Adventures in Teaching: Rx for Senioritis

Adventures in Teaching is an occasional feature in Uncommon Sense that focuses on a variety of pedagogical experiences both inside and outside conventional classrooms. The essay that follows is by Dennis Maika, who teaches Advanced Placement American History at Fox Lane High School in Bedford, New York. Dennis received his Ph.D. from New York University in 1995. The following year his dissertation,“ Commerce and Community: Manhattan Merchants in the Seventeenth Century,” won the Hendricks Manuscript Award for the best published or unpublished book-length manuscript relating to any aspect of the Dutch colonial experience in North America. The articles and essays that Dr. Maika has subsequently produced have appeared in the Journal of the Holland Society of New York, New York History, and the OAH Magazine of History and in edited collections including the Encyclopedia of New York State and the New Dictionary of National Biography. His secondary school teaching career, which predates his scholarly work by a couple of decades, began at Bishop Reilly High School in Fresh Meadows, New York, in 1973 and has continued without interruption to the present. The skill and dedication he brings to his work will be evident from the text that follows. Uncommon Sense thanks him for finding the time to share his insights and experiences with us.

“And the streets ran red with blood,” or Rx for Senioritis

I met my new class in late January 2007. A small, highly motivated group of second-semester seniors, they were standing on the highest rung of the high school ladder—at the pinnacle of academic and social status—but were somewhat unsure of what would happen when they stepped off. Having endured the confidence-building, ego-shaking college application process, they were waiting to hear about their futures. Some would go to private colleges or state universities, some to the Ivy League. They were immersed in the freshness of a new semester in a different and unsettling way, because it was their last in high school. They felt a strong sense of comradeship and shared identity with their class, even as they recognized that they might be experiencing the final moments of something special. The anticipation and excitement were electric, the momentum was powerful. The weather was still cold, spring break was a fantasy, graduation was months away. “Senioritis” or “senior slump,” that legendary plague, did not concern them at the moment, but it lurked ominously in the back of my mind. How could I keep this group stimulated until the end of the academic year?

I had a good idea of what my students were going through. Years of experience have taught me that senioritis is not simply a cute-sounding prelude to the serious business of higher education. For students, the final semester of the senior year is an extremely tumultuous and stressful time that each of them experiences in a different way. Much of what they feel is frustration, a type of stress that can be caused by a lack of investment in the present. If I could get them to imagine new beginnings instead of mourning what was ending, perhaps I could change their perspective on their closing months in high school. And if I could be sensitive to their needs and encourage dialogue, I might also be able to teach them something about researching and writing American history! Such an undertaking demanded clear goals and the flexibility to adapt to new circumstances. If I were not to abandon these young people to senioritis, I would have to hear them, really listen to them, adjust to their needs, and try to guide them. This became my “adventure in teaching.”

Motivating Exercises

I was beginning the fourth year of a course I had created—and that I was redesigning for the third time! After reading various studies on the senior year, a colleague and I had developed a plan to restructure our department’s offerings.1 My Research Seminar in American History was to be a test model for what might be a capstone to our curriculum. Convinced that high school students could do more advanced work if given the right kind of guidelines and environment, I had originally emphasized research. However, new students and new realities gradually led me to transform the course into something that resembled an introductory college writing seminar. I wanted to bridge the gap between high school and college composition in a direct and concentrated way.

As I faced this new group of students, my immediate challenge was to sell the idea that their work would be valuable. Understanding that they were both unsettled and enthusiastic about entering college, I asked them to find out what introductory writing seminars would expect by looking specifically at courses offered by some of the schools to which they had applied. Their research was to be quick and simple: identify the purpose or goals of the writing program, describe any syllabi, pay attention to college “jargon,” and give their personal reactions to what would be expected of them. Instead of writing an essay, they would use a Power Point presentation to share the results of their investigation in a clear, concise way.

The words and phrases seemed startlingly new as they spoke them:

individual personal growth through critical analysis
strategies for effective argument
present knowledge in a coherent way
pre-drafting, drafting, revision
appreciate and analyze text
negotiate the demands of reader expectation and writing purpose
sustain innovative thinking

When Frank presented “coherence, clarity, control,” the group’s amusement quickly gave way to awareness; they recognized that important ideas were being expressed, and someone suggested we keep track of them. On a large piece of paper taken spontaneously from the classroom easel, we captured three words in print, with an asterisk to mark their significance and a reference to their source (not Frank, but the University of Connecticut, Storrs). Thus, our “Wall of Sayings” was born.

The jargon exercise and the creation of the “Wall of Sayings” helped to punctuate their initial observations. Noting their reactions in their journals when the presentations ended, each student found something of personal interest. Frank realized more fully what would be expected of him next year and was happy to be learning this now. Katie P. agreed and felt as if she were getting a head start. April waxed enthusiastic about the “self-exploration” possibilities available through writing, whereas Lauren felt somewhat fearful about this new adventure. Alex, typically optimistic and upbeat, expressed doubt about his entire high school experience, calling it a “pure transition device,” where real learning is secondary to getting grades needed for getting into college. Listening to them, I began to wonder if my colleagues and I had done enough to get them ready.

Completing the entire project in six days, the students emerged motivated and enthusiastic, with mixed feelings about how well they had been prepared and the importance of completing the training I had planned for them. We were underway.

Creating Process

The motivational exercise had been successful. Now to have them do history. I wanted to pique their intellectual curiosity, absorb them in a topic, generate their interest in doing research, and share my own passion for the subject. Shamelessly exploiting the popularity of the various “CSI” television shows, I gave them the topic “Historical Murder Mysteries” and asked them to imagine themselves as “historian-detectives” looking for clues. Together, we would examine specific mysterious deaths, identify questions historians asked about them, and evaluate the evidence used. Then the students would apply what they learned to another murder mystery of their own choosing.

An ambitious regimen lay before them. They would need to develop specific skills and establish a comfortable and reliable process for doing this kind of work. They had to learn to conduct research systematically, develop the ability to read critically and take notes practically, foster the growth and development of ideas and insights, and prepare themselves to write—and to edit. I would have to break some of the habits they had honed, such as the impulse to substitute “google” for research and their reluctance to use online databases. Having read few (if any) scholarly articles, they composed at the keyboard with little editing when they wrote. I needed to change these old strategies and encourage them to see the benefits of a longer, reflective approach.

My past experience with this group had taught me that the best way to accomplish these goals was to get them talking and thinking about what they were doing and reflecting on the process in seminar discussions and regular journal writing. My own journal refreshed my memory of a former student whose intelligence and insight had always impressed me. When she was part of my initial experiment with historical murder mysteries several years before, I noticed that although she offered sophisticated responses in discussions, she needed direct, personal advice to help her bring her ideas together in writing. She clearly benefited from the individual coaching I offered her, and I was determined to build the same mentoring opportunities into the regular class schedule. Doing so required negotiating flexible due dates that would allow me to meet with one or two students each day while the others worked independently. A negotiated schedule was also good for class morale—if deadlines were personalized and made manageable, students would feel more committed to them. When faced with what might have been a typical workload in the final semester, high school seniors often opt out rather than take on a new challenge. I had seen my enrollment typically decline between initial scheduling in the previous year and the beginning of the second semester—students just didn’t want to work that hard. Upon seeing the first assignment, some students decided to drop the course, saying that although they saw value in what I was asking of them, they didn’t want to do that much in their last semester in high school.

“Write a critical analysis of historical murder mysteries,” an open and flexible task that I hoped would offer the seminar a chance to agree first on what an appropriate college-level product should look like, introduced the project. The students immediately expressed the need to build upon the introductory sessions and use the terminology of college writing courses both to articulate our goals and to demystify the jargon. Thus, the group decided that the final product would be an “effective argument” based on a question the students themselves would devise, one that created a process for gathering and identifying relevant evidence and followed a writing process that required prewriting, “drafting, and revision.” And with smiles and laughter, the students insisted the final product must demonstrate “coherence, clarity, and control.”

We started with specific readings that I chose to cross historical time periods as well as to help students develop some awareness of the different kinds of print sources that they would encounter in college. We began with the mysterious death of Silas Deane in 1789, moved to the murder of Mary Phagan (1913) and the lynching of Leo Frank (1915), and ended with the suicide of Dutch notary Adriaen Janse van Ilpendam in seventeenth-century New York.2 The reading directions were simply to identify what historian-detectives know, what historian detectives think they know, and finally what is unknown by historian-detectives. I wanted to be sure that my kids would have a clear focus to their reading as well as a secure platform for comparison.

Outstanding discussions ensued. The students always came to class prepared, quickly perceived the similarities and differences in the mysteries we discussed, and posed an array of interesting questions and observations that bounced around the seminar circle. Lauren’s comment on why anyone would care about Silas Deane led to wonderful exchanges about why study history of non-great men. April pointed out the irony that in the case of Mary Phagan’s murder, a Jew was more suspect than an African American. Arkady observed that Janse’s death was merely a conceit used by Donna Merwick to get across her main point about the problems with Dutch culture adjusting to English ways. The seminar discussions thus offered students the opportunity to move beyond the obvious questions and to take intellectual risks. Next up was an introduction to a process that would guide their research.

The following day, we used the SMART Board to clarify the next step.3 I put two topics on the screen—“Writing a Paper Proposal” and “Creating a Research Outline”—and had the students gather around it, while I sat on the sidelines, serving as both scribe-typist on the computer and discussion leader. In discussing a rationale for a paper proposal, the students felt that they first needed to clarify questions that had arisen from the readings. As soon as several essential questions went up on the screen, the class spontaneously began to edit them! The process came naturally to them as they fixed the phrasing and expanded and adjusted the ideas. As they clarified their thinking on what questions could guide their research, they also realized the importance of editing. Next, they decided that after a research question had been identified and described, the paper proposal should offer some indication of how data from previously studied murders and new data from another murder mystery might fit an exploration of their question.

The conversation shifted as they thought about the historical deaths that I had suggested to them, but I brought the discussion back to the idea of a research outline, something that would guide their research and prevent the collection of irrelevant data—a new idea for all of them. Not yet, they told me. They needed some time to investigate the topics before they could think about what they ultimately wanted to write about. They were right. We agreed that after the completion of the paper proposal, a research outline must be individually crafted and then reviewed with me in personal discussion. Our final task was to establish the different parts of the process and assign the relative point value for each. There were to be six separate components to be graded: a paper proposal, the research outline, research notes, a paper outline, and the first and final drafts.

As the class ended, I was thrilled by their thinking and excitement. Yet my experience with second-semester seniors reminded me to be skeptical of the staying power of that enthusiasm. I knew I had to be a smart fisherman—I had them on the line, but I couldn’t reel them in too quickly. Keeping them hooked meant being sensitive to their time constraints. Thus, the final part of the discussion involved negotiating deadlines. We decided that the proposals would be due two days before their February winter break. I would return the papers the next day, giving the authors the break and a few days after that to complete their research outlines. This schedule allowed the students some free time for relaxing over the vacation and gave them some space for catching up when they returned. “Are you sure this is manageable?” I asked. “Not too much?”

The completed paper proposals revealed that the students had broadened their thinking beyond the boundaries of our seminar discussions. They selected an interesting variety of controversial topics: the deaths of Marilyn Monroe and JonBenet Ramsey, the assassinations of Tupac Shakur, John F. Kennedy, and Martin Luther King, Jr., and the murder trials of Leopold and Loeb and Sacco and Vanzetti. Half the students refined previously discussed questions, such as how historians deal with conflicting evidence and to what extent mysterious deaths and murders reflect historical context. The others chose less focused but equally intriguing avenues of investigation. Lauren wanted to assess public reaction to Marilyn Monroe’s death but didn’t quite know what to look for; Katie D. saw historical murders as a microcosm of society but wasn’t sure what part of society to examine; Alex couldn’t decide whether to investigate the broader significance of the legal process in resolving murders or focus on the use of medical evidence in those trials; Pete was interested in the idea of how much creative liberty historians could take with evidence, but the question remained unfocused in his mind. Regardless of the degree of certainty they had reached, they all recognized the importance of writing their ideas at this early stage.

Too often, students begin their work without thinking about the final product, akin to starting a trip without thinking about the final destination. Confused or unclear when they begin their research, they spend too much time wandering intellectually. Typically the task becomes overwhelming as the deadline nears, and they choose different, generally unsuccessful strategies. My students expressed their awareness of this trend in their journals: Alex, for example, realized that “a writer’s best (and hardest) work comes before he actually begins to write.”

In order to get them to think early about where they wanted to go and gradually refine the way to get there, I consulted with each student individually and privately to help them develop research guides and practice effective “data collection.” I moved them away from the idea of simple note-taking, reminding them that their goal was to find and extract just the information that would be relevant to the topics they identified in their research guide. They would ultimately transform their research guides and relevant data into an outline for the first draft. In short daily discussions prior to beginning the individual meetings, the students shared the insights they were developing. We joked, for example, about the danger of getting too complicated and losing focus. We modified the familiar acronym “K.I.S.S.” to “Keep it simple, Senior” and added it to our Wall of Sayings. Individual consultations also allowed me to model more sophisticated thinking when the opportunity arose. Katie D. had discovered a fascinating connection between gender and the murders of Mary Phagan and JonBenet Ramsey but wasn’t able to develop it. I asked the famous “so what?” question, guided her to several gender studies, and suggested she also consider a society’s perception of children.

Upon completing the research guide, data collection, and outline, and before they began to write, we met together to discuss the process so far. They very much appreciated the research outline. Arkady told us how he had broken his old habit of what he called “research carpet bombing,” i.e., taking notes on everything without a clear target. They all felt that their papers were “emerging,” that their ideas were beginning to “crystallize,” and that these experiences were new and different. As we wrapped up discussion, they all wrote a brief essay explaining exactly what they would do in their papers and how their ideas had changed. They felt ready for the next step.

When the students finished their first drafts, it was time to help them develop editing skills. So many high school students believe editing a draft means making spelling and grammar corrections. They’ve never thought of how their essay appears to another reader or what their argument actually “sounds like” to someone else. So we began a “peer listening” process (a modified “mirroring” technique) that had each author read his/her paper to a “peer listener” who would simply repeat what they had heard. The “reader” would then consider whether or not what was heard was what had been intended. I modeled the procedure for the class: a reader read his introductory paragraphs up to the point where he thought he had clearly stated his thesis. I then repeated back what I had heard without judgment or comment. We then proceeded to examine each individual paragraph: the listener would listen to the transitional/opening sentence and comment on whether or not it related clearly to the thesis and identified the evidence. The students found the process so helpful that they asked to continue it for a second day. I agreed. Listening to some of the interaction, I wasn’t quite sure what they were really getting from it. But as long as they thought it was helpful, I was willing to reserve my judgment until I saw the final product.

I gave the students time to make their final revisions and a chance to discuss individual concerns with me. All but two of them were ready with their final drafts on the due date—April had fallen behind partly because of illness, partly because of a full plate of commitments, and partly because of procrastination and frustration. I gave her extra time to complete her work, but we also talked about her obstacles. Lauren needed more time to make the intuitive leaps required. Finding this somewhat frustrating at first, she blurted out during the seminar discussion that “this whole process is so different, it’s screwing me up!” The class responded to this outburst by voting immediately to include her comment on the Wall of Sayings! But her struggle led to an important personal realization—that concrete, sequential steps would ultimately get her to where she needed to go. She and I worked on revising her research outline for several days out of class, until she was satisfied that the pieces made sense and that she was ready to write the first draft.

In the course of this project, the Wall of Sayings entries had changed. Initially composed of phrases from college writing seminars, the list now began to chronicle the class’s experiences. Phrases like “Writing is thinking, thinking is writing” and “Writing is a process” and Lauren’s heartfelt exclamation were added to “K.I.S.S.” The students even noted their tendency to distraction. When light snow began to fall one afternoon, they immediately envisioned a blizzard that would give them a day off. I tried to get them back on task, saying if there’s no accumulation, it’s not worth looking at. The sentence was immediately added to the Wall, and I was cited as the “dream-killer.”

But in spite of potential distractions, no one really slacked off, and everyone who fell behind eventually caught up. The final drafts showed strengths and weaknesses. All were well structured and clearly written, but the arguments still required tightening. In general, the students needed to realize that the sophisticated, complex interpretations they had constructed should be more sensitive to contradictions or include more evidence to make the arguments more convincing. The peer listening technique had not worked as well as I had hoped and would require modification for the next project.

In their journal entries, I asked the students to comment on the process and how it could be improved in the future. Katie D. recognized that she had to work on “taking charge of my paper, not the other way around”; Pete said the process was different from his usual “wing it” technique; Frank liked the benchmarks and the flexible deadlines that allowed him to see how much more solid his paper was becoming; Alex agreed, saying that his final draft “was so different, so much better” than what he initially thought it would be. And, after her longer process had produced a fine paper, Lauren exclaimed: “I’m ready for the next challenge. Bring it on!”

Realization

By now, it was early March. The first writing project had taken longer than I had planned, but it was worth it. The kids appreciated what they had learned about the writing process and were eager to try something else. Before the first project ended, however, I started to reexamine my plan for the next few months. Although this group of students was bright and responsive, I realized I would have to find the right tasks to keep their commitment and enthusiasm. The more I thought about my next steps, the more convinced I became that I had to abandon the idea of a major research paper as a culminating experience.

It has always been a struggle to have seniors complete a big research project at the end of the year. I initially thought that such a project would make their last weeks less painful, having seen many committed, high-achieving students find that giving up is more stressful than continuing to work. Why not offer them a chance at capping their high school career with a research essay worthy of publication in the Concord Review?4 I knew it was possible—in 2002, one of my independent study students had published a high-quality essay in a different journal.5 Why not these seminar students? And two local archives had opened their doors to my students; the chance for students interested in history to do real historical investigation would be a wonderful motivator—right? Not quite. In 2004, Charlie had come close. He spent his last few weeks in high school writing a paper on why Nelson Rockefeller was never elected to the presidency, using personal papers held at the Rockefeller Archive Center (RAC), but had to spend several weeks after he graduated whipping it into shape. His classmate, A.J., used RAC collections to research African American education in the Jim Crow South but ultimately gave up. Angela, Andrew, and Al (Class of 2006) were all on their way with promising topics based on RAC collections, but they barely completed their second drafts. As I recalled these past experiences and related them to my goals for the current group, I realized it was time to limit my expectations. The wonderful first experience was more of a negotiation than I had ever done with a class and taught me that I could keep them going only as long as they would let me. They were still interested in learning, but what had driven them all these years—the desire to get into college—was essentially gone. They were tired, somewhat burnt out, while at the same time thinking about what their next learning experience would be.

This was senioritis—a slowdown, not a shutdown. They wanted to learn something new but were unsure about how much effort they wanted to exert. I couldn’t prevent senior slump, I could only alter its trajectory. As long as I could offer them interesting tasks and continue the negotiation, I still had something to offer. I decided on three more projects, the first of which would be a new experiment for me as well as them.

Experimenting

What do most people like about history? Typically, it’s the story that captures their interest and imagination. History best sellers, historical films, programs on the History Channel, and the like offer exciting stories, narratives that are intriguing, tension filled, with a cast of memorable characters. Why not encourage my students’ interest in history by giving them a chance to write their own stories? I could continue to develop writing skills and also encourage a deeper appreciation for primary sources as clues in historical detective work. Spring break, the unofficial beginning of senior slump, was fast approaching; if I could engage them in something fun, challenging, and short, I could get them over this first big hump.

So what would work? An episode for the History Channel? Too long. A screenplay for a new short film? The style of writing would be too different. A new idea for a television show might be just the right length and style—what do you call those things, a pitch? Luckily, an old friend and former colleague responded to my request for advice. Joe had long ago left his English teaching job and had become a successful director, playwright, and screenwriter. He described the pitch as a “teaser,” a quick attention-getter targeted at network executives and film producers. He was kind enough to send me some recent pitches he had written for television pilots currently being considered. Using these models, supplemented with advice on how to write narratives from Richard Marius and Melvin E. Page, we began our next project.6

Students were to be screenwriters, hired by the History Channel to support their new series called “Documents That Tell a Story.” The channel executives wanted their audience to hear the stories behind significant documents in American history; they were also looking for a catchier title for the series. Students were to pitch an idea, based on a major document in American history or another document of their own choosing.7 The pitch would include a brief “About the Series” paragraph, character descriptions of the major players, then a plot summary (the story) for the television pilot.

To model this task, we used the Declaration of Independence. In order to brainstorm the elements of a good narrative, we collectively tried to tell the story behind the creation of the Declaration, a topic with which they had some familiarity. I had them begin with “Once upon a time . . . ” as a way to set the scene. Together, they verbally recreated the story: they described the characters, tried to build the tension, added detail for dramatic effect, then ended with the climactic moment when the Declaration was approved by the Second Continental Congress. Capturing the spirit of the exercise, someone ended the session with “And the streets ran red with blood.” The laughter was immediate and, with unanimous approval, the phrase went up on the Wall of Sayings. Since parts of our quick telling of the story were more fantasy than fact, they next read James West Davidson and Mark Hamilton Lytle’s chapter, “Declaring Independence: The Strategy of Documentary Analysis.”8 They learned ways to approach and interpret a significant document, we adjusted our story, and then they began their search for the subject of their new TV pilot.

After making their document selections and doing some preliminary research, the students told their document’s story to the class, sharing what intrigued them about the document and revealing what they had learned so far. This exercise served as a verbal précis that committed them to a specific avenue of investigation. The storytelling elicited interested questions and ideas from other seminar members, and we all laughed as each story ended with “And the streets ran red with blood,” whether or not that was an appropriate ending.

To complete the project, we again negotiated a schedule. Surprisingly, most of the students were spending spring break at home and, equally as surprising, they expressed an interest and willingness to do some work on the project during that time. I encouraged this unexpected enthusiasm, telling them how important it is to stay in touch mentally with their work and how difficult it is to resume writing after ignoring it for any length of time. Following our process, they were to produce a research outline or guide that identified specific aspects of their document’s story they wished to pursue, accompanied by a preliminary bibliography, all of which would be done before spring break. A formal paper outline would be due two days after their return to class, the first draft two days after that, the final draft within the next two days. Each stage would be evaluated and a staggered schedule of due dates would allow time for discussing their work individually.

When we returned from break and the formal outlines were submitted, it was immediately obvious that not everyone had lived up to expectations. The work was uneven: some incomplete, some careless or confused, some excellent. As we talked about their performance, they told me that they were having trouble connecting what they had learned about academic paper outlines with the outline for a historical narrative. Since I had always emphasized that outlines were simply basic prewriting structures, I didn’t anticipate this problem. To relieve the confusion, we went to work creating a chart comparing the two structural forms. Using a visual representation to illustrate the similarities and differences seemed to resolve the issues quickly. Revised outlines submitted the next day were extremely well done. I wondered why some had not been able to solve the problem on their own; were my directions unclear or was some intellectual laziness setting in?

On the day the first drafts were due, students shared their improved stories with the class for reactions, comments, and suggestions in an informal session that I hoped would model improved peer editing skills. They told their stories effectively and with great enthusiasm, and many historical streets continued to run red with blood. Yet these stories lacked depth—more detail would have measurably enriched them. Although the students commented on this weakness in the verbal editing session, it remained evident in their final drafts. Although their enthusiasm in class had given me the impression that senior slowdown had not yet begun, it had actually just materialized in another form—the limited amount of research that backed up their stories. I regretted not checking research notes and including them as a requirement. Research would have to be a more important component of the next project.

Nevertheless, their final journals revealed some very interesting observations about writing. Some struggled with the narrative style and found it difficult to make the adjustment away from a formal essay. But as they struggled, they also became more aware of the need to adjust their writing strategies. Katie P. decided to write the ending first, then work her way back. Writing about Indian removal, Pete created a fictional Native American character to serve as a foil for Jackson’s character. Alex happily observed that his several drafts (he did more than two) showed improvement. Having helped them gain insight into the value of a writing process, I wanted them to apply their skills to understand a contemporary subject that should have more meaning in their lives—the current American war in Iraq.

To be continued in our next number . . .

Dennis Maika
Fox Lane High School, Bedford, New York

Notes

1 See, for example, National Commission on the High School Senior Year, “Raising Our Sights: No High School Senior Left Behind,” October 2001, www.admissionpossible.org/sites/f8fbff41-1a58-4318-914c-3f89068c11cc/uploads/Raising_Our_Sights.pdf

2 On Silas Deane: James West Davidson and Mark Hamilton Lytle, “The Strange Death of Silas Deane,” in After The Fact: The Art of Historical Detection, 4th ed. (New York, 2000), xvii-xxxiii; William Stinchcombe, “A Note on Silas Deane’s Death,” William and Mary Quarterly, 3d ser., 32, no. 4 (October 1975): 619–624; Dennis Kent Anderson and Godfrey Tryggve Anderson, “The Death of Silas Deane: Another Opinion,” New England Quarterly 57, no. 1 (March 1984): 98–105. On Mary Phagan and Leo Frank: Marshall Frady, “An American Tragedy,” New York Review of Books 51, no. 2 (February 2004): 4–8. On Van Ilpendam: Donna Merwick,“The Suicide of a Notary: Language, Personal Identity, and Conquest in Colonial New York,” in Through a Glass Darkly: Reflections on Personal Identity in Early America, ed. Ronald Hoffman, Mechal Sobel, and Fredrika J. Teute (Chapel Hill, N.C., 1997), 122–153.

3 SMART Boards, a product of SMART Technologies, employ unique software to an interactive white board to allow for a variety of creative applications in the classroom.

4 The Concord Review is “the only quarterly journal in the world to publish the academic work of secondary students.” “The Concord Review,” www.tcr.org/tcr/index.htm.

5 Kate Kierce Walton, “Immigrant Frontier: The Struggle among Citizens, Government and Immigrants,” New York History 83, no. 4 (Fall 2002): 418–427.

6 Richard Marius and Melvin E. Page, A Short Guide to Writing about History, 4th ed. (New York, 2002), 66–73.

7 Students were directed to selections made from the National Archives and Records Administration at “100 Milestone Documents,” Our Documents, November 10, 2007, www.ourdocuments.gov/content.php?page=milestone.

8 Davidson and Lytle, After the Fact, 48–70.