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TCAP TESTING

April 19th-20th

Schlich Students

2nd Period: M124

3rd Period: M120

4th Period: MA132

5th Period: MA131

6th Period: MA130

7th Period: MA128

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Week of April 4 - 8 district mandated readings

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Week of April 4 - 8 district mandated readings

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Week of March 28 - April 1 District mandated readings

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Week of March 28 - April 1 District mandated readings

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Homework due dates: January 7, January 21, February 4, February 18

CFA Dates: January 13, January 27, February 10, February 24

Final Battle District CFA: TBA

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English I Semester 1 Exam THE LOTTERY[63]

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2nd Period

31404392 Schlich2

3rd Period

31404408 Schlich3

4th Period

31404415 Schlich4

5th Period

31404424 Schlich5

6th Period

31404437 Schlich6

7th Period

31404442 Schlich7

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Our Exam assignment sheet is on Teams. You must use www.turnitin.com to complete your exam.

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Our Exam assignment sheet is on Teams. You must use www.turnitin.com to complete your exam.

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REAL Volume 35.1 Fall/Winter 2011 Jade Ramsey "The Rain Taps the Concrete like Piano Keys"

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EXTRA CREDIT!!!  Must do between 12/8-12/15

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EXTRA CREDIT!!!  Must do between 12/8-12/15

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EXTRA credit!

Using your knowledge of poetry annotations, choose a literary journal from Mrs. Schlich’s shelves and legibly annotate one poem. You must also write a legible CRITICAL SUMMARY.

YOU ARE SUPPOSED TO WRITE IN THE JOURNAL.

See the Example here:

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English 1 Honors: October 25th - 28th Page 723 in Unit 6

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English 1 Honors: October 25th - 28th Page 723 in Unit 6

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Schlich Periods 2&3: October 25th - 28th

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Schlich Periods 2&3: October 25th - 28th

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Its the end of the world by R.E.M lyrics

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Every Friday: 10/22; 10/29; 11/5; 11/12; 11/19; 12/3; 12/10; 12/17

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Blackout Poetry Art project!! DUE Monday 10/4/2021

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Blackout Poetry Art project!! DUE Monday 10/4/2021

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Bring your markers!!!

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See your assignment in Teams.

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Sound and Space in Poetry Placement: As you read poetry, you have to consider how the words are placed on the page. Everything on the page allows the poet to manipulate the reader! Generally, shortlines suggest tension/quickness Long lines suggest smoothness/slowness As you

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Log into Prezi here. Get Prezi account access by signing into Prezi here, and start working on or editing your next great presentation.

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Life of Pi excerpt: 9/20: Write a critical summary:: 9/21: Write a 4C argumentative paragraph.

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Life of Pi excerpt: 9/20: Write a critical summary:: 9/21: Write a 4C argumentative paragraph.

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4C Paragraph: Is Pi right in abandoning his vegetarian principles in order to learn to catch and kill fish?

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Chapter 61

Chapter 61

The next morning I was not too wet and I was feeling strong. I thought this was remarkable
considering the strain I was under and how little I had eaten in the last several days.

It was a fine day. I decided to try my hand at fishing, for the first time in my life. After a
breakfast of three biscuits and one can of water, I read what the survival manual had to say on the
subject. The first problem arose: bait. I thought about it. There were the dead animals, but stealing
food from under a tiger's nose was a proposition I was not up to. He would not realize that it was an
investment that would bring him an excellent return. I decided to use my leather shoe. I had only
one left. The other I had lost when the ship sank.

I crept up to the lifeboat and I gathered from the locker one of the fishing kits, the knife and a
bucket for my catch. Richard Parker was lying on his side. His tail jumped to life when I was at the
bow but his head did not lift. I let the raft out.

I attached a hook to a wire leader, which I tied to a line. I added some lead weights. I picked
three that had an intriguing torpedo shape. I removed my shoe and cut it into pieces. It was hard
work; the leather was tough. I carefully worked the hook into a flat piece of hide, not through it but
into it, so that the point of the hook was hidden. I let the line down deep. There had been so many
fish the previous evening that I expected easy success.

I had none. The whole shoe disappeared bit by bit, slight tug on the line by slight tug on the
line, happy freeloading fish by happy freeloading fish, bare hook by bare hook, until I was left with
only the rubber sole and the shoelace. When the shoelace proved an unconvincing earthworm, out
of sheer exasperation I tried the sole, all of it. It was not a good idea. I felt a slight, promising tug
and then the line was unexpectedly light. All I pulled in was line. I had lost the whole tackle.

This loss did not strike me as a terrible blow. There were other hooks, leader wires and
weights in the kit, besides a whole other kit. And I wasn't even fishing for myself. I had plenty of
food in store.

Still, a part of my mind-the one that says what we don't want to hear-rebuked me. "Stupidity
has a price. You should show more care and wisdom next time."

Later that morning a second turtle appeared. It came right up to the raft. It could have reached
up and bit my bottom if it had wanted to. When it turned I reached for its hind flipper, but as soon
as I touched it I recoiled in horror. The turtle swam away.

The same part of my mind that had rebuked me over my fishing fiasco scolded me again.
"What exactly do you intend to feed that tiger of yours? How much longer do you think he'll last on
three dead animals? Do I need to remind you that tigers are not carrion eaters? Granted, when he's
on his last legs he probably won't lift his nose at much. But don't you think that before he submits
to eating puffy, putrefied zebra he'll try the fresh, juicy Indian boy just a short dip away? And how
are we doing with the water situation? You know how tigers get impatient with thirst. Have you
smelled his breath recently? It's pretty awful. That's a bad sign. Perhaps you're hoping that he'll lap
up the Pacific and in quenching his thirst allow you to walk to America? Quite amazing, this limited
capacity to excrete salt that Sundarbans tigers have developed. Comes from living in a tidal
mangrove forest, I suppose. But it is a limited capacity. Don't they say that drinking too much
saline water makes a man-eater of a tiger? Oh, look. Speak of the devil. There he is. He's yawning.
My, my, what an enormous pink cave. Look at those long yellow stalactites and stalagmites. Maybe
today you'll get a chance to visit."

Richard Parker's tongue, the size and colour of a rubber hot-water bottle, retreated and his
mouth closed. He swallowed.

I spent the rest of the day worrying myself sick. I stayed away from the lifeboat. Despite my
own dire predictions, Richard Parker passed the time calmly enough. He still had water from the
rainfall and he didn't seem too concerned with hunger. But he did make various tiger noises-growls
and moans and the like-that did nothing to put me at ease. The riddle seemed irresolvable: to fish I
needed bait, but I would have bait only once I had fish. What was I supposed to do? Use one of my
toes? Cut off one of my ears?

A solution appeared in the late afternoon in a most unexpected way. I had pulled myself up to
the lifeboat. More than that: I had climbed aboard and was rummaging through the locker,
feverishly looking for an idea that would save my life. I had tied the raft so that it was about six feet
from the boat. I fancied that with a jump and a pull at a loose knot I could save myself from Richard

Parker. Desperation had pushed me to take such a risk.

Finding nothing, no bait and no new idea, I sat up-only to discover that I was dead centre in
the focus of his stare. He was at the other end of the lifeboat, where the zebra used to be, turned my
way and sitting up, looking as if he'd been patiently waiting for me to notice him. How was it that I
hadn't heard him stir? What delusion was I under that I thought I could outwit him? Suddenly I was
hit hard across the face. I cried out and closed my eyes. With feline speed he had leapt across the
lifeboat and struck me. I was to have my face clawed off-this was the gruesome way I was to die.
The pain was so severe I felt nothing. Blessed be shock. Blessed be that part of us that protects us
from too much pain and sorrow. At the heart of life is a ruse box. I whimpered, "Go ahead, Richard
Parker, finish me off. But please, what you must do, do it quickly. A blown fuse should not be
overtested."

He was taking his time. He was at my feet, making noises. No doubt he had discovered the
locker and its riches. I fearfully opened an eye.

It was a fish. There was a fish in the locker. It was flopping about like a fish out of water. It
was about fifteen inches long and it had wings. A flying fish. Slim and dark grey-blue, with dry,
featherless wings and round, unblinking, yellowish eyes. It was this flying fish that had struck me
across the face, not Richard Parker. He was still fifteen feet away, no doubt wondering what I was
going on about. But he had seen the fish. I could read a keen curiosity on his face. He seemed about
ready to investigate.

I bent down, picked up the fish and threw it towards him. This was the way to tame him!
Where a rat had gone, a flying fish would follow. Unfortunately, the flying fish flew. In mid-air,
just ahead of Richard Parker's open mouth, the fish swerved and dropped into the water. It
happened with lightning speed. Richard Parker turned his head and snapped his mouth, jowls
flapping, but the fish was too quick for him. He looked astonished and displeased. He turned to me
again. "Where's my treat?" his face seemed to inquire. Fear and sadness gripped me. I turned with
the half-hearted, half-abandoned hope that I could jump onto the raft before he could jump onto me.

At that precise instant there was a vibration in the air and we were struck by a school of flying
fish. They came like a swarm of locusts. It was not only their numbers; there was also something
insect-like about the clicking, whirring sound of their wings. They burst out of the water, dozens of
them at a time, some of them flick-flacking over a hundred yards through the air. Many dived into
the water just before the boat. A number sailed clear over it. Some crashed into its side, sounding
like firecrackers going off. Several lucky ones returned to the water after a bounce on the tarpaulin.
Others, less fortunate, fell directly into the boat, where they started a racket of flapping and flailing
and splashing. And still others flew right into us. Standing unprotected as I was, I felt I was living
the martyrdom of Saint Sebastian. Every fish that hit me was like an arrow entering my flesh. I
clutched at a blanket to protect myself while also trying to catch some of the fish. I received cuts
and bruises all over my body.

The reason for this onslaught became evident immediately: dorados were leaping out of the
water in hot pursuit of them. The much larger dorados couldn't match their flying, but they were
faster swimmers and their short lunges were very powerful. They could overtake flying fish if they
were just behind them and lunging from the water at the same time and in the same direction. There
were sharks too; they also leapt out of the water, not so cleanly but with devastating consequence
for some dorados. This aquatic mayhem didn't last long, but while it did, the sea bubbled and
boiled, fish jumped and jaws worked hard.

Richard Parker was tougher than I was in the face of these fish, and far more efficient . He
raised himself and went about blocking, swiping and biting all the fish he could. Many were eaten
live and whole, struggling wings beating in his mouth. It was a dazzling display of might and
speed. Actually, it was not so much the speed that was impressive as the pure animal confidence,
the total absorption in the moment. Such a mix of ease and concentration, such a
being-in-the-present, would be the envy of the highest yogis.

When it was over, the result, besides a very sore body for me, was six flying fish in the locker
and a much greater number in the lifeboat. I hurriedly wrapped a fish in a blanket, gathered a

hatchet and made for the raft.

I proceeded with great deliberation. The loss of my tackle that morning had had a sobering
effect on me. I couldn't allow myself another mistake. I unwrapped the fish carefully, keeping a
hand pressed down on it, fully aware that it would try to jump away to save itself. The closer the
fish was to appearing, the more afraid and disgusted I became. Its head came into sight. The way I
was holding it, it looked like a scoop of loathsome fish ice cream sticking out of a wool blanket
cone. The thing was gasping for water, its mouth and gills opening and closing slowly. I could feel
it pushing with its wings against my hand. I turned the bucket over and brought its head against the
bottom. I took hold of the hatchet. I raised it in the air.

Several times I started bringing the hatchet down, but I couldn't complete the action. Such
sentimentalism may seem ridiculous considering what I had witnessed in the last days, but those
were the deeds of others, of predatory animals. I suppose I was partly responsible for the rat's death,
but I'd only thrown it; it was Richard Parker who had killed it. A lifetime of peaceful vegetarianism
stood between me and the willful beheading of a fish.

I covered the fish's head with the blanket and turned the hatchet around. Again my hand
wavered in the air. The idea of beating a soft, living head with a hammer was simply too much.

I put the hatchet down. I would break its neck, sight unseen, I decided. I wrapped the fish
tightly in the blanket. With both hands I started bending it. The more I pressed, the more the fish
struggled. I imagined what it would feel like if I were wrapped in a blanket and someone were
trying to break my neck. I was appalled. I gave up a number of times. Yet I knew it had to be done,
and the longer I waited, the longer the fish's suffering would go on.

Tears flowing down my cheeks, I egged myself on until I heard a cracking sound and I no
longer felt any life fighting in my hands. I pulled back the folds of the blanket. The flying fish was
dead. It was split open and bloody on one side of its head, at the level of the gills.

I wept heartily over this poor little deceased soul. It was the first sentient being I had ever
killed. I was now a killer. I was now as guilty as Cain. I was sixteen years old, a harmless boy,
bookish and religious, and now I had blood on my hands. It's a terrible burden to carry. All sentient
life is sacred. I never forget to include this fish in my prayers.

After that it was easier. Now that it was dead, the flying fish looked like fish I had seen in the
markets of Pondicherry. It was something else, something outside the essential scheme of creation. I
chopped it up into pieces with the hatchet and put it in the bucket.

In the dying hours of the day I tried fishing again. At first I had no better luck than I'd had in
the morning. But success seemed less elusive. The fish nibbled at the hook with fervour. Their
interest was evident. I realized that these were small fish, too small for the hook. So I cast my line
further out and let it sink deeper, beyond the reach of the small fish that concentrated around the raft
and lifeboat.

It was when I used the flying fish's head as bait, and with only one sinker, casting my line out
and pulling it in quickly, making the head skim over the surface of the water, that I finally had my
first strike. A dorado surged forth and lunged for the fish head. I let out a little slack, to make sure it
had properly swallowed the bait, before giving the line a good yank. The dorado exploded out of the
water, tugging on the line so hard I thought it was going to pull me off the raft. I braced myself. The
line became very taut. It was good line; it would not break. I started bringing the dorado in. It
struggled with all its might, jumping and diving and splashing. The line cut into my hands. I
wrapped my hands in the blanket. My heart was pounding. The fish was as strong as an ox. I was
not sure I would be able to pull it in.

I noticed all the other fish had vanished from around the raft and boat. No doubt they had
sensed the dorado's distress. I hurried. Its struggling would attract sharks. But it fought like a devil.
My arms were aching. Every time I got it close to the raft, it beat about with such frenzy that I was
cowed into letting out some line.

At last I managed to haul it aboard. It was over three feet long. The bucket was useless. It
would fit the dorado like a hat. I held the fish down by kneeling on it and using my hands. It was a
writhing mass of pure muscle, so big its tail stuck out from beneath me, pounding hard against the

raft. It was giving me a ride like I imagine a bucking bronco would give a cowboy. I was in a wild
and triumphant mood. A dorado is a magnificent-looking fish, large, fleshy and sleek, with a
bulging forehead that speaks of a forceful personality, a very long dorsal fin as proud as a cock's
comb, and a coat of scales that is smooth and bright. I felt I was dealing fate a serious blow by
engaging such a handsome adversary. With this fish I was retaliating against the sea, against the
wind, against the sinking of ships, against all circumstances that were working against me. "Thank
you, Lord Vishnu, thank you!" I shouted. "Once you saved the world by taking the form of a fish.
Now you have saved me by taking the form of a fish. Thank you, thank you!"

Killing it was no problem. I would have spared myself the trouble-after all, it was for Richard
Parker and he would have dispatched it with expert ease-but for the hook that was embedded in its
mouth. I exulted at having a dorado at the end of my line-I would be less keen if it were a tiger. I
went about the job in a direct way. I took the hatchet in both my hands and vigorously beat the fish
on the head with the hammerhead (I still didn't have the stomach to use the sharp edge). The dorado
did a most extraordinary thing as it died: it began to flash all kinds of colours in rapid succesion.
Blue, green, red, gold and violet flickered and shimmered neon-like on its surface as it struggled. I
felt I was beating a rainbow to death. (I found out later that the dorado is famed for its death-knell
iridescence.) At last it lay still and dull-coloured, and I could remove the hook. I even managed to
retrieve a part of my bait.

You may be astonished that in such a short period of time I could go from weeping over the
muffled killing of a flying fish to gleefully bludgeoning to death a dorado. I could explain it by
arguing that profiting from a pitiful flying fish's navigational mistake made me shy and sorrowful,
while the excitement of actively capturing a great dorado made me sanguinary and self-assured. But
in point of fact the explanation lies elsewhere. It is simple and brutal: a person can get used to
anything, even to killing.

It was with a hunter's pride that I pulled the raft up to the lifeboat. I brought it along the side,
keeping very low. I swung my arm and dropped the dorado into the boat. It landed with a heavy
thud and provoked a gruff expression of surprise from Richard Parker. After a sniff or two, I heard
the wet mashing sound of a mouth at work. I pushed myself off, not forgetting to blow the whistle
hard several times, to remind Richard Parker of who had so graciously provided him with fresh
food. I stopped to pick up some biscuits and a can of water. The five remaining flying fish in the
locker were dead. I pulled their wings off, throwing them away, and wrapped the fish in the
now-consecrated fish blanket.

By the time I had rinsed myself of blood, cleaned up my fishing gear, put things away and had
my supper, night had come on. A thin layer of clouds masked the stars and the moon, and it was
very dark. I was tired, but still excited by the events of the last hours. The feeling of busyness was
profoundly satisfying; I hadn't thought at all about my plight or myself. Fishing was surely a better
way of passing the time than yarn-spinning or playing 7 Spy . I determined to start again the next
day as soon as there was light.

I fell asleep, my mind lit up by the chameleon-like flickering of the dying dorado.

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Read Life Of Pi Chapter 61 The free online novel

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Chapter 61 The next morning I was not too wet and I was feeling strong. I thought this was remarkable considering the strain I was under and how little I had eaten in the last several days. It was a fine day. I decided to try my hand at fishing, for the first time in my life.

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There will be a quiz on this on MONDAY 9/20

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There will be a quiz on this on MONDAY 9/20

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'A huge wave nearly swept me away,' said the seventh man, almost whispering. 'It happened one September afternoon when I was ten years old.'

The man was the last one to tell his story that night. The hands of the clock had moved past ten. The small group that huddled in a circle could hear the wind tearing through the darkness outside, heading west. It shook the trees, set the windows to rattling, and moved past the house with one final whistle.

'It was the biggest wave I had ever seen in my life,' he said. 'A strange wave. An absolute giant.'

He paused.

'It just barely missed me, but in my place it swallowed everything that mattered most to me and swept it off to another world. I took years to find it again and to recover from the experience-precious years that can never be replaced.'

The seventh man appeared to be in his mid-fifties. He was a thin man, tall, with a moustache, and next to his right eye he had a short but deep-looking scar that could have been made by the stab of a small blade. Stiff, bristly patches of white marked his short hair. His face had the look you see on people when they can't quite find the words they need. In his case, though, the expression seemed to have been there from long before, as though it were part of him. The man wore a simple blue shirt under a grey tweed coat, and every now and then he would bring his hand to his collar. None of those assembled there knew his name or what he did for a living.

He cleared his throat, and for a moment or two his words were lost in silence. The others waited for him to go on.

'In my case, it was a wave,' he said. 'There's no way for me to tell, of course, what it will be for each of you. But in my case it just happened to take the form of a gigantic wave. It presented itself to me all of a sudden one day, without warning. And it was devastating.'

I grew up in a seaside town in the Province of S. It was such a small town, I doubt that any of you would recognize the name if I were to mention it. My father was the local doctor, and so I led a rather comfortable childhood. Ever since I could remember, my best friend was a boy I'll call K. His house was close to ours, and he was a grade behind me in school. We were like brothers, walking to and from school together, and always playing together when we got home. We never once fought during our long friendship. I did have a brother, six years older, but what with the age difference and differences in our personalities, we were never very close. My real brotherly affection went to my friend K.

K. was a frail, skinny little thing, with a pale complexion and a face almost pretty enough to be a girl's. He had some kind of speech impediment, though, which might have made him seem retarded to anyone who didn't know him. And because he was so frail, I always played his protector, whether at school or at home. I was kind of big and athletic, and the other kids all looked up to me. But the main reason I enjoyed spending time with K. was that he was such a sweet, pure-hearted boy. He was not the least bit retarded, but because of his impediment, he didn't do too well at school. In most subjects, he could barely keep up. In art class, though, he was great. Just give him a pencil or paints and he would make pictures that were so full of life that even the teacher was amazed. He won prizes in one contest after another, and I'm sure he would have become a famous painter if he had continued with his art into adulthood. He liked to do seascapes. He'd go out to the shore for hours, painting. I would often sit beside him, watching the swift, precise movements of his brush, wondering how, in a few seconds, he could possibly create such lively shapes and colours where, until then, there had been only blank white paper. I realize now that it was a matter of pure talent.

One year, in September, a huge typhoon hit our area. The radio said it was going to be the worst in ten years. The schools were closed, and all the shops in town lowered their shutters in preparation for the storm. Starting early in the morning, my father and brother went around the house nailing shut all the storm-doors, while my mother spent the day in the kitchen cooking emergency provisions. We filled bottles and canteens with water, and packed our most important possessions in rucksacks for possible evacuation. To the adults, typhoons were an annoyance and a threat they had to face almost annually, but to the kids, removed as we were from such practical concerns, it was just a great big circus, a wonderful source of excitement.

Just after noon the colour of the sky began to change all of a sudden. There was something strange and unreal about it. I stayed outside on the porch, watching the sky, until the wind began to howl and the rain began to beat against the house with a weird dry sound, like handfuls of sand. Then we closed the last storm-door and gathered together in one room of the darkened house, listening to the radio. This particular storm did not have a great deal of rain, it said, but the winds were doing a lot of damage, blowing roofs off houses and capsizing ships. Many people had been killed or injured by flying debris. Over and over again, they warned people against leaving their homes. Every once in a while, the house would creak and shudder as if a huge hand were shaking it, and sometimes there would be a great crash of some heavy-sounding object against a storm-door. My father guessed that these were tiles blowing off the neighbours' houses. For lunch we ate the rice and omelettes my mother had cooked, waiting for the typhoon to blow past.

But the typhoon gave no sign of blowing past. The radio said it had lost momentum almost as soon as it came ashore at S. Province, and now it was moving north-east at the pace of a slow runner. The wind kept up its savage howling as it tried to uproot everything that stood on land.

Perhaps an hour had gone by with the wind at its worst like this when a hush fell over everything. All of a sudden it was so quiet, we could hear a bird crying in the distance. My father opened the storm-door a crack and looked outside. The wind had stopped, and the rain had ceased to fall. Thick, grey clouds edged across the sky, and patches of blue showed here and there. The trees in the yard were still dripping their heavy burden of rainwater.

'We're in the eye of the storm,' my father told me. 'It'll stay quiet like this for a while, maybe fifteen, twenty minutes, kind of like an intermission. Then the wind'll come back the way it was before.'

I asked him if I could go outside. He said I could walk around a little if I didn't go far. 'But I want you to come right back here at the first sign of wind.'

I went out and started to explore. It was hard to believe that a wild storm had been blowing there until a few minutes before. I looked up at the sky. The storm's great 'eye' seemed to be up there, fixing its cold stare on all of us below. No such 'eye' existed, of course: we were just in that momentary quiet spot at the centre of the pool of whirling air.

While the grown-ups checked for damage to the house, I went down to the beach. The road was littered with broken tree branches, some of them thick pine boughs that would have been too heavy for an adult to lift alone. There were shattered roof tiles everywhere, cars with cracked windshields, and even a doghouse that had tumbled into the middle of the street. A big hand might have swung down from the sky and flattened everything in its path.

K. saw me walking down the road and came outside.

'Where are you going?' he asked.

'Just down to look at the beach,' I said.

Without a word, he came along with me. He had a little white dog that followed after us.

'The minute we get any wind, though, we're going straight back home,' I said, and K. gave me a silent nod.

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The Seventh Man | Haruki Murakami | Granta Magazine

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'A huge wave nearly swept me away,' said the seventh man, almost whispering. 'It happened one September afternoon when I was ten years old.' The man was the last one to tell his story that night. The hands of the clock had moved past ten.

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CFA #1 and CFA #2
Go to Clever-->Mastery Connect-->Start Assessment. YOU GOT THIS!!

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Due dates:
Rough Draft--9/1/21
Final Draft--9/3/21

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4C Paragraph Rubric PLUS Rules of the Game PROMPT

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CFA #1 DUE MONDAY 8/23/2021 Print this out.

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CFA #1 DUE MONDAY 8/23/2021 Print this out.

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Important: Writing Structure, Level Question Stems, and Annotation Guide.

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Important: Writing Structure, Level Question Stems, and Annotation Guide.

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Empower Students to Do Their Best, Original Work

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Turnitin solutions promote academic integrity, streamline grading and feedback, deter plagiarism, and improve student outcomes.

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Edugoodies: SCS Daily Links - edugoodies.com

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English 1 Honors REMIND (4th, 5th, 6th & 7th periods)

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English 1 Honors REMIND (4th, 5th, 6th & 7th periods)

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Our class will be reading in Literary Circles every Friday. Please choose one of the following novels (suggested by our textbook, myPerspectives) to bring to class to read for Quarter 1.  Below are the novels (full text pdfs and audio books)

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Our class will be reading in Literary Circles every Friday. Please choose one of the following novels (suggested by our textbook, myPerspectives) to bring to class to read for Quarter 1.  Below are the novels (full text pdfs and audio books)

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(Unit 3) The Literature of Civil Rights: How can words inspire change?

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(Unit 3) The Literature of Civil Rights: How can words inspire change?

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(Units 1 and 2) American Voices and Survival

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(Units 1 and 2) American Voices and Survival

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Literary Terminology
CCCC Structure