Today is the last day of school, marking the beginning of a much-needed two-week winter break. We are all beyond exhausted, but today served as a beacon of hope. "Just make it to Friday," became our mantra this past week. We passed each other in the halls, flashing four fingers, then three, than two, to indicate how many days we had left. Truthfully, I think we were more excited about today than the kids. And finally, Friday is here.
The school day flew by, and before I knew it, I was at my school's parking lot, walking to my car. I envisioned myself going home to do laundry then pack for my flight tomorrow afternoon. I am going back to my hometown for break, and all I've been thinking about is seeing old friends and family.
Then I saw it: my car was keyed from front to back on both sides. One long gouge right through the middle of my car on the left and right side, the right side being deeper. My heart sank, and the tears--right below the surface lately--streamed down my face. I couldn't believe it. I couldn't believe a student, or anyone for that matter, would do something like this to me.
Because our school is so small, and because everyone knows everyone, our students all know what kind of car each teacher drives. The attack was personal and directed towards me, and I'm 90% sure I know which student did this. I've always had a great rapport with my kids, and while I don't have as strong of a relationship with them as I've had with past students, it's one of my strengths as a teacher. In fact, I pride myself on my rapport and classroom climate. This violation of my car, my property, me felt like a punch in the gut, like a "NO" in red pen, like a "Fuck you."
After taking pictures, I filed a report with my school, then my principal said I needed to make the call home to the student I suspected. I told her I had called earlier today about an issue he had in my class and left a message, but she said I needed to make a second call about my car. Perplexed and trying not to cry, I did as she said. Thankfully I got the mother's voice mail, because I don't think I could have maintained my composure and had an actual conversation. Driving home, though, I became angry not only because of my car, but because of my principal's response. Why did I have to call? Wasn't I the person victimized in this situation? And didn't she just totally throw me under the bus in the heat of the moment? If that student's mother had picked up, I would have been yelling or sobbing on the other line, and there's no telling how she would have reacted.
All this has left a bitter taste in my mouth. It makes me want to never come back to that place. Now I feel like I have to guard myself from the kids, as if they all hold keys in their hands ready to dig in at any moment while my principal looks on.
Friday, December 17, 2010
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Shit Hitting the Fan
It's been awhile, so here is a quick update:
- Last Monday, a fight broke out in the middle of our morning assembly.
- The fight carried over into our passing period between 1st and 2nd period, becoming two additional fights.
- NONE of kids were suspended, and we have not addressed the issue as a school.
- I found out this past weekend (only through my own efforts to get a second and third opinion) that my school gave me bad information and my credential will expire this summer before I meet all the necessary requirements, so now I have to file for an appeal.
- I have to pay for the appeal.
- Even though the "semester" ended like a week before Thanksgiving, the kids are just now getting their report cards. One of my kids said today, "I bet it's because we can't afford stamps."
- We ran out of toilet paper on Wednesday and did not get more until today.
- The most depressing: my best kids are telling me they can't keep up with this schedule and several of them are looking for a new school. But hey, who can blame them? I'm doing the same thing.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Stressed Much?
With our recent holiday, I decided to give myself a much-needed break from all things teaching. While my break was fun and restful, I have to admit that my heart was heavy much of the time. It was hard for me to mentally leave school and all its problem.
Nothing illustrated that more than waking up Friday morning and not being able to move my left arm more than a foot beyond my waist. At first I thought I slept on it funny, then as the day progressed, I thought I had injured a muscle or even a tendon. I winced trying to do dishes or change clothes. Saturday and Sunday were no different in spite of ibuprofen, ice, and heat.
Sunday evening I was a lucky recipient of a massage--a gift beyond all gifts. While the massage therapist worked on my arm, I could feel her grab a hold of several knots encasing my left shoulder. I'm sure I'm exaggerating, but they felt like they were the size of small eggs. As she pressed on them, small electrical charges ran down my left arm and all the way up my neck to the base of head. No muscle injury or tendon tear. Just plain full out stress.
Sprawled out on that table, I felt like a sucker. My job is doing this to me, and I'm responsible for letting it do this to me. I don't have a lot of fight left in me, but I have enough fight to believe I deserve more.
I called on a friend late last night, and we met up today. She was a mentor teacher to me at my last school, and returning to her and to a place that was a teaching home before my layoff was, for lack of a better phrase, like a homecoming. I felt like I could breathe, like I could let my guard down, like I could pull my shoulders from my ears and actually be honest. I looked her in the eye--this person who I admire and who helped me become what I am as a teacher--and said, "I don't know if I can do this anymore." I cried a little, talked a lot; she listened and gave advice, but more than anything she was present.
I'm reminded why she was, and continues to be, a mentor teacher. I walked away this evening remembering I'm a good teacher. I'm not right now because of circumstances, but I'm damn good at what I do, and it's not my fault that my school is in utter disaster mode every single day. All I can do is get out. I choose my profession over my job. I choose reclaiming myself.
Sunday, November 21, 2010
"Professional" Development
Each week I find myself violently swinging between "I can't do this anymore" to "maybe I can hang in for just a bit longer." This week was no exception. Early in the week I was planning my departure from the teaching profession. The tip of the iceberg? Professional development. Excuse me--"professional" development.
Every other week the kids are released early so teachers can meet by school, department, or grade level and receive on-going training for a variety of purposes. It's a nice idea, but the purposes rarely meet the needs of the teachers. This week was the definitive example.
Since this was the first time we've met since our recent schedule change, I thought for certain we would discuss how to plan, pace, grade more effectively, because all of us are struggling with the new 4X4 model. Not only were we not able to discuss the issues we are all having, we were given yet one more thing added to our plate. Are you ready for this? Here it is--our charter's response to professional development while we are in crisis mode: an internet-based program guaranteed to raise our test scores . . . but none of our campuses have a class set of computers or reliable internet connectivity.
At the meeting, I wanted to fall out of my chair laughing. The poor women who were sent to present this program had the deer in headlights look. Neither of them were educated on our 25% budget cut, our reduction in staff, our schedule change, and our dire lack of resources, so when they asked us to remain positive, I replied, "Oh honey, we're past positivity." Of course, they could not show us how the program worked because they were on one of our high school campuses, that of course, has internet connectivity issues. Welcome to our world, I thought.
It was all very hilarious for a moment until I started to think of what this must be costing--someones salary, or more. And on top of that, this is the answer? This is how you're "helping" us and using my precious time? We all started to ask questions: Do you realize we only have our current students until the end of January? If we only have eight student computers on our campus, how is this supposed to work? Will we be getting better internet service? When are we supposed to find time to train ourselves on this program? Do you realize we don't even have enough books for our kids? They, of course, had no response, other than, "Your charter organization is dedicated to making this program work, so they must have a plan to obtain the resources." How could these women have a real response? They had no idea what they were walking into--a group of over-worked, exhausted, angry teachers who were expecting some real solutions, advice, or empathy. Instead, we got a slap in the face and a reminder that no one is here to help us, really.
Each day I try to decide if I want to beat my head against this brick wall anymore. The answer is, "I don't know." I started this blog as a way to cope and as a way to educate the public about what education really looks like. Too often America sees images of failing schools, burnt out teachers who don't care, or that extraordinary teacher who defies the odds, but they don't see what happens to the everyday teachers who care but are caught in the middle. But now, I'm starting to see this blog as a diary . . . a place to put my inner-most thoughts and feelings about my profession--a profession I once considered me. Teacher used to be an adjective to describe me, not a noun or title. As a teacher, I was going to change my kids and the world around them. Now, I don't recognize my profession. It has betrayed me, and our meeting this week was the last straw. It does not care what is happening to me, my colleagues, or my kids, but at least I have my answer now--the fire will consume. And no one will come.
Every other week the kids are released early so teachers can meet by school, department, or grade level and receive on-going training for a variety of purposes. It's a nice idea, but the purposes rarely meet the needs of the teachers. This week was the definitive example.
Since this was the first time we've met since our recent schedule change, I thought for certain we would discuss how to plan, pace, grade more effectively, because all of us are struggling with the new 4X4 model. Not only were we not able to discuss the issues we are all having, we were given yet one more thing added to our plate. Are you ready for this? Here it is--our charter's response to professional development while we are in crisis mode: an internet-based program guaranteed to raise our test scores . . . but none of our campuses have a class set of computers or reliable internet connectivity.
At the meeting, I wanted to fall out of my chair laughing. The poor women who were sent to present this program had the deer in headlights look. Neither of them were educated on our 25% budget cut, our reduction in staff, our schedule change, and our dire lack of resources, so when they asked us to remain positive, I replied, "Oh honey, we're past positivity." Of course, they could not show us how the program worked because they were on one of our high school campuses, that of course, has internet connectivity issues. Welcome to our world, I thought.
It was all very hilarious for a moment until I started to think of what this must be costing--someones salary, or more. And on top of that, this is the answer? This is how you're "helping" us and using my precious time? We all started to ask questions: Do you realize we only have our current students until the end of January? If we only have eight student computers on our campus, how is this supposed to work? Will we be getting better internet service? When are we supposed to find time to train ourselves on this program? Do you realize we don't even have enough books for our kids? They, of course, had no response, other than, "Your charter organization is dedicated to making this program work, so they must have a plan to obtain the resources." How could these women have a real response? They had no idea what they were walking into--a group of over-worked, exhausted, angry teachers who were expecting some real solutions, advice, or empathy. Instead, we got a slap in the face and a reminder that no one is here to help us, really.
Each day I try to decide if I want to beat my head against this brick wall anymore. The answer is, "I don't know." I started this blog as a way to cope and as a way to educate the public about what education really looks like. Too often America sees images of failing schools, burnt out teachers who don't care, or that extraordinary teacher who defies the odds, but they don't see what happens to the everyday teachers who care but are caught in the middle. But now, I'm starting to see this blog as a diary . . . a place to put my inner-most thoughts and feelings about my profession--a profession I once considered me. Teacher used to be an adjective to describe me, not a noun or title. As a teacher, I was going to change my kids and the world around them. Now, I don't recognize my profession. It has betrayed me, and our meeting this week was the last straw. It does not care what is happening to me, my colleagues, or my kids, but at least I have my answer now--the fire will consume. And no one will come.
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
47%
That is the percentage of students who failed my class--9th and 11th combined. That number is utterly confounding and depressing, and I don't know what to say. Part of me wants to blame the kids for not doing their job, part of me wants to blame our charter organization for the mid-year schedule change or lack of resources, and part of me wants to blame myself for not doing enough. But at the end of the day, that number remains like a flag hanging outside a burning building. Now it's up to the rescuers to decide if they see that flag or not. Interpret that flag how you will--47%, overall lack of resources, low morale--it's all a symptom of the larger problem. The question now is how much longer can we scream for help before the fire consumes?
Thursday, November 11, 2010
The Ups and Downs of Teaching Part II
The events of the prior week weighed heavily on me, so I started this week in a weird, for lack of a better term, place.
Monday morning, the chair of all the ELA (English Language Arts) teachers for our charter organization delivered copies of The Bluest Eye. Not the actual books, but copies she made for me, so that put me at ease. One more thing I can cross off my worry list is always a plus. As she was leaving, she said she wanted to meet with me later in the week. We set up a date which I promptly forgot, because when I saw her in my room during my planning period the other day, I said, "Hey, that's right, we're meeting!"
We sat down and discussed the midterms the kids are taking on Friday. When I showed her the midterms I stayed up until 12:30 am writing the night before, I felt like I was standing naked before her. Perhaps that sounds like an odd comparison, but teaching is a profession where emotions and lives are on the line, and all of us, each and everyday, are vulnerable at a certain point. As she read though my questions, I heard, "These are too hard; you're asking questions you can answer, not them; this doesn't make sense; the wording is off; there are too many recall questions." I felt like maybe I don't know what I'm doing, and while I needed to hear this, I still wanted to flee the scene and hide.
"It's garbage, huh?" Self-deprecation is my coping mechanism when that nakedness, that vulnerability become too much.
"No," she responded, "it's not garbage, and I didn't drive across town to tell you that. We're going to work on this together and fix it. Writing exams is really hard and it takes practice." Suddenly she was the teacher and I the student, and I felt for my kids who were turning in essays this week and probably thinking the same thing.
By the time my ELA chair left, I had a better handle on writing exams, but my lesson plan was literally a wash. The review PowerPoint I made was no longer relevant, and my 9th graders were walking in the room. In a matter of five minutes, I created a lesson in my head--the kids would work in groups to write questions they think I should ask on the exam, and if their question gets picked, they get extra credit. As the kids worked together--and worked together well--I surprised myself. How did I do that? How did I think that up in just a few minutes? I talked to the groups about how test questions work. I told them the same thing my ELA chair told me--it's hard, but doing this will help you get better at tests.
Later that day, I found myself echoing the same message, except this time about writing. I had five kids that evening stay after to work on their essays--one until 5:45pm. For those of you who are not teachers, that's a rare thing when kids choose you over their personal time, and particularly when I've had the 9th graders for only 3 1/2 weeks. That moment took me aback, because I feel like I spend so much time yelling and talking at kids that I rarely get to connect to them and talk to them. And in that moment, there was connection and learning and intrinsic motivation and personal pride, and it was a feeling I've not felt with a group of students in a really, really long time.
And my 11th graders? Well, there's been a shift since my one student shared her history of sexual abuse. We're a tighter group--almost family-like. That feeling is also something I've not felt with students in a really, really long time. In teacher lingo, you have students or you have kids. And their yours or not. When a teacher refers to their students as "the students," that indicates distance, but when a teacher refers to them as "my kids," that indicates a personal investment--their yours. My 11th graders are my kids. And the crazy thing is that what has allowed me to let my guard down and be vulnerable and have kids and not students is a student. When my student put herself out there like that, I realized I had to be the adult and do the same thing. I have to let go of all of my fears about losing my job again, I have to stop being angry about the schedule change and the toner, and I have to remember that I do know what I'm doing and I am a teacher. Something I did allowed her to be vulnerable, something I did encouraged five kids to stay after school, something I did gave way to kids writing exam questions.
I could go make coffee again and not take work home and not be ultra stressed, or I could stay in education and make a difference in the lives of young people. Next week I may have a different answer, but this week I am a teacher.
Monday morning, the chair of all the ELA (English Language Arts) teachers for our charter organization delivered copies of The Bluest Eye. Not the actual books, but copies she made for me, so that put me at ease. One more thing I can cross off my worry list is always a plus. As she was leaving, she said she wanted to meet with me later in the week. We set up a date which I promptly forgot, because when I saw her in my room during my planning period the other day, I said, "Hey, that's right, we're meeting!"
We sat down and discussed the midterms the kids are taking on Friday. When I showed her the midterms I stayed up until 12:30 am writing the night before, I felt like I was standing naked before her. Perhaps that sounds like an odd comparison, but teaching is a profession where emotions and lives are on the line, and all of us, each and everyday, are vulnerable at a certain point. As she read though my questions, I heard, "These are too hard; you're asking questions you can answer, not them; this doesn't make sense; the wording is off; there are too many recall questions." I felt like maybe I don't know what I'm doing, and while I needed to hear this, I still wanted to flee the scene and hide.
"It's garbage, huh?" Self-deprecation is my coping mechanism when that nakedness, that vulnerability become too much.
"No," she responded, "it's not garbage, and I didn't drive across town to tell you that. We're going to work on this together and fix it. Writing exams is really hard and it takes practice." Suddenly she was the teacher and I the student, and I felt for my kids who were turning in essays this week and probably thinking the same thing.
By the time my ELA chair left, I had a better handle on writing exams, but my lesson plan was literally a wash. The review PowerPoint I made was no longer relevant, and my 9th graders were walking in the room. In a matter of five minutes, I created a lesson in my head--the kids would work in groups to write questions they think I should ask on the exam, and if their question gets picked, they get extra credit. As the kids worked together--and worked together well--I surprised myself. How did I do that? How did I think that up in just a few minutes? I talked to the groups about how test questions work. I told them the same thing my ELA chair told me--it's hard, but doing this will help you get better at tests.
Later that day, I found myself echoing the same message, except this time about writing. I had five kids that evening stay after to work on their essays--one until 5:45pm. For those of you who are not teachers, that's a rare thing when kids choose you over their personal time, and particularly when I've had the 9th graders for only 3 1/2 weeks. That moment took me aback, because I feel like I spend so much time yelling and talking at kids that I rarely get to connect to them and talk to them. And in that moment, there was connection and learning and intrinsic motivation and personal pride, and it was a feeling I've not felt with a group of students in a really, really long time.
And my 11th graders? Well, there's been a shift since my one student shared her history of sexual abuse. We're a tighter group--almost family-like. That feeling is also something I've not felt with students in a really, really long time. In teacher lingo, you have students or you have kids. And their yours or not. When a teacher refers to their students as "the students," that indicates distance, but when a teacher refers to them as "my kids," that indicates a personal investment--their yours. My 11th graders are my kids. And the crazy thing is that what has allowed me to let my guard down and be vulnerable and have kids and not students is a student. When my student put herself out there like that, I realized I had to be the adult and do the same thing. I have to let go of all of my fears about losing my job again, I have to stop being angry about the schedule change and the toner, and I have to remember that I do know what I'm doing and I am a teacher. Something I did allowed her to be vulnerable, something I did encouraged five kids to stay after school, something I did gave way to kids writing exam questions.
I could go make coffee again and not take work home and not be ultra stressed, or I could stay in education and make a difference in the lives of young people. Next week I may have a different answer, but this week I am a teacher.
The Ups and Downs of Teaching Part I
It's been way too long since I last posted, but here I am finally. I want to talk about the last week and a half, because it's a roller coaster I am still trying to comprehend.
Last week ended with me being just about ready to throw in the towel. My juniors are reading The Bluest Eye, and they are in love with it. The books have not arrived yet, so that means I have to copy pages from my own book. However, when the toner ran out on Monday the 1st and was not replaced until this past Monday the 8th, I felt totally paralyzed. They wanted to read and move on, but I couldn't get the copies. (I thought about going to Kinkos, but the last time I did that, I forked over $65 with the teacher discount.) So I improvised--stretching it out as much as I could.
In the meantime, we had some amazing discussions. This novel has struck a nerve with my mostly African-American students. So I played on what they know, and even shared a New York Times editorial about the film, Precious. As we began to compare the film and Morrison's book, one of my students shared that she had been sexually abused. The room was so silent, and I tried to conceal my utter shock. The student shared her abuse happened in the past, and she had never told anyone aside from her family. She went on to say films like Precious or books like Morrison's are what give people the strength to share dark moments like hers. It was one of those rare moments when emotional and intellectual merge, and even after years of experience in the classroom, I wonder if I did that moment justice. The personal me wanted to have a one-on-one conversation with my student, then hug her and cry for her. The teacher me wanted to say to the class, "If any of you breathe a word of this outside these walls, so help me God!" Then the teacher me wanted to tie my student's personal history into what we were reading. What wound up really happening was a little bit of all of the above, and I just hope I did it justice.
Over the weekend, I thought a lot about that student, and I thought a lot about the current state of my job. I love teaching. I really do. And I love helping young people like that student, but there are days, and there are weeks, where I feel like the classroom is an adventure enough. I don't want to know what it's like to not have books or a copier and have to think on the fly. These were the very thoughts I was sorting through at the grocery store when I pulled the shopping cart up to my car and saw a flier and a business card on my windshield. I was the only car on the lot with the flier and card, so I was a little thrown until I read both. A friend of mine is opening his own Starbucks. We worked together at Starbucks years ago when I was in-between teaching jobs, and now he is a manager of a new store. I have to say this gave me pause. I recalled what it's like to not bring work home, and I remembered a work environment where the biggest stress was getting hot lattes out to the morning rush. Was this more significant than just a friend letting me know about his new promotion?
Last week ended with me being just about ready to throw in the towel. My juniors are reading The Bluest Eye, and they are in love with it. The books have not arrived yet, so that means I have to copy pages from my own book. However, when the toner ran out on Monday the 1st and was not replaced until this past Monday the 8th, I felt totally paralyzed. They wanted to read and move on, but I couldn't get the copies. (I thought about going to Kinkos, but the last time I did that, I forked over $65 with the teacher discount.) So I improvised--stretching it out as much as I could.
In the meantime, we had some amazing discussions. This novel has struck a nerve with my mostly African-American students. So I played on what they know, and even shared a New York Times editorial about the film, Precious. As we began to compare the film and Morrison's book, one of my students shared that she had been sexually abused. The room was so silent, and I tried to conceal my utter shock. The student shared her abuse happened in the past, and she had never told anyone aside from her family. She went on to say films like Precious or books like Morrison's are what give people the strength to share dark moments like hers. It was one of those rare moments when emotional and intellectual merge, and even after years of experience in the classroom, I wonder if I did that moment justice. The personal me wanted to have a one-on-one conversation with my student, then hug her and cry for her. The teacher me wanted to say to the class, "If any of you breathe a word of this outside these walls, so help me God!" Then the teacher me wanted to tie my student's personal history into what we were reading. What wound up really happening was a little bit of all of the above, and I just hope I did it justice.
Over the weekend, I thought a lot about that student, and I thought a lot about the current state of my job. I love teaching. I really do. And I love helping young people like that student, but there are days, and there are weeks, where I feel like the classroom is an adventure enough. I don't want to know what it's like to not have books or a copier and have to think on the fly. These were the very thoughts I was sorting through at the grocery store when I pulled the shopping cart up to my car and saw a flier and a business card on my windshield. I was the only car on the lot with the flier and card, so I was a little thrown until I read both. A friend of mine is opening his own Starbucks. We worked together at Starbucks years ago when I was in-between teaching jobs, and now he is a manager of a new store. I have to say this gave me pause. I recalled what it's like to not bring work home, and I remembered a work environment where the biggest stress was getting hot lattes out to the morning rush. Was this more significant than just a friend letting me know about his new promotion?
Saturday, October 30, 2010
Things Your Education Program Will Never Tell You
1) You must have a bladder made of steal. You will drink copious amounts of coffee to keep the momentum throughout the day, but you will never be allowed to pee.
2) Get a second job. Schools these days will give you the bare minimum, like a pen and a pencil, and if you're lucky, a dry erase marker. If you want anything else, it's coming out of your paycheck.
3) Wear a bullet-proof vest (I'm speaking metaphorically here). Kids will hurl some nasty insults. Some I've heard as of late: "You're a hypocrite!" "I'm not choosing between your class and my future!" "I wish you would have been fired and not Mr. So And So." Ouch. It hurts, and there are days I just want to cry.
4) Long gone are the schools on TV that have gleaming hardwood floors and a plant in the window and the secretary who has been there for 20 years and knows everyone. If those places exist, I've not found them. Welcome to the understaffed urban school where pigeons live in the ceiling, termites are in the walls, and the roof leaks. Oh, and the cleaning crew is you!
5) Be prepared to form attachments, and don't buy into that "Never touch a student." Looking at the list so far, why would anyone endure this? The kids. I've loved them, and I love them still. Earlier this week, one of my kids said, "You look like you need a hug." I did, and that hug allowed me to make it through the rest of the day.
6) You need to be able to eat in 15 minutes. You know how corporate America gets "hour lunches?" Yeah, not in the world of education. If you don't inhale your food as a teacher, you just won't eat.
7) Say farewell to lazy weekends. Most teachers I know, myself included, work a 60-80 hour workweek.
8) You have to have a no-nonsense attitude, especially when teaching in an urban environment. Kids will come up with a million and one reasons why they can't or won't, and they will challenge your authority. You have to stand firm in your expectations and your positions. My new favorite comeback: "Your 14-year-old-self doesn't get to tell me what and how. Until the day comes when you've attended college for eight years and you've been in the classroom for seven years, you don't utter a peep about how and why I do things. You read me?"
9) Every teacher drinks. It's just a no-brainer.
10) Personal space? They want to know everything about you. Be prepared to know where the line is, then draw it with a really, really thick marker.
11) The lightbulb moments are amazing. When a kid get it--or even better--when a kid teaches you something, it's the best high. It's like climbing a mountain then reaching the summit. It's simply breathtaking.
12) It's better to ask for forgiveness than to ask for permission. My master teacher taught me this. If you ask for permission, then all these other people get involved and it takes a month for an answer. Do it anyway, then in the meantime, practice the "Oh, I'm so sorry, I didn't realize I needed to consult you about this matter."
13) You're not a real teacher until you think you're the worst teacher ever, and you're screwing up the lives of your kids.
14) You will quit your job in your mind (and maybe even for real) more times than you'd ever want to publically admit.
15) Everyone has an opinion on how to fix education, but the teachers' voices are the ones that need to be the loudest. Outside of parenting, this is the hardest job and the most important job there is. The education of the next generation rests upon our shoulders. Every doctor, politician, actor, police officer, lawyer, teacher, CEO, etc., was once a student and had a teacher. Without us, none of those jobs would be possible. Yet at the same time, teachers have very little input on the decisions that directly impact their jobs. That's why we can't do this alone, and that's why teachers need to educate their community about what is really going on in their classrooms so we can fix this.
2) Get a second job. Schools these days will give you the bare minimum, like a pen and a pencil, and if you're lucky, a dry erase marker. If you want anything else, it's coming out of your paycheck.
3) Wear a bullet-proof vest (I'm speaking metaphorically here). Kids will hurl some nasty insults. Some I've heard as of late: "You're a hypocrite!" "I'm not choosing between your class and my future!" "I wish you would have been fired and not Mr. So And So." Ouch. It hurts, and there are days I just want to cry.
4) Long gone are the schools on TV that have gleaming hardwood floors and a plant in the window and the secretary who has been there for 20 years and knows everyone. If those places exist, I've not found them. Welcome to the understaffed urban school where pigeons live in the ceiling, termites are in the walls, and the roof leaks. Oh, and the cleaning crew is you!
5) Be prepared to form attachments, and don't buy into that "Never touch a student." Looking at the list so far, why would anyone endure this? The kids. I've loved them, and I love them still. Earlier this week, one of my kids said, "You look like you need a hug." I did, and that hug allowed me to make it through the rest of the day.
6) You need to be able to eat in 15 minutes. You know how corporate America gets "hour lunches?" Yeah, not in the world of education. If you don't inhale your food as a teacher, you just won't eat.
7) Say farewell to lazy weekends. Most teachers I know, myself included, work a 60-80 hour workweek.
8) You have to have a no-nonsense attitude, especially when teaching in an urban environment. Kids will come up with a million and one reasons why they can't or won't, and they will challenge your authority. You have to stand firm in your expectations and your positions. My new favorite comeback: "Your 14-year-old-self doesn't get to tell me what and how. Until the day comes when you've attended college for eight years and you've been in the classroom for seven years, you don't utter a peep about how and why I do things. You read me?"
9) Every teacher drinks. It's just a no-brainer.
10) Personal space? They want to know everything about you. Be prepared to know where the line is, then draw it with a really, really thick marker.
11) The lightbulb moments are amazing. When a kid get it--or even better--when a kid teaches you something, it's the best high. It's like climbing a mountain then reaching the summit. It's simply breathtaking.
12) It's better to ask for forgiveness than to ask for permission. My master teacher taught me this. If you ask for permission, then all these other people get involved and it takes a month for an answer. Do it anyway, then in the meantime, practice the "Oh, I'm so sorry, I didn't realize I needed to consult you about this matter."
13) You're not a real teacher until you think you're the worst teacher ever, and you're screwing up the lives of your kids.
14) You will quit your job in your mind (and maybe even for real) more times than you'd ever want to publically admit.
15) Everyone has an opinion on how to fix education, but the teachers' voices are the ones that need to be the loudest. Outside of parenting, this is the hardest job and the most important job there is. The education of the next generation rests upon our shoulders. Every doctor, politician, actor, police officer, lawyer, teacher, CEO, etc., was once a student and had a teacher. Without us, none of those jobs would be possible. Yet at the same time, teachers have very little input on the decisions that directly impact their jobs. That's why we can't do this alone, and that's why teachers need to educate their community about what is really going on in their classrooms so we can fix this.
Hang In There
That phrase--hang in there--renders images of those posters with a cat dangling from a filing cabinet that women in their 50s and 60s find funny so they hang them in their cubicles. But, at the end of the day, that is what I hear, and that is what I'm doing--hanging in there.
It's not easy to do. This schedule leaves little time to be creative and fun with the kids. My lesson plans look like a bulleted to-do list. The grading is stacking up. The hours of not sleeping is racking up. We all are on-edge and just trying to get through the day. This is not teaching. It's more like bulldozing through the curriculum. And I hate that feeling.
I'm sure someone on a pedagogical cloud could descend and give me "tips" on how to do things, but let's be real for a minute: Each week, I must plan five 90-minute classes for two grade levels each week. After doing the math, that's ten 90-minute classes each week. 900 minutes of thoughtful, rigorous, standards-based instruction a week. That's twice as much planning as most teachers in America who are on a block schedule and teaching two subjects or grade levels. And did I mention that the books I'm teaching have not arrived, so I spend my "off period" making copies for all the kids. Great use of my time, huh? Planning? Grading? Nah. I just put on my Kinko's hat and go to work. Oh, and I forgot to mention the four times in the past two weeks that I had to stay until 4:45 to watch a class because the teacher never showed. Unpaid, of course.
Education in America sucks. Big time. And I agree with Waiting for Superman that there are too many teachers who should have been fired a long time ago. And I agree that unions often do get in the way of the changes that need to happen. But, what about those of us who love our jobs but are overworked and are becoming consumed by it? Teaching is a flame, and it needs to be steady and strong to light the room wherever it is, but what happens when it starts to consume the bearer of that flame?
Telling me to "hang in there" is not a real solution. It's condescending to those who have to face the brutal realities of the system, and it's not helping the kids who have to suffer the consequences of what's happening to their schools and their teachers.
It's not easy to do. This schedule leaves little time to be creative and fun with the kids. My lesson plans look like a bulleted to-do list. The grading is stacking up. The hours of not sleeping is racking up. We all are on-edge and just trying to get through the day. This is not teaching. It's more like bulldozing through the curriculum. And I hate that feeling.
I'm sure someone on a pedagogical cloud could descend and give me "tips" on how to do things, but let's be real for a minute: Each week, I must plan five 90-minute classes for two grade levels each week. After doing the math, that's ten 90-minute classes each week. 900 minutes of thoughtful, rigorous, standards-based instruction a week. That's twice as much planning as most teachers in America who are on a block schedule and teaching two subjects or grade levels. And did I mention that the books I'm teaching have not arrived, so I spend my "off period" making copies for all the kids. Great use of my time, huh? Planning? Grading? Nah. I just put on my Kinko's hat and go to work. Oh, and I forgot to mention the four times in the past two weeks that I had to stay until 4:45 to watch a class because the teacher never showed. Unpaid, of course.
Education in America sucks. Big time. And I agree with Waiting for Superman that there are too many teachers who should have been fired a long time ago. And I agree that unions often do get in the way of the changes that need to happen. But, what about those of us who love our jobs but are overworked and are becoming consumed by it? Teaching is a flame, and it needs to be steady and strong to light the room wherever it is, but what happens when it starts to consume the bearer of that flame?
Telling me to "hang in there" is not a real solution. It's condescending to those who have to face the brutal realities of the system, and it's not helping the kids who have to suffer the consequences of what's happening to their schools and their teachers.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Burning The Midnight Oil
I'm come up for air just to say that I'm still here. This new schedule is taking the life out of those who survived last Wednesday. All of us are coping at best. I'll have more to say this weekend, but until then I'm planning, grading . . . just getting by, barely.
Sunday, October 17, 2010
Now Is The Time For Optimism
I apologize for the week hiatus from posting. I needed to get my head clear before I put words to this week's events.
Last Tuesday was our open house, and the parents were lovely. It was a long night, though--9:30 before I arrived home to a frozen pizza for dinner and to my bed. I did not read the email my principal sent out that evening that described the layoffs that were to come the next day. Perhaps it was good fortune I never checked my email that night, because I slept well.
The next morning, I walked into the Spanish classroom--our make-shift teacher's lounge since it is the only sometimes-kid-free zone. It was there I learned of the email and what was to come after our short school day. I have only been working for a total of eight weeks after thirteen months of unemployment, so I panicked, then I cried. I didn't want this again. Then I looked at the faces of my coworkers. I didn't want this for them.
We went our separate ways to our classrooms, all of us fronting smiles, yet knowing what was to come. I'm not sure I have the words to describe the agony of the next four hours. So many scenarios--most of them worst-case--were running through my head: What would happen if I lost my job? Could I really find a job in October? Would I even stay in teaching? Is the mall even hiring?
After the students left, and we made our way back to the Spanish classroom, our principal walked into the room. Normally a very upbeat person, she looked worn down and it was obvious she hadn't slept. She described, in a serious tone, our new schedule: no more homeroom, no more electives, no more year-long schedule. Because our cuts to the teaching staff will be so deep, we will move to a 4X4 schedule because it's the only way we can continue to teach the same number of students with a smaller staff. The students will now only take four courses each term (a term is an academic year squeezed into a semester). Some teachers will pick up courses from the teachers who will be laid off. Some teachers will be teaching at two different schools. As we listened, not only were we worried about our job status--we were worried how, if we kept our job, we would make this happen six weeks into the school year. "When will we find out if we still have our jobs?" I asked.
"Now." Our principal walked back into her office, and she said that one by one she would call us back to deliver the news--yes, we are keeping you, or no, we are not. Suddenly, I wished I hadn't asked.
My friend, a Spanish teacher, went first. After she walked out of the room, we were silent. It was as if a bomb went off, and it was too cloudy yet to see what was happening. She was only gone about five minutes before she came back in tears. I asked if she was staying, and she said she was, but she had to go. I didn't understand, then my name was called.
Sitting in that chair, across from my principal, I thought I had done something wrong. And I thought for sure I would throw up all over her desk. "Yes or no--please just tell me yes or no," I pleaded with her.
"No." I felt like someone had dropped me off a cliff. "No, we are not letting you go." With a jerk, I stopped falling. I was perplexed.
My principal explained my new teaching schedule, and then I understood--one of my English colleagues was going to be let go. He was going to be let go--not me. I was relieved. Then I wasn't. How was he going to find a job in October? Then I realized I knew his fate before he did. I felt dirty. I didn't want this inside knowledge. I started to cry. Then my principal started to cry. She didn't want this either. No wonder she hadn't slept. I hadn't done anything wrong, nor had she. There was a desk, and a whole pay scale between us, but we were both in this mess together, and it was just really, really awful.
I walked out of my principal's office sobbing. I had to pull myself together before I walked into the Spanish classroom, because if they saw me, they'd all panic. I paced the hallway, and the more I paced, the more I sobbed. I just had to get out of there and not make any eye contact. Now I understood why my friend was crying. If she made it, her Spanish colleague had not. When I opened the door, everyone looked up, but I stared at the floor, grabbed my things, then left.
That night, I cried in a way I had not in a long, long time. The tears were for my last layoff, for my relief, for my guilt about my relief, for my colleagues who did not deserve this, for my principal who had to deliver this news, for all of us who now have to fix this.
The next day, when I walked back into the Spanish classroom, the smoke had cleared some. I saw who was left--a mere 60% of us. We have a long road ahead of us, and that's written on each of our faces. I always understood why teachers talk about being "in the trenches," but now I understand that phrase on a new level. I walked over to my friend and gave her a big hug, as if to say "Thank goodness you made it." She looked at me and said, "Now--now--is the time for optimism."
Last Tuesday was our open house, and the parents were lovely. It was a long night, though--9:30 before I arrived home to a frozen pizza for dinner and to my bed. I did not read the email my principal sent out that evening that described the layoffs that were to come the next day. Perhaps it was good fortune I never checked my email that night, because I slept well.
The next morning, I walked into the Spanish classroom--our make-shift teacher's lounge since it is the only sometimes-kid-free zone. It was there I learned of the email and what was to come after our short school day. I have only been working for a total of eight weeks after thirteen months of unemployment, so I panicked, then I cried. I didn't want this again. Then I looked at the faces of my coworkers. I didn't want this for them.
We went our separate ways to our classrooms, all of us fronting smiles, yet knowing what was to come. I'm not sure I have the words to describe the agony of the next four hours. So many scenarios--most of them worst-case--were running through my head: What would happen if I lost my job? Could I really find a job in October? Would I even stay in teaching? Is the mall even hiring?
After the students left, and we made our way back to the Spanish classroom, our principal walked into the room. Normally a very upbeat person, she looked worn down and it was obvious she hadn't slept. She described, in a serious tone, our new schedule: no more homeroom, no more electives, no more year-long schedule. Because our cuts to the teaching staff will be so deep, we will move to a 4X4 schedule because it's the only way we can continue to teach the same number of students with a smaller staff. The students will now only take four courses each term (a term is an academic year squeezed into a semester). Some teachers will pick up courses from the teachers who will be laid off. Some teachers will be teaching at two different schools. As we listened, not only were we worried about our job status--we were worried how, if we kept our job, we would make this happen six weeks into the school year. "When will we find out if we still have our jobs?" I asked.
"Now." Our principal walked back into her office, and she said that one by one she would call us back to deliver the news--yes, we are keeping you, or no, we are not. Suddenly, I wished I hadn't asked.
My friend, a Spanish teacher, went first. After she walked out of the room, we were silent. It was as if a bomb went off, and it was too cloudy yet to see what was happening. She was only gone about five minutes before she came back in tears. I asked if she was staying, and she said she was, but she had to go. I didn't understand, then my name was called.
Sitting in that chair, across from my principal, I thought I had done something wrong. And I thought for sure I would throw up all over her desk. "Yes or no--please just tell me yes or no," I pleaded with her.
"No." I felt like someone had dropped me off a cliff. "No, we are not letting you go." With a jerk, I stopped falling. I was perplexed.
My principal explained my new teaching schedule, and then I understood--one of my English colleagues was going to be let go. He was going to be let go--not me. I was relieved. Then I wasn't. How was he going to find a job in October? Then I realized I knew his fate before he did. I felt dirty. I didn't want this inside knowledge. I started to cry. Then my principal started to cry. She didn't want this either. No wonder she hadn't slept. I hadn't done anything wrong, nor had she. There was a desk, and a whole pay scale between us, but we were both in this mess together, and it was just really, really awful.
I walked out of my principal's office sobbing. I had to pull myself together before I walked into the Spanish classroom, because if they saw me, they'd all panic. I paced the hallway, and the more I paced, the more I sobbed. I just had to get out of there and not make any eye contact. Now I understood why my friend was crying. If she made it, her Spanish colleague had not. When I opened the door, everyone looked up, but I stared at the floor, grabbed my things, then left.
That night, I cried in a way I had not in a long, long time. The tears were for my last layoff, for my relief, for my guilt about my relief, for my colleagues who did not deserve this, for my principal who had to deliver this news, for all of us who now have to fix this.
The next day, when I walked back into the Spanish classroom, the smoke had cleared some. I saw who was left--a mere 60% of us. We have a long road ahead of us, and that's written on each of our faces. I always understood why teachers talk about being "in the trenches," but now I understand that phrase on a new level. I walked over to my friend and gave her a big hug, as if to say "Thank goodness you made it." She looked at me and said, "Now--now--is the time for optimism."
Sunday, October 10, 2010
What If It Was Up To The Students?
I am grading my first stack of essays for the school year on this long weekend, and I can't decide what is worse--stabbing myself in the eye or reading these papers?
In fact, I don't want to grade the other stack sitting on top of my printer. Instead, I want to run far, far away and pretend this never happened. Ever.
Why such a vile reaction you ask? Try swallowing this: a class mean of 52%. That's right. Just plain ugly.
Like every good teacher, I went back in time and considered everything I had taught up until the day they turned in their essays. I'll admit, there were things I could have done differently. In the future, I want to offer them more time in class to work on their writing, and I'd like to utilize more student-created examples (sample paragraphs written by students). I think I need to have more conferences as well so I can talk to them about what they think about their own writing.
However, as a fourth year teacher, I've never experienced such low essay scores. Either I'm a worse teacher this year, or this group is really far behind in their writing skills. And their homework-completion skills. And their self-advocacy skills.
As teachers, we are taught that when we encounter a failing class average like this, we did something wrong, and when we do, we have to go back and re-teach those standards and skills. However, our school's pacing does not allow for that, so I'm stuck in this eternal conundrum of needing to pause but being forced to move on.
But what if it was up to the students to go back and fix their errors?
A colleague of mine has a poster in her room with a list of all the things school does not teach students, like life is not fair and in the real world, no one cares about your feelings. It makes me laugh each time I see it, because it's so true, yet we continually do our kids a disservice because we're so damned worried about their self-esteem. In the real world, what does a person do when he/she does not understand something? Wait for the college professor in a lecture hall of 100 students to pull her aside and say, "Nancy, you look confused. Should I explain this concept in a different way?" Or better yet, does the boss walk up to Ed, stating, "Your work is below average, so I'm going to sit here and walk you through it." If that's the way the real world works, I must be missing out.
Here's my course of action: make the students fix it. If they received a C or higher, they can choose if they want to revise their essays; however, if they received a 69% or below, they must make an appointment with me during office hours to workshop their papers, then they will have a week to revise their work.
In the real world, it's not always about getting it right the first time (though that is encouraged), but about what one does upon encountering obstacles or, even worse, failure.
In fact, I don't want to grade the other stack sitting on top of my printer. Instead, I want to run far, far away and pretend this never happened. Ever.
Why such a vile reaction you ask? Try swallowing this: a class mean of 52%. That's right. Just plain ugly.
Like every good teacher, I went back in time and considered everything I had taught up until the day they turned in their essays. I'll admit, there were things I could have done differently. In the future, I want to offer them more time in class to work on their writing, and I'd like to utilize more student-created examples (sample paragraphs written by students). I think I need to have more conferences as well so I can talk to them about what they think about their own writing.
However, as a fourth year teacher, I've never experienced such low essay scores. Either I'm a worse teacher this year, or this group is really far behind in their writing skills. And their homework-completion skills. And their self-advocacy skills.
As teachers, we are taught that when we encounter a failing class average like this, we did something wrong, and when we do, we have to go back and re-teach those standards and skills. However, our school's pacing does not allow for that, so I'm stuck in this eternal conundrum of needing to pause but being forced to move on.
But what if it was up to the students to go back and fix their errors?
A colleague of mine has a poster in her room with a list of all the things school does not teach students, like life is not fair and in the real world, no one cares about your feelings. It makes me laugh each time I see it, because it's so true, yet we continually do our kids a disservice because we're so damned worried about their self-esteem. In the real world, what does a person do when he/she does not understand something? Wait for the college professor in a lecture hall of 100 students to pull her aside and say, "Nancy, you look confused. Should I explain this concept in a different way?" Or better yet, does the boss walk up to Ed, stating, "Your work is below average, so I'm going to sit here and walk you through it." If that's the way the real world works, I must be missing out.
Here's my course of action: make the students fix it. If they received a C or higher, they can choose if they want to revise their essays; however, if they received a 69% or below, they must make an appointment with me during office hours to workshop their papers, then they will have a week to revise their work.
In the real world, it's not always about getting it right the first time (though that is encouraged), but about what one does upon encountering obstacles or, even worse, failure.
Saturday, October 9, 2010
A First
Friends have told me I should write, especially when it comes to my stories about teaching, so here's my crack at it.
I can't promise anything other than the truth of what happens in my classroom, or classrooms as the case may be. At the moment, I'm a traveling teacher and occupy a total of five different rooms. With the constant movement, havoc is always around the corner. Inevitably, the last teacher took the dry erase markers, I left something in another classroom, I'm missing five desks, or something of that sort.
A colleague of mine promised that if we can all survive this, we will be better teachers for it. I have to admit, sometimes I feel like I won't survive this. These last five weeks have worn down my stamina. Perhaps that's why I now feel called to write this blog. JK Rowling said recently--and I'm paraphrasing here--that she doesn't know what she thinks or believes until she writes it down. I suppose this is my effort to make sense of what this year is so that it can transform into what it needs to be.
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