This school year started on a more optimistic note despite the layoffs and merger. I'd have only 11th graders, I'd be teaching American Lit--which I've taught before--and I'd have AP Lit. On top of that, there'd be no pigeons in my room pooping down the wall, and I'd have my own classroom where I could actually decorate. Even more, some of the kids I'd stayed for would be my students again. In some ways, I started the school year from a position of power because I decided to stay, and I essentially created my own reason: my AP kids and my AP class.
In spite of all of this, I'm back at square one again. My American Lit classes, while no longer 37 students each, present the same problem as last term. The students are beyond lacking in skills and totally unmotivated. Ironically, this problem is invading my AP class. What started as a group of 32 has whittled down to 11. In theory, these 11 are the most motivated, talented and capable students, but on a given day, only three or four show they are ready to accept the challenge of this course. With the AP exam less than two months away, that just doesn't work.
While unmotivated students are just part of the high school teacher's landscape, this problem is more complex. The apathy is so pervasive. It's not just the three knuckleheads in the corner--it's 75-80% of my students. Let me put it this way. My American Lit kids are working on an essay about Death of a Salesman. I chunk every part of the essay for them, and each day comes with a mini-lesson, a handout, a teacher exemplar and a conference. I wish a teacher in high school had done all I do for them when it comes to writing. We started this process a week ago this past Friday; their essay is due this Monday. That means they had over a week to work on this, and an entire week of class to work on their essay. This past Friday, most of them were still working on their intro. Really?
Each day I find myself questioning my own actions. Do I really want to stay up until 11pm working on this lesson when I already know what results it will yield? Is this really worth cutting into my time at home with my family? Should I really take 15 minutes to grade this essay and provide meaningful feedback when I know this kid spent thirty minutes writing this?
These thoughts are on the surface, but bubbling underneath are the larger issues that remain with me--the layoffs, the merger, my car and a more recent situation. I've debated whether or not I should write about this, but I've come to the conclusion other teachers have faced this, and I want them to know they are not alone.
A few weeks ago, a student and I were at a standstill over her cell phone. This should not be as I have very clear guidelines about the use of electronics in my class, and I had this student last year. She and I had a fine rapport. In fact, we had a great rapport. Something changed this year, and there was constant attitude and defiance over this phone for a period of about two weeks, so I conferenced with the parent. My expectations and consequences were very clear, but the following day in class her behavior was the same. On this day, I told her she was not leaving class without handing over the phone. She replied with several rude comments, and when I could not reach my admin, I released all students but her. As this was the last class of the day, I planned on keeping her a few minutes until one of my admin could come and take the phone. However, that's not what happened.
What started as an attempt to confiscate a phone turned into something very ugly. This student tried to move past me and go for the door, and I was just so sick of all of it. I was so tired of doing battle with her attitude and defiance. I was so over the phone. This student was not above the rules, and I wasn't going to let her move past me, walk out the door with her phone and assume she was above the rules. I grabbed for her phone which was in her shirt pocket, and she immediately jumped back and screamed, accusing me of touching her. She then proceed to get out her phone and call her mother, telling her mother I touched her. I was stunned and asked her if she was out of her mind. I can't remember the last time I was this angry. I was shaking, my face and ears were hot, and I could feel tears rising to the surface. I called for my admin again, and thankfully one of them responded. He came to my room immediately and took over for me. He confiscated her phone, escorted her out of my room, and I fell into my chair at my desk.
This is every teacher's worst nightmare, and I somehow thought this could never happen to me. How naive. I ran through the sequence of events again, and of course I realized at that moment what I did wrong. I should have never grabbed for her phone, and I should have never left myself alone with a student. While those were my errors, why on earth would she accuse me of something so heinous? Cuss me out, tell me you hate me--but this? My mind went to the worse case scenario, which is not difficult to imagine with all the recent scandals in the media. I sat at my desk shocked, and that shock moved quickly to devastation. I started sobbing. Then, my principal called me. I hadn't left a voicemail and she wanted to know if everything was okay. I told her no, then sobbed through the whole story. Luckily my admin supported me. The student was suspended and permanently removed from my class. She apparently has a track record for lying, and I guess the jig is up because she has yet to return to school.
Driving home that evening I was so quiet. Normally my mind is racing, thinking about this or that, but that evening I was still. No radio. No phone. Just me and my feelings, and boy did I feel. Did this student know all the ramifications that come with an accusation like that? No, but did she know enough? Yes. This felt like that day with my car. Both were so personal, but the difference with this situation is that the damage was on the inside, and I certainly wasn't going to wait around for eight months for this to be made right.
That day something snapped inside me. While I was--and still am--devastated that a student I've worked with for two school years would turn on my like this, I'm just so done. I'm tired of being a pawn in someone else's game. I refuse to be manipulated anymore by budgets, by admin, by students, by parents. Though all work environments have their politics, the emotional demands of this profession and my current work environment have shaded the way I see the world, and not for the better. I'm guarded, I'm quiet, I'm bitter, I'm untrusting, I'm pessimistic, I'm emotionally numb. This is not who I am at the core, and to save myself, I need to get out, but the question is, where do I go from here? If I'm not in the classroom, where am I?
Showing posts with label when students get personal. Show all posts
Showing posts with label when students get personal. Show all posts
Sunday, March 18, 2012
Sunday, February 26, 2012
Passing the Baton
Hard to believe an entire month went by without a post. January was a whirlwind that I can barely recall. After coming back from winter break, I had just two and a half weeks to prepare the kids for finals. After exams, the new term began the following week. Luckily for me the preparation was minimal since I was teaching the same courses. AP continues on and American Literature starts over. However, that means I get all the kids who failed my course, which is a lot. 58% to be exact. That number is according to one of my principals, but I think it may be higher. I'm not thrilled about getting all the kids who just failed my class, but I do feel like this could be a sort of second chance. I've blogged multiple times about how this class was like this wall--no way through to them no matter what I did. Well, at least that's how I perceived them, but try telling that to my principal.
In fact, I had a meeting with her about a week ago regarding that exact topic. It was sort of like a more mellow version of the meeting from hell. She asked me if I was aware of my fail rate and if it alarmed me and if I have a plan for fixing it. I was on the defense, and in truth I had every right to be. Part of me feels as if my job is on the line because of the number of students who have failed my class. She says many parents have called complaining about their child's grade and she has encouraged them to come in and speak to me. I tried to maintain my composure, because inside I was thinking, "And what in the hell am I supposed to do? The term ended two weeks ago. This is so after the fact! Where was the concern a month ago?" Don't get me wrong. A parent is a teacher's--and a child's--best ally, but really, how are you going to occupy my time before and after school with all these meetings about something that is done and over with? Anyway, it was a more mellow meeting because there was no yelling and because it was 7:30 in the morning, but inside I was steaming. I have now told her twice what I see as the reason the kids aren't passing, and that I don't know how to fix it so I need support from her, and both times I've walked away with a list of things to do. Support comes in the form of meetings where I'm given more work. I will say, though, that I had two parent meetings with one of my principals present in each meeting. In the one meeting my principal from last year attended, she told the student and his parents that he needs to step up his game and that as a junior who is lacking many of the basics, he needs to be in tutoring if he expects to pass. That is essentially what I told my other principal, who in her meeting conveyed that instead I need to step up my game. At least I have one administrator on my side.
Moments like these make me question, am I crazy? Are my expectations really that high? Who is right--me or them? Hillary, who is now my TA one period a day, reaffirms that I am not crazy. She recently released some pent up frustration over grading some timed writings from my American Lit classes, and as I listened to her, I almost thought I was listening to a recording of myself: "These kids can't write! How have they been passed on to 11th grade? This is like middle school writing! Where are the parents?" In fact, she is sometimes harsher than I. What I love about her honesty is that she can walk up to the kids and say things I cannot. After grading some homework, she called a student over and asked him why his homework looked the way it did: "Did you do this like five minutes before class started? What's wrong with you that you can't spend thirty minutes at home doing this the right way? What grade are you in? Do you want to graduate on time? What are you so busy doing that you can't pass this class?"
In her most recent tirade of honesty, she and another AP student of mine--Tamara--decided they wanted to talk to one of my classes about their writing. After a round of grading timed writings, Hillary shared with Tamara the extent of the students' poor writing skills. They came up with a plan: type up some essays so the entire class can see the poor grammar and mechanics, read them aloud so the students can hear the poor grammar and mechanics, show exemplar essays they (Hillary and Tamara) have written so the students can see and hear what their writing should look like, and finally, implore the kids to take ownership over their own learning and writing. Hillary and Tamara did this all of their own accord, and while part of me was just so amazed by their initiative and concern, another part of me wanted to break down and cry. Really?! I get more support from my 11th grade AP students than I do from one of my principals?!
The following day, I felt like a proud parent watching the two of them talk to my American Lit kids. Did they totally get through to them? No, but they said some things that needed to be said. Some of the kids giggled about the mistakes in the grammar and mechanics, and Tamara and Hillary shut them down immediately. They told them it's not funny--that they will be judged by their ability to communicate, and right now in their essays, they all look and sound dumb. They need to get their shit together or they won't graduate. Their apathy is bringing down the junior class, and they (Hillary and Tamara) work so hard and don't appreciate their dead weight. While some educators may chide me for letting Tamara and Hillary speak so freely, I know I made the right decision. Someone had to put it out there and call it by its name. We educators tip-toe around the issues, afraid of hurting a child's concept of self. We would rather our kids feel good, move on to the next grade, even graduate, than read or write. At the end of the day, it's true, and it took two 17 year-olds to really get me to see that's what's going on. While I think it's sad that they felt they had to give this speech since they knew no one else would, I'm so incredibly proud of them. It takes a lot of guts to get in front of one's peers and say this is not good enough . . . and I guess I have to take their example and do the same.
In fact, I had a meeting with her about a week ago regarding that exact topic. It was sort of like a more mellow version of the meeting from hell. She asked me if I was aware of my fail rate and if it alarmed me and if I have a plan for fixing it. I was on the defense, and in truth I had every right to be. Part of me feels as if my job is on the line because of the number of students who have failed my class. She says many parents have called complaining about their child's grade and she has encouraged them to come in and speak to me. I tried to maintain my composure, because inside I was thinking, "And what in the hell am I supposed to do? The term ended two weeks ago. This is so after the fact! Where was the concern a month ago?" Don't get me wrong. A parent is a teacher's--and a child's--best ally, but really, how are you going to occupy my time before and after school with all these meetings about something that is done and over with? Anyway, it was a more mellow meeting because there was no yelling and because it was 7:30 in the morning, but inside I was steaming. I have now told her twice what I see as the reason the kids aren't passing, and that I don't know how to fix it so I need support from her, and both times I've walked away with a list of things to do. Support comes in the form of meetings where I'm given more work. I will say, though, that I had two parent meetings with one of my principals present in each meeting. In the one meeting my principal from last year attended, she told the student and his parents that he needs to step up his game and that as a junior who is lacking many of the basics, he needs to be in tutoring if he expects to pass. That is essentially what I told my other principal, who in her meeting conveyed that instead I need to step up my game. At least I have one administrator on my side.
Moments like these make me question, am I crazy? Are my expectations really that high? Who is right--me or them? Hillary, who is now my TA one period a day, reaffirms that I am not crazy. She recently released some pent up frustration over grading some timed writings from my American Lit classes, and as I listened to her, I almost thought I was listening to a recording of myself: "These kids can't write! How have they been passed on to 11th grade? This is like middle school writing! Where are the parents?" In fact, she is sometimes harsher than I. What I love about her honesty is that she can walk up to the kids and say things I cannot. After grading some homework, she called a student over and asked him why his homework looked the way it did: "Did you do this like five minutes before class started? What's wrong with you that you can't spend thirty minutes at home doing this the right way? What grade are you in? Do you want to graduate on time? What are you so busy doing that you can't pass this class?"
In her most recent tirade of honesty, she and another AP student of mine--Tamara--decided they wanted to talk to one of my classes about their writing. After a round of grading timed writings, Hillary shared with Tamara the extent of the students' poor writing skills. They came up with a plan: type up some essays so the entire class can see the poor grammar and mechanics, read them aloud so the students can hear the poor grammar and mechanics, show exemplar essays they (Hillary and Tamara) have written so the students can see and hear what their writing should look like, and finally, implore the kids to take ownership over their own learning and writing. Hillary and Tamara did this all of their own accord, and while part of me was just so amazed by their initiative and concern, another part of me wanted to break down and cry. Really?! I get more support from my 11th grade AP students than I do from one of my principals?!
The following day, I felt like a proud parent watching the two of them talk to my American Lit kids. Did they totally get through to them? No, but they said some things that needed to be said. Some of the kids giggled about the mistakes in the grammar and mechanics, and Tamara and Hillary shut them down immediately. They told them it's not funny--that they will be judged by their ability to communicate, and right now in their essays, they all look and sound dumb. They need to get their shit together or they won't graduate. Their apathy is bringing down the junior class, and they (Hillary and Tamara) work so hard and don't appreciate their dead weight. While some educators may chide me for letting Tamara and Hillary speak so freely, I know I made the right decision. Someone had to put it out there and call it by its name. We educators tip-toe around the issues, afraid of hurting a child's concept of self. We would rather our kids feel good, move on to the next grade, even graduate, than read or write. At the end of the day, it's true, and it took two 17 year-olds to really get me to see that's what's going on. While I think it's sad that they felt they had to give this speech since they knew no one else would, I'm so incredibly proud of them. It takes a lot of guts to get in front of one's peers and say this is not good enough . . . and I guess I have to take their example and do the same.
Saturday, April 30, 2011
Why I'm A Teacher
While I'm sorry I've been away, I'm kind of not. I think I needed a month hiatus from these venting sessions so I could turn inward. A lot has happened, and I want to start here:
Right before our spring break, about two weeks ago, my 10th graders had an essay due. One of my best students, whom I'll call Gabrielle, was having a very difficult time with her essay. Not only did she have writer's block--she was lethargic, unfocussed, and behind--all things she's normally not. I kept encouraging her to push through, but by mid-week, she had her head down the entire class. I decided to let her be. I knew something was going on, and I wanted to give her time and space before I approached her.
At the end of class, a few friends lingered, trying to get Gabby to go downstairs for lunch. I told them to go, that I would take care of her. Gabby's head remained down, but I could hear the muffled sniffles. "Gabby, what's wrong? Talk to me," I pleaded several times before she put her head up. When she said it was about the essay, I knew it wasn't. "What's really wrong?" I asked her. She turned her chair away from her table and put her head in her lab, sobbing. I kept asking her to talk to me, but she uttered no words. I got out of my chair and sat on the floor. I grabbed her hand. "Gabby, you can talk to me."
Finally, she relinquished: "My parents are getting a divorce. The court date is coming up where I have to decide who I want to live with." She described how, logically, she knows she can't fix her parents' problems, but emotionally, she believes if she's the perfect daughter and student she will bring her parents back together. She confided that only one other teacher and one other student at school know about the divorce and she prefers it that way.
I was touched by her honesty and vulnerability, particularly because she said it's hard for her to let her guard down. She wants to please people, so she puts on a happy face no matter what. While I tried to reassure and support her with my words, I ironically found it hard to let my own guard down. I felt restrained by my own emotions. So much this year has happened that has left me jaded and empty. I was connecting, but not completely, not the way Gabby deserved.
Gabby ate her lunch with me in my room. Before she left, we hugged, and I asked her if she felt better. She said, "Surprisingly, yes. Can I get help with my essay after school?"
I told her of course, and I must have felt better too. In the same way my questions urged Gabby to open up, our conversation pushed me to a place where I hadn't been in a long time. There's this line in the film Freedom Writers that resonates with me on so many levels. Erin, the teacher, is talking to her husband, and she explains, "When I'm helping them make sense of their lives, everything about my life makes sense to me." In that conversation I had with Gabby, I needed to listen to my own words of advice, and I needed to follow Gabby's lead. I needed to open up.
Later that afternoon, Gabby came for help with Hillary in tow. Hillary, another one of my 10th graders, is also an excellent student. The two of them sat down, and something happened. I graded, they worked; I reviewed their essays, they revised. I showed them how to use dashes appropriately. They were excited and stated to weave them into their writing. Gabby, sobbing earlier, confidently took on her essay, writer's block gone. Hillary, always competing with Gabby, read paragraphs out loud, impressed with her use of vocabulary. I felt vulnerable yet at ease with them. And I felt called, urged to get back on this path.
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Heavy Words
Just this past week, a former student contacted me via email. She is one of my kids whom I talked about not too long ago. We've been in touch off and on since I left the high school where she was my student for two years, and she's told me tales of her college life. Her email seemed like an ordinary update until she wrote there was a lot to tell me and she didn't know where to begin. Things like Is she dropping out? or Is she getting married? or Is she pregnant? crossed my mind only because I've received those updates. While I support my students no matter what, my hope is that those things happen after college or trade school are complete and careers are underway. But as I read further, I only became more alarmed. I audibly gasped and had to reread her words to make sure I was really seeing what I thought I saw. My confirmation gave way to a feeling of shock then heaviness, and I sat there, staring at her email.
My former student wrote to tell me she is taking a leave of absence from school because she was diagnosed this past December with a rare form of cancer. She is getting chemotherapy and only on her 3rd of 14 rounds. She's lost her hair, eyelashes, most of her eyebrows, energy, and sometimes, her hope. Her words provided me a small window into her world as it is right now--a world where nothing feels permanent and nothing is taken for granted.
I feel jolted, in a way. While my complaints are legitimate, my quitting attitude is not. I have a choice--I have lots of choices--and all my 20 year-old student can choose is the way in which she fights this potentially fatal disease.
My former student wrote to tell me she is taking a leave of absence from school because she was diagnosed this past December with a rare form of cancer. She is getting chemotherapy and only on her 3rd of 14 rounds. She's lost her hair, eyelashes, most of her eyebrows, energy, and sometimes, her hope. Her words provided me a small window into her world as it is right now--a world where nothing feels permanent and nothing is taken for granted.
I feel jolted, in a way. While my complaints are legitimate, my quitting attitude is not. I have a choice--I have lots of choices--and all my 20 year-old student can choose is the way in which she fights this potentially fatal disease.
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
"Girl"
is not a term students should ever use to address a teacher or any superior, for that matter, yet it seems that two of my new students think it's acceptable. It took me a second, the first time I heard one of my girls use it, to figure out if the student was even addressing me. Was she talking to me? No. Not possible . . . . Oh my gosh, she was. Then, I about went through the roof. I gave her the stare, then said, "What did you just call me?"
She was so casual, so off-the-cuff--"Oh, you know, girl, like we cool."
"No, we're not 'cool.' I'm your teacher. You know my name. Use it." (Visualize student eye-rolling.)
Ugh. Infuriating. Beyond infuriating. Infuriating because I wouldn't even dare call ANY of my girls, "girl." Ever. Simply put, it's demeaning.
This disturbs me on multiple levels because it's a symptom of a larger problem--respect. Respect for who I am and what my position is. Clearly these two students have difficulty understanding this, which is why I outlined for both of them why this is incorrect and what the consequences will be if they ever address me in this way again.
I have a student who calls me m'am. Everything is "yes, m'am" or "no m'am" for her. That's respect, and not that I need to be "m'am," I'd sure like more of her.
It's not like I believe I teach from an ivory tower or anything. I get to know some of my students well--I give some of them hugs and even nicknames, but I am never, or will ever be, any student's "girl." I don't know why that's so hard, why I have to have these conversations . . . these fights.
She was so casual, so off-the-cuff--"Oh, you know, girl, like we cool."
"No, we're not 'cool.' I'm your teacher. You know my name. Use it." (Visualize student eye-rolling.)
Ugh. Infuriating. Beyond infuriating. Infuriating because I wouldn't even dare call ANY of my girls, "girl." Ever. Simply put, it's demeaning.
This disturbs me on multiple levels because it's a symptom of a larger problem--respect. Respect for who I am and what my position is. Clearly these two students have difficulty understanding this, which is why I outlined for both of them why this is incorrect and what the consequences will be if they ever address me in this way again.
I have a student who calls me m'am. Everything is "yes, m'am" or "no m'am" for her. That's respect, and not that I need to be "m'am," I'd sure like more of her.
It's not like I believe I teach from an ivory tower or anything. I get to know some of my students well--I give some of them hugs and even nicknames, but I am never, or will ever be, any student's "girl." I don't know why that's so hard, why I have to have these conversations . . . these fights.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
$4,500
That's the total damage done to my car.
That's more than I take home in a month. I wasn't kidding when I told my principal that day it did not pay to come into work. In fact, it didn't pay that whole month!
In the last post, I told you one of the reasons why I hadn't posed in awhile. The other reason is because I've spent oodles of time and energy persuading my school to pay for the damage to my car. I sent emails back and forth to HR. I spent hours in meetings with my principal. I even went to the top, emailing our charter's CEO. That move got our HR person to my school, though she arrived four minutes before my next class started, and only to tell me "No. There's nothing we can do."
I felt so defeated, and I finally put my hands up in the air. Fine, I thought. I'll pay. I'll eat the cost. I just want my car fixed. I just want the damage erased.
Then I went to school the next morning and learned another teacher's car was keyed. Phrases like "oh hell no," "told you so" and "power in numbers" floated across my mind, so I talked to this teacher. Being new and young and still passionate, he didn't want to rock the boat. Being older and jaded and knowing better, I told him they are taking advantage of us. If he didn't want to put his neck on the line, that was fine, because what happened to his car was enough. So I walked to my principal's office and respectfully said I refused to take no for an answer, and had everyone listened to me, that other teacher's car might not have been damaged. Then I had a list of questions, easily summarized by this: what will they do to make this right?
My principal heard me out, and she understood where I'm coming from. I also think she is a little worn down by my pushiness and relentlessness. But that's fine by me, because I learned late last week that the charter organization is finally going to pay for the damages. I have to get several estimates and hand them over.
I'm a little reluctant to celebrate yet with the way things have gone. I won't feel totally at ease until I'm looking at my car the way it used to be. And the funny thing is that's how I feel about myself--I won't know things are better until I feel the way I used to--hopeful, optimistic, enthusiastic, and trusting.
That's more than I take home in a month. I wasn't kidding when I told my principal that day it did not pay to come into work. In fact, it didn't pay that whole month!
In the last post, I told you one of the reasons why I hadn't posed in awhile. The other reason is because I've spent oodles of time and energy persuading my school to pay for the damage to my car. I sent emails back and forth to HR. I spent hours in meetings with my principal. I even went to the top, emailing our charter's CEO. That move got our HR person to my school, though she arrived four minutes before my next class started, and only to tell me "No. There's nothing we can do."
I felt so defeated, and I finally put my hands up in the air. Fine, I thought. I'll pay. I'll eat the cost. I just want my car fixed. I just want the damage erased.
Then I went to school the next morning and learned another teacher's car was keyed. Phrases like "oh hell no," "told you so" and "power in numbers" floated across my mind, so I talked to this teacher. Being new and young and still passionate, he didn't want to rock the boat. Being older and jaded and knowing better, I told him they are taking advantage of us. If he didn't want to put his neck on the line, that was fine, because what happened to his car was enough. So I walked to my principal's office and respectfully said I refused to take no for an answer, and had everyone listened to me, that other teacher's car might not have been damaged. Then I had a list of questions, easily summarized by this: what will they do to make this right?
My principal heard me out, and she understood where I'm coming from. I also think she is a little worn down by my pushiness and relentlessness. But that's fine by me, because I learned late last week that the charter organization is finally going to pay for the damages. I have to get several estimates and hand them over.
I'm a little reluctant to celebrate yet with the way things have gone. I won't feel totally at ease until I'm looking at my car the way it used to be. And the funny thing is that's how I feel about myself--I won't know things are better until I feel the way I used to--hopeful, optimistic, enthusiastic, and trusting.
Friday, December 17, 2010
Like a Dark Comedy Minus the Comedy
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.
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.
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?
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