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.
Sunday, February 26, 2012
Friday, December 23, 2011
Found
Last night I had a very profound experience and the strangest dream. I had to share both here. Neither has anything to do with the classroom, or maybe they do. You be the judge.
Perhaps I should back up. Remember when I said about two months ago that teachers tend to be a little screwed up? Okay, I guess that's a blanket statement, and maybe I should rephrase. Many of the teachers I've met over the years and have come to know the best have lives that mirror that of their students'. They've been abused, they've struggled with substance abuse, they were homeless, etc. These individuals become teachers, I think, because an adult helped them at the moment they needed it the most, and they want to pay it forward. At least that's the case with me.
One of the many ways in which my childhood mirrors my students' is that I spent some time in the foster care system. To make brief what could be a long story, my mother was unprepared and undecided when I was born, so I lived with a foster family until she thought she was ready. I didn't know about this family until I was eleven when I found a baby picture of myself with a different name on the back: Jodi. After I confronted my family about it, I heard the story, but of course I wanted more; I wanted to meet this family. When I was about 20 or 22 years old, I sought out this family, and I was surprised. I was obviously loved and cared for by this family, but nothing can really ever be what we create it to be in our minds. I say that because I really went looking for my foster mother, and while I found her, I really found my foster sister. We made an instant connection, and it was her to whom I felt so attached. Unfortunately we lost touch, and that had more to do with my being young and immature at the time.
For whatever reason, my foster sister had been on my mind a lot over the past few months, so before I flew to my hometown for winter break, I made it point to find her again. We met up last night after not seeing each other for ten or twelve years, and it was honestly one of the most profound moments of my life. The moment she walked in the restaurant, there was an instant connection I couldn't explain. I loved her and knew her without really knowing her. I learned so much about myself by learning about her. I wondered how could that be, and then she explained that she was really my caretaker, and of all the babies who were in and out of her family's home, I was her favorite. For whatever reason, we connected then and we connected now. We not only share the same birthday but a history of . . . love.
Re-meeting my foster sister felt like a coming home, in a sense. She is not my "mother" because I have a mother--and a foster mother. Instead, she is the person who gave me unconditional love when I needed it the most, and she is a sibling from whom I've been separated for a long, long time. Part of me has felt lost for all of my life, and I think through finding her I've found that part. I think for a lot of my life I've been looking for her without realizing so. I empathize with my students, because so many of them are searching, and now that I know what it's like to have that puzzle piece fit, I understand the significance of that void even more.
I had trouble sleeping last night because my mind was trying to digest all that I was thinking and feeling, but when I finally fell asleep, I had the most bizarre dream. I was in Utah, and a horrible snow storm had moved in. I was at a college, or maybe even a research center, and there were people around whom I knew. All of us were nervous about the snow storm because I was out there in the center of the storm--even though I was also at the college or research center. My friends or colleagues were studying maps and radars to track me down, and it appeared that some of them gave up on finding me because the falling snow was too dense and the weather too cold. I became upset and said they couldn't do that--they had to find me. More and more people were coming to the same conclusion, so I decided to go out in the snow and cold to find myself. I kept yelling my full name over and over again until I heard a noise. I looked up and saw my car--my real car--at the top of this steep hill. A man had apparently found me and drove me and my car over to the college or research center. I was elated and climbed the steep hill to get my frozen body, then I carried my near-death self down the hill to the facility. My body was so light and totally frozen. I kept telling myself I was going to be okay. When I walked inside, everyone was shocked but no one had a plan as to how to revive me because all had assumed I would die in the storm. The next thing I remember is I put myself in a tub of lukewarm water so I could thaw out. That's where the dream ended.
Part of me thinks this dream is about the need to save my spirit from my present circumstances. Part of me thinks this is about my search for my foster sister. Part of me thinks it's about both and how the two have to do with each other. Either way, I'm listening.
Perhaps I should back up. Remember when I said about two months ago that teachers tend to be a little screwed up? Okay, I guess that's a blanket statement, and maybe I should rephrase. Many of the teachers I've met over the years and have come to know the best have lives that mirror that of their students'. They've been abused, they've struggled with substance abuse, they were homeless, etc. These individuals become teachers, I think, because an adult helped them at the moment they needed it the most, and they want to pay it forward. At least that's the case with me.
One of the many ways in which my childhood mirrors my students' is that I spent some time in the foster care system. To make brief what could be a long story, my mother was unprepared and undecided when I was born, so I lived with a foster family until she thought she was ready. I didn't know about this family until I was eleven when I found a baby picture of myself with a different name on the back: Jodi. After I confronted my family about it, I heard the story, but of course I wanted more; I wanted to meet this family. When I was about 20 or 22 years old, I sought out this family, and I was surprised. I was obviously loved and cared for by this family, but nothing can really ever be what we create it to be in our minds. I say that because I really went looking for my foster mother, and while I found her, I really found my foster sister. We made an instant connection, and it was her to whom I felt so attached. Unfortunately we lost touch, and that had more to do with my being young and immature at the time.
For whatever reason, my foster sister had been on my mind a lot over the past few months, so before I flew to my hometown for winter break, I made it point to find her again. We met up last night after not seeing each other for ten or twelve years, and it was honestly one of the most profound moments of my life. The moment she walked in the restaurant, there was an instant connection I couldn't explain. I loved her and knew her without really knowing her. I learned so much about myself by learning about her. I wondered how could that be, and then she explained that she was really my caretaker, and of all the babies who were in and out of her family's home, I was her favorite. For whatever reason, we connected then and we connected now. We not only share the same birthday but a history of . . . love.
Re-meeting my foster sister felt like a coming home, in a sense. She is not my "mother" because I have a mother--and a foster mother. Instead, she is the person who gave me unconditional love when I needed it the most, and she is a sibling from whom I've been separated for a long, long time. Part of me has felt lost for all of my life, and I think through finding her I've found that part. I think for a lot of my life I've been looking for her without realizing so. I empathize with my students, because so many of them are searching, and now that I know what it's like to have that puzzle piece fit, I understand the significance of that void even more.
I had trouble sleeping last night because my mind was trying to digest all that I was thinking and feeling, but when I finally fell asleep, I had the most bizarre dream. I was in Utah, and a horrible snow storm had moved in. I was at a college, or maybe even a research center, and there were people around whom I knew. All of us were nervous about the snow storm because I was out there in the center of the storm--even though I was also at the college or research center. My friends or colleagues were studying maps and radars to track me down, and it appeared that some of them gave up on finding me because the falling snow was too dense and the weather too cold. I became upset and said they couldn't do that--they had to find me. More and more people were coming to the same conclusion, so I decided to go out in the snow and cold to find myself. I kept yelling my full name over and over again until I heard a noise. I looked up and saw my car--my real car--at the top of this steep hill. A man had apparently found me and drove me and my car over to the college or research center. I was elated and climbed the steep hill to get my frozen body, then I carried my near-death self down the hill to the facility. My body was so light and totally frozen. I kept telling myself I was going to be okay. When I walked inside, everyone was shocked but no one had a plan as to how to revive me because all had assumed I would die in the storm. The next thing I remember is I put myself in a tub of lukewarm water so I could thaw out. That's where the dream ended.
Part of me thinks this dream is about the need to save my spirit from my present circumstances. Part of me thinks this is about my search for my foster sister. Part of me thinks it's about both and how the two have to do with each other. Either way, I'm listening.
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