, and metamorphosis converge.

• • • #alpheus #arethusa #mythology #artemis #greekandromanmythology #metmuseum

PDF Copy for Printing

The Tragic Genius of Daedalus: Greek Myth for Teens

noreply@blogger.com (Greig Roselli) — Mon, 19 May 2025 09:30:00 -0400

I’ve always had a conflicted relationship with stories about fathers and sons, which is why the myth of Daedalus has always spoken to me. On the surface, Daedalus is a hero—sometimes even described as a demigod. But look deeper and you'll find a darker tale. Daedalus, the legendary Athenian inventor, is a prototype for the scientist-artist: brilliant, creative, but deeply flawed.

Growing up, my own father worked in an oil plant as a mechanic—far from a Daedalus figure. Yet, I always admired the idea of the accomplished, technically-skilled dad, full of techne. In the Greek myth, Daedalus becomes jealous of his gifted nephew, Talos, and pushes him from the heights of the Acropolis. Some versions say Talos dies; others that he’s transformed into a partridge. Either way, Daedalus is convicted and exiled.

In Crete, Daedalus is caught up in King Minos’s political games, building the labyrinth to contain the monstrous Minotaur. The web of myths—Minos, Pasiphaë, the bull, Theseus, and Ariadne—all spiral around Daedalus. But at the heart is a theme that feels painfully modern: the unintended consequences of genius and ambition.

Eventually, Daedalus and his son Icarus attempt their escape from Crete on wings fashioned from wax and feathers. Despite his father's warnings, Icarus flies too close to the sun; the wax melts and he falls into the sea. The story is a cautionary tale—about invention, about parenting, and about the tragic cost of overreaching. Talos and Icarus are both sacrifices, consumed by Daedalus's drive and flaws.

This myth still resonates today: human innovation can bring light—or unleash disaster. Whether it's fossil fuels, AI, or air conditioning, our inventions often have unintended consequences. We, like Daedalus, are both brilliant and blind to the costs.

After Athens and Crete, Daedalus ends up on the island of King Cocalus, still inventing, still being hunted by Minos. His cleverness solves the riddle of the spiral shell, but it also gives him away. Even at the end, he cannot stop inventing—no matter the danger.

So are we the inheritors of our fathers’ mistakes, or do we forge our own paths? Teaching the myth of Daedalus to teenagers is challenging but rewarding. The themes—creativity, jealousy, consequence—are universal and deeply relevant.

I’ve created a classroom-ready lesson plan on Daedalus for middle and high school ELA teachers. It’s perfect for units on Greek mythology, invention, or even modern novels like Percy Jackson. Bring this compelling story to your students—and add it to your teaching toolbox!

PDF Copy for Printing

Download the Daedalus & Icarus Lesson Plan

Explore the full resource—discussion prompts, activities, visuals, and more for the Daedalus myth:

Gorgeous Lesson Activity for The Vatican Apostolic Palace — Perfect for Art History, Humanities, and English Language Arts (Grades 10-12)

noreply@blogger.com (Greig Roselli) — Sun, 18 May 2025 12:17:00 -0400

Explore the Vatican Apostolic Palace After Pope Leo XIV’s Election

Bring the renewed buzz surrounding the Vatican Apostolic Palace straight into your classroom! Our print-and-digital lesson lets students in grades 10-12 investigate how papal power, art, and architecture intersect, using maps, primary sources, and CCSS-aligned analysis tasks.

Why You’ll Love This Resource

Interdisciplinary power: Perfect for Art History, Social Studies, and ELA crossover units.
Primary-source rich: Includes Mary W. Arms’s 1909 account of an audience with Pope Pius X, plus two lavishly illustrated cards on the Sala Regia and Sala Ducal.
Two vintage maps: A 1929 Vatican City plan and a 1914 floor map of the palace help students visualize the popes’ world.
Ready-to-teach supports: Teacher notes, Cornell and illustrated notetakers, Frayer vocabulary model, 23-question bank, exit tickets, and a two-point rubric keep planning time low.

Inside the Download

Formats: PDF • Google Slides

Student-facing materials — anchor charts of key figures and places, guided overview text, map activities, primary-source reading card, supplemental art cards, notecatchers, vocabulary practice, and exit tickets.
Teacher-facing materials — answer keys, rubric, and extension ideas that invite students to research figures like Bernini, Bramante, and Pope Sixtus V.

Classroom Ideas

Map Race: Assign small groups a list of palace rooms—first team to locate them on the 1914 plan wins candy.
Socratic Seminar: Use the question bank to debate whether modern popes should still live in the Apostolic Palace.
Art + Lit Connection: Pair Vasari’s frescoes of papal triumphs with passages from Dante or Petrarch for a thematic collage.

Ready to Dive In?

Download the free resource and add it to your teacher toolkit, and let your students traverse centuries of Vatican history without leaving their seats.

Plato's Allegory of the Cave Lesson for Middle & High School | Philosophy & ELA

noreply@blogger.com (Greig Roselli) — Sat, 17 May 2025 08:21:00 -0400

Explore Plato’s Allegory of the Cave with easy-to-follow lessons, engaging questions, and activities perfect for humanities and philosophy classes.

If you want to teach philosophy to young people, use this lesson plan to introduce students to Plato’s theory of reality. I was inspired to create this resource when I retold the story of Plato’s Allegory of the Cave (from The Republic) in plain language. In the tale, one prisoner wakes up and questions what is real and what is not. Let your class read the narrative, then use the comprehension and discussion activities to explore Plato’s metaphysics.

This resource is optimized for distance learning. It includes an editable Google Docs link so you can adapt it for Google Classroom or any LMS.

What’s Inside

Essential Question: How do I know what is really real?

Complete text of the story
- Retold in student-friendly English—ideal for read-alouds or paired reading.
15 Reading Comprehension Questions
- Perfect for homework or a flipped-classroom assignment.
6 Discussion Questions
- Great for group work or a carousel activity—get students moving!
Two-World Theory Chart
- Graphic organizer to visualize Plato’s worldview.
3 Google Forms Assessments (with answer keys)
Suggested Lesson Plan—step-by-step guidance
Annotated Bibliography for extension and research projects

Suggested Uses

Humanities: Ancient Greece
World History: History of Ideas
Literature Studies
Ethics — see it in action with 8th-graders here
Introduction to Philosophy
Advisory or SEL: Truth, Appearance vs. Reality

PDF Copy for Printing