FSGPT

No....that wasn't a typo....that is the third fundamental practice we discussed in our faculty meeting today.

 

Frequent- (every 10-15 min)

Small Group-(2-4 kids)

Purposeful-( "seed" question)

Talk-(discuss what has just been taught in their own lingo)

So we had our own FSGPT this afternnon! How refreshing it was to have discourse with our cohorts! Granted we are all gifted life-long learners and all, BUT it was also a MONDAY with just days before Christmas Break. It was easy to talk with one another and contribute our thoughts and ideas.

Now it is time to put this fundamental practice to work. Let us look back at the chapter to review the significance of the "seed" questions and the impact of the primacy-recency effect.

And let's set our timers....

Please post comments this week as you make your conscious and valiant effort to institute you FSGPT. :)

The end of THE JACKET--

Look back at all you noticed while Phil ran to Daniel's house...What were you mostly wondering before he got there?

Give your thoughts about how the story ended....What did you like most and least about the end?


What does each boy LEARN in this story?

The following piece of text was taken from an AUTOBIOGRAPHY. I am not going to tell you WHO wrote it. I am not going to tell you WHERE it is taking place. I am not going to tell you WHY the person is writing about his/her life. 

I want YOU to read it VERY CAREFULLY and tell me what you NOTICE about the text. Jot down in your notebook all the words and phrases that give you hints about who, what, when, where, etc...

In the COMMENT write three things you WONDERed about while you read.

Then we will do some searching on the internet.

When our bus was called, we ran down the school steps. The bus was actually a white Toyota truck with three parallel benches. It was cramped with 20 girls and three teachers. I was sitting on the left between Moniba and a girl named Shazia Ramzan, all of us holding our exam folders to our chests.       Inside the bus it was hot and sticky. In the back, where we sat, there were no windows, just plastic sheeting, which was too yellowed to see through.  All we could see out the back was a little stamp of open sky and glimpses of the sun, a yellow orb floating in the dust that streamed over everything.       Then suddenly we stopped. A young bearded man had stepped into the road.      “Is this the Khushal School bus?” he asked our driver.       Usman BhaiJan though this was a stupid question, as the name was painted on the side.     “Yes,” he said.     “I need information about some children”, said the man.     “You should go to the office,” said Usman Bhai Jan. As he was speaking, another young man approached the back of the van.    “Look it’s one of those journalists coming to ask for an interview,” said Moniba. Since I’d started speaking events with my father, journalists often came, though not like this, in the road.     The man was wearing a peaked cap and had a handkerchief over his nose and mouth.   Then he swung himself onto the tailboard and leaned in over to us.    “Who is Malala?” he demanded.     No one said anything, but several of the girls looked at me. I was the only girl with my face uncovered. That’s when he lifted up a black pistol. Some of the girls screamed. Moniba tells me I squeezed her hand.      My friends say he fired three shots. The first went through my left eye socket and out under my left shoulder. I slumped forward onto Moniba, blood coming from my left ear, so the other two bullets hit the girls next to me. One bullet went into Shazia’s left hand.  The third went through her left shoulder and into the upper right arm of Kainat Riaz.     My friends later told me the gunman’s hand was shaking as he fired.