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.
Saturday, October 30, 2010
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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