Saturday school

Something cool happened yesterday.

At least, I thought it was cool.

On Wednesday, one of my most delightful but most challenging students, Drama King, stopped in after school with a friend of his, Short Stuff. Both of these kids are fabulous, but Drama King has been somewhat....difficult this year; he's feeling pretty burnt out on school and he's not getting a lot of work done. He's supposed to stay after school to catch up on his work and it happens now and again, but not with any regularity. Wednesday was a day he was supposed to stay, but he came by to tell me he couldn't because his mom needed him to go somewhere. After he told me and I told him how disappointing that was, he stared off into space for a moment. "I just wish I could come in on Saturday."

"Yeah, right," I said. "You don't ever do any work over the weekend."

"That's because I put it off and put it off! But if I could come in and do it here, I'd totally get it done."

I looked at him. "Really? You'd actually come in?"

"Yeah, I would. It would be different because I wouldn't be tired from a whole day of school. But no one's here and I can't do it."

Was this true? Did he mean it, or was he just trying to get me to stop being mad? "Um...I have a key. If you really want to do this...we could do it."

"I really want to do it."

Short Stuff chimed in. "Can I come too? I want to get my work done too."

Wow. "You guys seriously want to do this?"

Yes, they said, they did.

"Then I'll talk to administration and see if it's okay. I'll even bring donuts."

I got permission the next day. And I figured since I was coming in anyway, I might as well let anyone who wanted to join in. So I opened it up to all my kids - explained that I knew a lot of them were behind on projects we're working on, that it can be easier to get work done at school than at home, that I had grading to do so I would do it at school and then they could get help on stuff if they needed it. I even told the other 8th grade Language Arts teachers so that their kids could come if they wanted.

A whole bunch of kids said they were coming; I hoped it was true. But then Saturday came, and I started to second-guess. It was a beautiful day - who'd want to waste it at school? And they'd said they'd be there, but they say a lot of things. I bought two dozen donuts and two gallons of milk (also requested), but as I drove, I wondered where I could donate everything when no one showed.

When I got to school, 9 kids were already waiting outside.

Over the four hours I was there, 17 students showed - 15 of mine and two friends. They worked for anywhere from one to three and a half hours, and while they probably didn't work as solidly as they could have, they generally got a LOT done, and those who didn't get a lot done at least got more done than they otherwise would have.

Seventeen 8th graders at school. On a Saturday. By choice. Sure, the donuts helped, but still.

I am so damn proud of them. It was a great idea of Drama King's, one I never would have thought to suggest - but I sure will in the future.

(Image credit to Chris.Corwin - okay, it wasn't quite THAT crowded, but still.)

(Lack of) Anger in the Classroom V

A while back, I wrote about how one of my biggest challenges as a teacher is my anger. Getting frustrated with student behavior or performance, and just....losing it. And how one of my primary goals this year was to reduce my level of anger, because, y'know, it's really not a good thing.

I posted a few times about how I was doing with the situation - up and down for the most part. And then I kinda forgot about it. Well, not about the issue, per se. I forgot about the posting updates. Life. It gets busy. You know how it goes.

But last week my trimester ended. And one of the things I do when trimesters end is have students complete an evaluation.

It's not long, just 12 sentence starters, based off this form. Specifically, students finish the following, based off my class:

I am awesome at...
I need more practice with...
One thing I had trouble with was...because...
One thing I enjoyed was...because...
One thing I didn't enjoy was...because...
I wish we could have...
In the rest of the year, I would like to...
Ms. Teachin' did a good job with...
Ms. Teachin' could have done better with...
I feel Ms. Teachin' cares about me as a person and a student when...
I feel Ms. Teachin' does NOT care about me as a person and a student when...
(Optional) Anything else to add?

It helps me figure out what's going well, what's not, what I've taught thoroughly, what I need to reteach, what I need to keep, what I need to change. I always give kids the option of filling them out anonymously, and about half of them do, though honestly I always know who wrote each (I'm weirdly good at handwriting recognition. It's odd. I don't know).

I emphasize that I really want them to tell the truth because it matters to me and I use the information to drive my instruction, and they do. They're generally remarkably honest, sometimes depressingly so, but either way, helpful.

Tonight I read the evaluations. And again, they were remarkably honest, occasionally depressingly so, but always helpful.

I definitely have some things to work on (talking too quickly, explaining vocabulary thoroughly, assuming kids get stuff when they're still confused), though a few I don't know how to deal with (like adding more reading time, which about a third of my kids mentioned as something they would like more of. We have 20 minutes of independent reading every day already. The only way to add more time would be to cut the readaloud, but about a third of the kids listed that as the thing they enjoyed most, so......?)

But a few....a few made me cry.

One thing I had trouble with was reading because I hated reading. One thing I enjoyed was reading because I like reading now. (Oh, I'm so proud of him.)

Ms. Teachin' did a good job with...
explaining things and being helpful.

Ms. Teachin' could have done better with...
she did a good job at everything.
Don't gotta answer for this one.

I feel Ms. Teachin' cares about me as a person and a student when she....
takes time to help me when I'm stuck.
tells me that I need to do something better [I LOVE that this kid recognizes this!]
doesn't raid my fridge [okay, honestly, that one just made me laugh]

Anything else to add?
Your [sic] cool.
I like this class better than what I had for reading and writing before.
You rock.

And the one that really made me lose it, from a student that I got for the first time at our midyear change (I'm welling up again just typing it)....
Ms. Teachin' is the first teacher that I know that doesn't scream.

I'm getting better. Got a ways to go still....but I'm getting better.

(Image credit to StickBus)

Why I Teach.

Paul L. Martin has an absolutely gorgeous post up about why he is a teacher. You really, really, really need to go read it. Like, now. I'll wait.

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Good, right? Totally inspiring and maybe brought a few tears to your eyes? At least that's how it affected me.

Because....I totally agree with Paul.

I have hope. I do not believe in a lost cause. Yes, the world seems mired in darkness, students read less and less, and no one seems to know how to get things back on track. But I know my presence in the classroom is a blow against all that. The odds are overwhelming, and the learning I facilitate may not have any effect for a long time, but I believe in what I do...When I walk in that room, see my students, launch into the lesson, everything lifts. This is where I was born to be, pure and simple.

And that is why I know that if you do not feel that, the classroom is not for you. Sure, we can look at test scores, and successful schools, and effective administrators, but it all boils down to the teacher. Why are you a teacher? The answer to that question is everything.

And it is. It is absolutely everything. For you, for your students, for their future husbands and wives and employers and employees and children and everyone.

I thought I'd mentioned before that my school is an AVID school but I can't find a post in which I did that. Anyway, we are, and I think it's a fabulous program. If you don't know AVID, it's a program designed to support academically-middle kids from underrepresented groups (like first to attend college, kids from poverty, or kids from minority groups) in their quest to attend college. The kids have to want it for themselves; it can't be their parents, because that's not enough. You can learn more about it here.

Our AVID students are writing essays right now about their personal struggles and how AVID has helped them overcome those challenges to keep them on track to go to college and achieve their dreams. The AVID teacher had emailed the 8th grade Language Arts teachers to ask us for help with revisions if we had time, so today during my plan, I trotted on down to the AVID room to read a few essays.

Each piece was to start with a personal introduction, sort of a dedication, in which students thanked anyone whom they felt had been truly instrumental in their success. Kids thanked parents, sibling, uncles, and, of course, teachers. In two of the three essays I read, I was one of the people thanked. One was the Chatterbox, who thanked me for having always been there for her, no matter what, for more things than she could ever express. The other was a sweet girl who thanked me for teaching her to love reading and writing and for never giving up on her.

That. That is why I teach.

Oh, not for the thanks, not exactly, though of course that was wonderful (so nice to be appreciated). But for them.

For the kids who shout hellos to me every time I go to an event. For the students who say they hate reading, till they find the right book. For the poets who come in after school for extra help, just because. For the boys who eat lunch in my room every day and laugh and joke and compete for attention. For these beautiful, wonderful, talented, funny, smart, heartbroken, ridiculous, crazy, obnoxious, sad, dreamy, open, confused, angry, loving, hopeful children.

I teach for them. Each and every one of them. Nothing else could be worth it.

(Image credit to Q. Thomas Bower)

Only this one.

Today after school, I spent an hour working with two of my boys. We've been doing some descriptive writing; the kids chose an object that was meaningful to them because of someone it's connected to, and they wrote about it. Tomorrow we're typing the pieces up and inserting photos of their objects, and then we will create a class magazine which will be distributed at parent/teacher conferences.

The boys I was working with today are not particularly talented writers; in fact, they struggle. A lot. But they stayed, and they worked, and they got their pieces done, and they'll be ready to type them tomorrow. It wore me out - every sentence was a struggle with one of them, a debate over whether or not he could think of something to say. Could he? Yes. But hot damn it took some time to get there.

At the end of the hour, I spent a few minutes talking to one of them about writing: his feelings around it, what he's interested in writing about, what he's felt good about in the past. He had nothing to say. I pushed him on it. "So what writing have you done that you're really proud of? When have you done a piece of writing that you thought you did a really good job on?"

He thought for a minute. "Well, only this one."

"The one you just finished?"

"Yeah. I never thought I did a good job before. But I think I did a really good job on this."

Suddenly I didn't feel so tired.

(Photo credit to frielp.)

Homework Return Rate

I assigned homework for the first time on Friday. The kids had to write me a letter introducing themselves; I’d written a model to them first, and I gave them a list of 10 or 12 questions that I wanted them to answer.

After we read the model and went over the requirements, I got verrrrrrrry serious. Did a whole spiel about how I take homework very seriously and I don’t assign it unless it really matters, how if they don’t do it at home then they’ll have to do it at school on their own time, how this assignment reeeeeeally mattered to me and I wouldn’t let it go. And then I let them go and hoped for the best.

Today, I started collecting it. First period – everyone had it except for two students. Third period – all but one. And so the day went. All told, only seven of my kids did not have their homework today.

Seven out of around a hundred and ten.

I think that is pretty damn good.

(Photo credit to cesarastudillo)

Keep On Keepin' On: The Teacher Look

As you’ve read, I’ve been a touch nervous about moving to eighth grade. Would I be able to handle it? Would the kids respond to me? Would my discipline tactics still work?

So far, the answer to all is a resounding yes.

I’ve had several students tell me how excited they are to have me as a teacher – and several others tell me how sad they are that they don’t. At back to school night, I met a handful of new parents as well as a couple I already knew, and all were very responsive. Of course, they’re the ones who show up for things like back to school night, but still.

AND my teacher look still works. Every good teacher has a teacher look – my favorite description of one comes from Miss Eyre, who describes hers thus: “[M]y own is one of appalled dismay, followed quickly by disappointment.” Love it. My teacher look is more of your basic stare, one eyebrow slightly raised (though it can go higher when needed). It’s always worked beautifully with sixth graders, but would the eighth graders respond?

Turns out, yes. I had to use it a few times on Friday for kids who were whacking their pencils violently on their desks (okay, technically they were tapping, but I simply cannot handle that – it is as distracting to me as a jackhammer would be) or who were chatting with a neighbor rather than listening to my student teacher try to teach about appropriate hallway behavior. (Why, yes, I have a student teacher. Yes, this IS my third year teaching. No, no I don’t consider this fully appropriate. We’ll discuss this later.)

Anyway, each time I had to use The Look on Friday, the kid in question immediately shaped up – and the majority also mouthed a sorry at me. Sure, second day of school and they’re still on their best behavior, but I have high hopes that we can continue with this.

Keep your fingers crossed for me!

(Photo credit to jbaij)

Promise kept.

I was at school today for a planning today for one of the committees I’m on. While on a bathroom break, I saw a kid waving at me. It was the Slacker.

The Slacker is the ONLY KID who failed my class for the year. I work reeeeeeeeeeally hard to ensure that my kids pass, because the only way to fail is to not turn work in, and frankly I think that’s a dumb reason to fail. Every other kid passed. Every single one managed to turn enough work in to pass, even if a few of them just squeaked by. The Slacker…nope. And that’s in large part because his attendance is atrocious (he missed my class 20 times third trimester. That’s 67% attendance, as we have 60 days per trimester), and when you aren’t there, you don’t learn anything and you don’t get your work done. Come to school? You learn! You get your shit done! It’s a crazy little concept, one I hope will someday catch on, but so far, not so much. It certainly hasn’t caught on with the Slacker yet.

He’s a nice kid, but is simply unsuccessful in a regular school environment (fails everything, terrible attendance, can’t keep his hands to himself, can’t get to class on time, doesn’t do any work once he’s in class…just a disaster all around), so we’ve been trying to get him into our district’s alternative school. He was accepted once, after I’d put together a 63 page application, but then his dad didn’t show for the parent meeting, and he was out. We’re trying again for next year, but who knows.

I think I’ve mentioned before that I have my kids do assessments of my class at the end of every trimester. They’re sort of anonymous, but I know most of their handwriting and they have the option to put their name if they want me to know they wrote it. Questions about what they liked and didn’t, what I’m good at and what I could be better at, and anything else to add. At the end of second trimester, the Slacker wrote under the anything-to-add section, “I love this class.” He hadn’t put his name on it, but his handwriting is distinctive and I knew it was him. I’d stared at the page, trying to figure out why he would write that when he did nothing to demonstrate that appreciation during classtime.

After a few weeks, I finally decided to just ask him. He’d smiled, looking past me into the distance, and said, “I do love this class. I get to write about what I want to write about.”

Helplessly, I responded, “But, honey, you don’t do that much writing. I’d love to see more from you.” He nodded and promised to start doing more, start sharing his writing more, start participating more. Same promises he’d made all year. Same promises he’d broken all year. Nothing changed.

Anyway, so I saw him waving at me today. He was there for summer school, which was a surprise to start, considering his attendance; even though we claim it’s mandatory if a kid fails two or more classes for the year, realistically nothing happens if they don’t show. Thus a good chunk of our little darlings who should go to summer school don’t.

I walked toward him and he ran to meet me. He looked good; a new haircut, clean clothes, a big smile. “Your hair looks nice,” I said (I like to compliment haircuts because I like it when people notice my haircuts).

He smiled but clearly had more important things on his mind. Thrusting a paper at me, “Will you be here tomorrow? Will you read this?”

I took it automatically and glanced at it. A story of some sort. “You want me to read it and….give you feedback on it?”

“Yeah, and give it back to Mr. Summer School Coordinator.”

I looked at it again. First look: dull introduction, atrocious spelling, terrible punctuation (really no punctuation)…and a kid who wrote. On his own. Something he wanted me to read.

“I would LOVE to read this. I might not be able to bring it back tomorrow, though; is Thursday okay?”

“Yeah, that’s good.”

“And you’ll be here too, right, so can’t I just give it to you? Instead of ”

A bashful grin. “Yeah, sure.”

The page he’d handed me wasn’t particularly impressive stylistically or content-wise. It certainly wasn’t written at a sixth grade level, or even a fifth grade level. But it was a page of writing, from a kid who’d never written more than a few sentences at a time all year long. He’d finally kept his promise to start writing more and sharing it.

I wasn’t planning on going back to school tomorrow or Thursday, but I sure as hell am now.

(Photo credit to A Y U M i, http://www.flickr.com/photos/ayumina/2631198382/)

The end.

I didn’t cry at school on Thursday.

I thought I might, but I made it through. Some of my kids wanted me to cry, I think. Tears mean they matter. Tears are a tangible expression of my love for them. But I didn’t. It was such a good day that tears just didn’t come.

When I told them that I would be moving to 8th grade, they were delighted. Countless kids asked if I could arrange it so they were on my core again. I told them I couldn’t, that it’s all done by computers. One particularly enterprising student suggested that I hack the system; I said I’d take it into consideration. Another student, who’d choiced out of my low-rated urban school for a highly rated suburban school for next year, said he’d come back for 8th grade so that he could be in my class again. I told him that was probably not the way to choose a school but that I appreciated his enthusiasm.

I told a few former students, current 7th graders. They screamed so loudly that a custodian came rushing over, sure someone was mortally wounded.

Three of my girls wrote me a letter about how much they were going to miss me. They’d typed it up, decorated it with hearts and flowers and squiggly things, and put it in a red folder. That was the closest I came to tears.

One of my boys hugged me….and hugged me…and hugged me. Finally I told him he had to let me to go to class. He agreed. Kept hugging. I said it again. Yep, he said, he definitely had to stop and he would, but then he didn’t. Finally I pried his hands loose. I know that I’m his favorite teacher because I have more patience for his antics than some of my colleagues, but I also know that sixth graders are short and hormonal and his head is riiiiiiiight at breast level.

DC asked if I was going to cry. I said I wasn’t sure. “Don’t,” he said. “If you cry, I’ll cry.” So he was safe.

I had all my students sign a yearbook; I buy one each year because I think they’re a nice memento of the year. One student wrote that I was her hero. Several, including the Charmer, wrote that I was the best teacher ever. BB Bob thanked me for helping him so much this year. DC drew a self-portrait and wrote simply, “Miss u.” I might have cried if I’d read those at the time, but I waited till Friday.

At the end of each class, I reminded my kids of the part in Freedom Writers when Miep Gies comes to visit and talks about how ordinary everyday people can be heroes, and how we’d talked about that and I believed it too. Then I reminded them that she also said their faces were engraved in her heart. I told them that their faces were engraved in my heart, that it had been my honor to teach them this year, and that I would miss them all and couldn’t wait to see them next year. A few of them got all misty eyed at that, but I timed it so the bell rang right after I finished speaking, so they sniffled it away and moved on.

We finished the day with an awards assembly. I wish more kids could be recognized for their achievements, but we increased the numbers this year and I’ll work on it again for next year. Plus they’d all gotten the notes from me about their strengths, so that’s kind of like a mini-award. At the end of the assembly, I was mobbed. Kids surrounded me, hugging me and asking for pictures and saying how much they were going to miss me. They are so sweet and so loving and so open; that’s one thing I will miss about sixth graders. Eighth graders are more reserved. Too cool for school. I'm looking forward to a lot of it, but that'll be a loss.

It was a fabulous end to a fabulous year. Painful and challenging at times, yes, but what worthwhile things aren’t? I’m looking forward to resting and rejuvenating this summer. But I also have to start planning – I have a whole new curriculum to get ready for.

Showing them they matter.

I gave my kids their cards today, and composition notebooks a la Freedom Writers. They all thanked me profusely. Many taped or stapled their notes into their new journals, while others said they were going to put theirs up in their rooms. Some hugged me. A few cried.

I love my job.

Taking responsibility.

Yesterday BB Bob said something borderline – I don’t remember what, I just remember that I cut him off in the middle.

“Dude. Seriously. Teacher. Remember, I already got you suspended once. STOP IT.”

He and his friends laughed, then BB Bob sobered up. With a sheepish smile, “Naw, you didn’t get me suspended. I got myself suspended.”

“True,” I said, and we moved on.

But what a great thing that he recognizes and will admit to that, right?

How Assemblies Should Be

I’m going to brag a little bit today.

Yesterday we had an assembly at my school. I put it together as our year-end Positive Behavior Support lesson. We do schoolwide PBS lessons about once a month, and each month’s focus is developed based on our data (mainly referrals – like when we had a lot of disruption referrals, we did a lesson about disruption. Pretty straightforward).

This one, was mostly just to end the year in a positive way. I have a friend who is famous. For privacy, I won’t go into details, but he’s pretty rockin’ and a good chunk of our kids totally know who he is. I started talking to him about a month ago about coming to my school to do an assembly. After a lot of back and forth and schedule manipulation, we finally managed to make it happen.

My friend’s a musician, and we planned a school-wide assembly at which he would perform a few songs, talk to the kids about some position stuff (stay in school, be involved in your life, don’t be assholes to the people around you), take some questions. After the assembly, everyone would go to their PBS classroom, have a discussion, and do a writing prompt to conclude the lesson. My friend Rockstar would go with me to the library and work with a group of kids who’d applied for the opportunity.

The whole thing went better than I could have possibly imagined.

Rockstar was, well, a rock star. He got the kids engaged, he treated them with dignity, he was open and honest but unfailingly positive. He talked about how he’d been teased in middle school for being different, for liking math, for being a critical thinker (though he phrased that as “for getting really into one thing and then thinking about that one thing a lot”). He shared personal stories but brought it back to them. He performed original songs as well as medleys of popular songs (but with the words rewritten to be about positive school-related stuff). He was friendly, caring, funny, complimentary, interested, incredible.

And the kids…oh, the kids. My kids rocked. They were respectful, engaged, excited. They participated, they listened, they took pictures, they cheered…they were fantastic. During the assembly, I watched Rockstar some but mostly I watched the kids. Some of them clearly couldn't care less about being there, but most of them were with him for every song, every word, every moment.

The kids in the writing workshop piece were just delightful. Forty-three applied to be part of it, so we took ‘em all. Rockstar led most of the lesson, talking to them about creativity, about heroism, about how they could be heroes instead of just looking up to people like Tupac (who made some good music but a loooooooot of shitty choices) and Kobe Bryant (who’s a huge dick). They read copies of one of Rockstar’s songs that related to heroism, discussed it in small groups, and wrote about it. Some of them shared what they’d written, others just listened, but every child was a model student for that hour (well, mostly – I did have to hiss in BB Bob’s ear at one point that if he did not cut the crap and start treating others with respect, I would throw him out of there so fast his head would spin and he would rue the day he'd crossed me. He shaped up). They represented my school well.

For the rest of the day (and today too), I had kids and teachers thanking me for putting it together. This was something really meaningful for our kids, and really special. Several told me they’d never forget this, and I truly believe that a lot of them will remember this for the rest of their lives.

I’m so happy I could make this happen for them, and so proud of everyone involved for making it an unforgettable day.

The kid I never imagined.

Today BB Bob and another one of the Charmer’s friends, the Chowhound (the boy never. stops. eating.), asked to have lunch with me. I’d been looking for the Charmer, but he was absent (story for another day…grrr), so I said sure. This is the third day in a row that these boys have had lunch with me – the last two, the Charmer and the fourth in their group, the Talker, had been there too, but the Charmer was absent and the Talker had detention, so then there were two.

I was a little surprised, to be honest. BB Bob was one of my kids from last year, but he and I were never particularly close. We got along fine, just nothing beyond. This year, when the Charmer and his friends started coming in for lunch, I assumed that BB Bob was pretty much just along for the ride – better to be with your friends in a teacher’s room than by yourself in the cafeteria. But they came.

Right after we got to my room, BB Bob asked me oh-so-casually how often I talked to his reading teacher. “Do you guys talk, like, all the time?”

“Not really – I don’t see her that much. We have pretty different schedules.” I wondered why he was asking, then I realized.

The day before, I’d told the Charmer that his reading teacher had complimented him. They don’t get along, AT ALL, but she’d made a point of emailing me about him, so I wanted to pass it along. She’d said that he’d really turned things around, which I’m pretty sure means that he’d started to play the game the way she wanted, but whatever, I thought it might help him to know. He hadn’t seemed to much care, but I guess the others had been listening.

BB Bob is a really good reader. Ms. Reading used to compliment him, and I’d heard his current teacher compliment him too. And he was wondering about that.

“She’s told me a bunch of times what a great reader you are.”

He shook his head. “Naw. I’m not.”

“Yes you are! And Ms. Reading used to tell me too, so I know you are.”

He shook his head a moment more, then a slow smile broke out. “Yeah…maybe.”

The conversation moved on, and after 20 minutes or so, the Chowhound said he was going to go outside for the last ten minutes. I assumed BB Bob would take off too, but no. He stayed another two or three minutes – we chatted some more, about his options for next year and why he might not come back to my school, until he suddenly seemed to realize that he was in a room, with a teacher, by himself, BY CHOICE, and he had no idea how to deal with that.

“Uh…I’m going to go outside too.”

“Okay. See you later.”

“Bye.”

“Have a good day, Bob.”

“Thanks.” Then a split second later, “Uh, you too.”

So funny to learn that you matter to a kid you never imagined would care.

Do The Right Thing.

I mentioned a while ago that I’d used excerpts from The Freedom Writers Diary in class, both for content and for…well, I could call it a morality lesson, or character education, or something, but I like to think of it as a do-the-right-thing lesson. The do-the-right-thing lesson didn’t have much in common with the Spike Lee movie (they’re both connected to racial issues, as my students who started punching the other kid did so because he was using racial slurs, but that’s about all), but was instead designed to make my kids realize that reporting someone for being an asshole isn’t snitching but is protecting yourself and the people around you.

We read two essays. One was about a boy who was being bullied, lost it, beat the shit out of the bullies and almost killed one of them, and ended up in juvie, when if someone had reported the bullying it might have all been prevented. The other was about how two boys from the Freedom Writers school went to Vegas and one lured a little girl into the bathroom to kill her while his friend watched him abduct her and then just walked away. That essay ended with the line that the friend could have saved two lives that day.

It went as well as I’d expected it would – I got kids to acknowledge the issue, at least some of them, and to pay lip service to understanding it, but I didn’t really believe I’d gotten through to any of them on any deeper level. I hoped it, sure, but honestly assumed that they’d forget about it as soon as they walked out the door.

Probably most of them did. At least one didn’t.

After school that day, one of my girls showed up – Sparkles (both her makeup and her personality sparkle – awwwww, I’m so cheesy!). This girl is incredibly sweet and friendly, very funny, very smart. Just a great kid. She asked if she could talk to me in the hallway, so I said sure. When I asked her what was going on, she told me a story.

That day in math, she and a friend of hers had been messing around. Talking, laughing, throwing little pieces of paper at the boy in front of them. Sparkles fully acknowledged that she shouldn’t have been doing that, but, y’know, she’s 12 and sometimes isn’t perfect. Then it escalated. Sparkles’ friend took a piece of gum and put it in the boy’s hair. Not cool. The teacher found out, got mad, and made everyone write about what they knew about the situation. Sparkles wrote that she had no idea what had happened because she didn’t want her friend to get in trouble. But then after class she started thinking. She remembered the essay we’d read, about the friend who’d let his friend murder a girl, and while she knew that gum in the hair was an infinitely less serious situation, she couldn’t get it out of her head.

Sparkles told me she didn’t want to be the kind of person who let her friends get away with stuff just because they were her friends, but she also didn’t want her friend to be mad, so she asked if I could report what had happened. I said I would, but that if they needed to know who the witness was, she’d have to come forward. Though unhappy about the possibility, she understood.

Before she left, I stopped her. I told her I was so proud of her for doing the right thing. It’s not easy to do, for adults or kids, and I was so delighted that she was that kind of person. She thanked me.

This kid rocks, and would rock no matter what, but my lesson had an impact on her. And if it affected her, maybe it affected some of the others too.

Care-full.

There’s a quote that I love, that drives my practice, by Angela Valenzuela (1999), an education researcher from Arizona State. She says, “Students will not care about school until they feel cared for by the adults in the school.” And, oh, this is so, so, so true.

In my last post, I referenced an incident in which a student who should have already been suspended got in a fight with another student. It was a mess – administration had screwed up royally, and everyone involved knew it.

I shouldn’t have been involved at all, as all the kids who were part of the whole thing were seventh and eighth graders, but I was. Here’s what happened (I feel like Monk!).

I was outside grading papers one day during seventh grade lunch. (My classroom is windowless, so when the weather is nice, I like to get some outdoor time if possible.) Whenever I do this, former students come over to say hi, ask what I’m doing, chat a bit.

That day, one of my favorite kids (henceforward known as the Charmer, because he is ridiculously charming when he wants to be, and a huge pain in the ass the rest of the time) and two of his friends came over. They were really upset about something that had happened this morning, and wanted to talk about it, so I figured that was more important than finishing reading the paragraphs I was on right then and asked what was up.

It took a while for me to get clear on the issue, but what I finally gathered was that another seventh grader had been roughed up by some notoriously bad eighth graders and they’d stolen his iPod headphones. He’d come to class (possibly in tears – that I never quite got straight) and the Charmer and friends had asked what was wrong. He told them, so they went and tried to chase the eighth graders down. Unsuccessful, they returned to class while The Victim went to the office to report what had happened.

Me: "Well, I’m sure it’ll be dealt with." The Charmer: "No, nothing happened, we asked The Victim and he said they weren’t even getting suspended. That’s messed up." Me: "You don’t know that, and neither does The Victim. Even if he’s involved, they can’t tell him what’s going to happen to the other kids. There are privacy rules ---" The Charmer: "But they didn’t even get sent home! They’re still here!" Me: "AND they have to wait until a parent can come get them. They might be in the office for a while ---" The Charmer: "No! Not the office. We saw them in the halls."

That silenced me for a minute. Because that really isn’t what should have happened. Still, I wanted to give the admin the benefit of the doubt.

Me: "...Oh. That’s weird. Well…I’m sure it’s in process somehow…." The Charmer: "No it’s not! Nothing’s going to happen. They do whatever they want and no one cares. It’s seriously f--, uh, messed up."

And that broke my heart. Because he was right. It was seriously messed up.

We’d just heard a couple of days before about how we weren’t meeting AYP and our growth wasn’t there and we were now in trouble with the state and steps were going to be taken. I’d been thinking a lot about the reasons that we weren’t making growth, because, as mentioned in my last post, it had been presented as being about instructional issues. Which totally exist, but, again, not the only problem. The quote I opened this post with kept running through my head.

The Charmer is a very smart kid, but he’s had a hard time of it in the last year; his mom lost her job the previous spring and the family became homeless. My state has legislation that requires that homeless students stay at their current school if the family wants that, so he stayed at our school for the rest of the school year despite living in a shelter over ten miles away. Dad’s not really in the picture – he left when the Charmer was four or five. His older brother graduated from high school last spring and got his own place, so the Charmer was left as sort of the man of the house. It’s a story that’s really pretty common. Which is really pretty sad.

Over the summer, the family moved to a shelter an additional 20 miles from school, so he started the year in a school there. They managed to get an apartment in our area through financial assistance from a local non-profit and moved back.

The Charmer had been back at my school for about six weeks when this all happened, and was already known by his current teachers for derailing classes, questioning authority, making inappropriate comments, and being generally obnoxious. I’d intervened in a situation for him a few weeks previously, when he’d been kicked out of a school dance for something he’d done accidentally and was able to get him back into the dance by guaranteeing that he would not do it again, and we’d talked for a while that day, so he knew I was on his side and cared about what was going on with him.

I’d been trying to convince him to take honors classes – he’d been in all honors in sixth grade but had refused to do any when he reenrolled. When I talked to his teachers about him, they were skeptical about any of the positive things I brought up, because all they saw was the irritating little shit who was disrupting their classes and didn’t care.

He’s the type of kid who, once you have him, he’s with you, but you have to earn his respect. He doesn’t give it out for free. He doesn’t trust many people (his mom, and sort of his brother) , and it makes me sad. He cares about school, because he wants to go to college, get a job, and not have the financial problems that his mom has. But that means he’ll work on the things that affect him, that he gets a grade for, but not on the things that don’t, like our state reading and math tests that only affect the school. Because as he sees it, the school doesn’t care about him or his classmates. No one cares.

That wasn’t okay with me. So I thought about it for a couple of days because I didn’t know what to do. Finally I decided to tell my principal that a few former students had come to me with a problem and I didn’t know how to respond to them, and ask for advice.

Although my principal is not perfect, I generally like her a lot. She is very open to conversations and has never made me feel like my opinion is invalid or useless even though I’m still new to the profession. I told her the deal, explained my theory about the Charmer buying out because of stuff like this, and said I didn’t know what to tell the kids.

She was great. She totally understood why I was worried and acknowledged that the admin had screwed up. She said I could tell the kids that, and I could tell them that the eighth graders in question did end up with severe consequences, though they came a few hours later than they should have.

I told them the next day. I’d love to say that it turned things around, that they saw the light and realized that the school DOES care, that they started working their butts off and became model students and citizens. This is a blog, though, not a fairy tale, and not so much.

They were still angry that it had happened in the first place, and that the consequences had been late, and I don’t blame them for that. But they learned that a teacher had cared enough about their feelings to do some research and get back to them on it. They heard about an adult admitting to a mistake, and trying to correct it. They had their feelings validated instead of dismissed.

A few other things came out of the situation too. Two weeks later, I started mentoring the Charmer formally – he said that he trusts me more than anyone else at school, so that’s something. Three weeks after that, I finally persuaded him to go into math and science honors. He and his friends have lunch with me periodically and I talk to them about their concerns. Sometimes I agree with them, sometimes I don’t. Either way, they see that someone cares enough to have the conversation, and that can’t be a bad thing.

Triumph!

I work my butt off to make sure my kids don't fail my class due to missing work. I issue detentions, I write notes in agendas, I harangue them to stay after school or come in early, I call parents, I have them call parents, I harass them in the hallways and at lunch....I spend a ridiculous amount of time on it. Because, frankly, I think it's dumb for kids to fail because they just didn't hand the work in. That's just stupid.

First trimester, I had only one student fail. Everyone else I managed to badger into getting enough in to pass. They may not have passed WELL, but they passed. This one....not so much. And it killed me.

So I started working on DC (he's a skater and loves the brand - nothing political) harder. A little more individual attention, started pulling him in at lunch every now and again, pointed out how one more assignment turned in would get him to a B. And it worked. Sort of. He was passing, though only my class, which wasn't going to be enough to get him out of summer school (okay, technically he was also passing gym and band.)

I started working more on his grades, asking him to stay after school to catch up, both in my class and in his other classes. Every day, he agreed. Every day, he booked it out of the building. I'd look for him in the hallways, and nothing. I'd ask (or even bribe) other students to remind him, and nothing. I got nowhere. Then I got creative.

My core changed his schedule. (Okay, relatively creative.) We swapped when DC had Social Studies and Language Arts (me). The 8th period Social Studies class was really big, so it took that down a kid, and put him in my 8th period, so I could hold him hostage after school and just kinda....not let him leave. When we did it, I talked to him about the reasons for it and asked if he was cool with it. He hemmed and hawed a bit, said he wasn't really happy about it, but...he guessed it was okay. We got his dad to agree to it, which was an achievement in and of itself, and we went for it.

DC stayed after school three days a week for the last three weeks of the trimester. He'd dropped to a D for me; he pulled it up to a C. He got his math grade to a D. He got science and reading to really HIGH Fs (he still failed, but only by like one or two percent - okay, it's not ideal, but it's progress, right?) He was into it - toward the end, I said something about how next trimester we were going to aim at passing everything with at least a C. He said no way; he said at least a B in everything. It was great. He'd never had any real academic success before - even in elementary school, his grades were almost all Ds and Fs, with a C here or there. That didn't reflect his capability, because on his state test scores, he was proficient in math, very close in writing, and not too far off in reading. He's very funny, very nice, very kind to others. But he's a sensitive kid, with asshole older brothers and an unstable family, and he'd always met the expectations they'd laid out for him. DC loved being successful for one of the first times in his life, even if only partially.

A couple of weeks before spring break, though, he changed. During the day, he was fine. Into my class, talked about what he was going to work on after school that day, totally willing and excited. But when 3:45 hit, that ringing bell turned him sullen. He'd make excuses as to why he couldn't stay, or if he did, he'd sit there and stare into space. When I'd try to persuade him to work, I got glares and monosyllabic answers. It sucked. Hard.

I thought about a lot for a couple of days - what had happened? Why was he suddenly acting like such a pain-in-the-ass teenager? I mentor three seventh graders, kids I had last year and who just need some extra support, and though they're a year older, they act way less like obnoxious adolescents - why was DC different?

The day before spring break, I talked to him about the whole thing. I told him what I'd been seeing, and how these after-school sessions had become really unpleasant for both of us, and how neither of us needed something else unpleasant in our lives. I gave him my theory as to why this was happening: he'd never had a choice. When we changed his schedule, he hadn't had a choice. He'd been told the schedule was changing, he'd been told why, and he'd been told that he'd be staying after school to work on his grades. I'd asked him if it was okay, but really, the times, they were a-changin', whether he liked it or not. That wasn't fair. No one can make you want to change your life. It has to come from within. DC'd never had that chance.

I told him to think about it over spring break, to decide if he wanted to continue this but that the decision had to be his. If he decided yes, the attitude would have to change because bleaaaaaah; if he decided no, then....then he decided no. He nodded. He left.

Spring break, I worried about this. Habits take a long time to change and this kid was in the habit of failing - he needed support to change that and he wasn't getting it anywhere else. And he's 12 years old, which is not an age at which one is fully capable of making all one's own decisions (at least in my opinion). If he said no, if he said he didn't want help anymore, he wanted to try it on his own.....I was pretty sure he'd fail at that too. What would I do?

I saw him in the hall a few times today. He didn't bring it up and neither did I - I knew he was going to refuse any more help and I was heartbroken about it. Finally, a few minutes before the end of the day, I asked him if he could talk to me after school for a bit. Mondays I sponsor the school newspaper, so he hung around while I got my writers going.

Once everyone was writing, I asked him if he'd thought about what we'd talked about.

He had.

What had he decided?

He still wanted to do it.

....Do what? Quit? Or start staying to work again?

Wanted to stay. Wanted to pass. Wanted to succeed. Apologized for acting like a tool before break. Had a plan for work for the rest of the week. Will be ready to go tomorrow.

I'm so relieved.