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)

Triumph is mine.

Triumph (n): the joy or exultation of victory or success.

Example: when a self-professed hater of reading reads a book of poetry in two days, and then today, begs to continue independent reading because his book is so tight, and squeals in delight when given permission to read for another ten minutes.

Reading for the win - but Motormouth is the victor.

A pause to say goodbye.

We have three days left. Three days to get through, to try to keep them focused, to do some sort of learning and not just completely give up on everything.

They're losing it a little bit. Honestly, some of them, more than a little bit. It's not just the end-of-term-right-before-a-long-break-with-little-stability that we usually get at this time of year (because we do - ohhhh did my 8th period get wacky last year), it's that it's basically the end of a school year. When we come back, kids are going to be in new classes with at least some new teachers. They may or may not have classes with their friends. They may or may not have classes with the teachers they like and respect. They're beyond apprehensive about this change - some of them are flat out terrified. And so they're acting out.

I can't really blame them. I'm nervous too. But we're going to get through the next three days. We're going to finish our current unit (commentaries, which they are rocking), and we're going to have a celebration of the year. We're going to stay in class, and learn, and grow, and share, and we're going to feel better for it.

In every class over the last week or so, I've taken a class picture. I'm going to get copies made and give each student one. We'll honor what we've done and who we've been before we move on. The new might be just as good - for some students, it might be better. But we need to say goodbye to the old before we can consider welcoming the new.

(Photo credit to Peter Kaminski)

Sure isn't.

"Well, it's never dull." Thus spake Ricochet at the end of a post detailing some class/student turmoil. I read it and thought wistfully, Boy, but wouldn't it be nice if it was? Just for a few days? Just once in a while?

Today I:

made a social services call (first of this year but certainly not the last);

tried to convince some of my colleagues that a new student probably deserves a chance and some assistance to help him fit into our school before we simply throw up our hands, declare he's hopeless, and look to expelling him (yep, he's acting like a little shit, but he's clearly a troubled kid who needs some help, and we can't just throw kids away - we're not a charter school, after all);

learned that the Charmer has moved schools again, though he apparently tried to call me yesterday before he did (I got the contact info for his grandparents, his new guardians, and am working on getting in touch with them);

talked to a student about why it's not his fault that another student got beaten up (which it really truly isn't, but he sure doesn't believe that yet);

talked to another student about why social services came to talk to her (because of a really, really, really horrible thing that happened to her little sister;

persuaded a student with broken ribs to go to the doctor (yay football injuries!);

harangued four kids into staying after school and getting enough work done to move from high Fs to very low Cs (ah, the beauty of completing assessments that you'd started and just hadn't taken to publication...it's like magic!);

and.....huh. Guess that's it for the day. Oh, and did some teaching and grading and stuff.

Never, ever, EVER dull.

(Photo credit to Kapungo) (Okay, can't get it to upload. Will try again later. But theoretically credit is to Kapungo!)

Bellwether.

Tracey at Walking the Dog posted a bit ago about how great the group dynamic is with her current students. (And they do sound delightful.) She ended her post with:

I'm curious though: how does that happen? How does one group develop characteristics different than another, even though the members of each are very similar? Where does a group dynamic come from? Not that I'm complaining, mind you.

I've thought about this a bit, and I have a theory. The group has a bellwether.

A bellwether is basically a leader - someone (or something) who is cutting edge, a trendsetter. The term comes from shepherds putting a bell around the neck of a ram leading a flock, so the flock could be heard before they could be seen.

Tracey's kids right now have a bellwether among them, and that person is a great kid. And because that great kid is a leader, all the other kids are following that student in that positive direction. It's a good situation to be in.

Last year, we had a bellwether in my core. Ours wasn't the positive influence that one might have hoped, though. He was suspected of (or had confirmed involvement in) a number of things, some of which included being a gang member who was actively recruiting; committing three different felonies (going back to fourth grade - FOURTH GRADE!); cutting school repeatedly; being sexually active; beating the crap out of a kid in the bathroom; jumping up on top of desks and running across them while screaming at a para.....the list goes on and on.

In classes, when a teacher gave instructions, kids would look at him to see what he was going to do. If he was doing the work, they would do the work. If he just sat, they just sat. If he started talking about how dumb it was....you get the picture.

For whatever reason, he decided he liked me and he liked my class. So in my room, he always did what he was supposed to and he'd actually harangue other kids into doing it too. "Whaddaya mean you don't have a pencil? That's so dumb. You gotta come to class with a pencil!" He'd shake his head as the unprepared kid would hunch down and frantically paw through a backpack. Or, "We started the warmup like an hour ago! You can't just sit there!" as the student in question would scramble to catch up. He'd even stay after school to do work that he was behind on (you miss a lot of work when you're hanging out in the park or having parties rather than coming to school). He had a pretty steady C for me, same in gym - Fs in everything else.

Around February, his schedule was changed. An issue of him getting the appropriate services. (Sounds so familiar....) He was moved out of my class. By the end of the year, he failed every single class. I was sorry to lose him, and not just because he was actually fairly successful in my class. As that bellwether, he'd had a lot of influence on the other students who were so desperate for his approval. When he left, it took us a good couple months to get back to the point where everyone did what they needed to do - at first, they were all just terribly confused.

One kid can change everything. It's nice when they start out as a good influence, but you at least gotta figure out who that one kid is and get them on your side.

Student Connections Outside of the Classroom

I ran into a friend at the neighborhood farmer's market this morning. She asked how my year was going.

I paused. "Overall, good," I said, "but....it's a little overwhelming at times."

She nodded. "I saw your Facebook post a few weeks ago about how tired you are."

A few weeks ago was the last time I updated there. I'm so busy I don't have time for Facebook anymore (which, really, isn't all that bad). I'm still reading blogs, because I love them and they rejuvenate me, but this year is just tough. New curriculum, new teaching format, new way of working with special education, new kids (though not all - it's fabulous to have a bunch of kids I already know), new school-wide schedule....ack. It's hard.

Last Wednesday, I was tired. TIIIIIIIIIRED. I wanted nothing more at the end of the day than to go home and not even think about school till the next morning. But two students had asked me to go to the football game, and so I dragged myself up to the school we were playing and cheered for our guys.

Y'all, it was so worth it.

The kids were SO excited to see me. The ones who had asked me to come were so proud that I'd shown up and the others were so delighted to have a teacher there cheering them on. They bragged about their plays, dissected the other team's weaknesses, gave credit to teammates who'd done something well....it was awesome. Plus I got to meet three sets of parents I'd never met or spoken to before, including the family of a boy I had two years ago as well as this year. It was nice to see how much they love their kids and how proud they are when the kids do well, especially if it's a kid who doesn't always do that well in my content. The next day, I had kids I barely know coming up to me and commenting on me being there.

This is not sports-exclusive. Same thing happened last year at the band concerts I attended.

I know a lot of people attend events anyway, and I know all of us are freakin' exhausted at the end of the day, but I just wanted to encourage everyone to go to a game here, a concert there. It's totally, totally worth it for the connections to the kids and the families.

(Photo credit to Jimmy MacDonald)

Who can you talk to?

Yesterday I was feeling a little discouraged. I'd had a few seventh graders come into my room after school to chat, two of whom I'd had last year, and a friend of theirs.

Not totally sure how they got on this subject, but they decided to spend a while telling me about how much THEY like me, despite the fact that everyone ELSE didn't. They listed off a handful of kids who apparently think I'm super mean.

Of the kids they listed, I know for a fact that three of the five do like me, or at least do most of the time (and I'm fairly sure the other two do, though one is currently thoroughly annoyed with me because I won't let her feel up her boyfriend in the hallway - dude, I AM super mean), but it's still sort of a downer to be told otherwise. Plus I'd had a run in earlier with a kid over her attitude, and one of my favorites (Motormouth) just would.not.do.anything in class. He was the whiniest I've ever seen him. So I was a little blah.

Today I got two new students. One seems very nice, though she cried a lot (moved over a thousand miles, first move ever, happened because stepdad got fired, just generally freaked out), but the other....may be more challenging. I'm pretty sure he and I will be able to get along eventually, but I think we're going to have some conversations in the meantime.

We had five conversations just today - one at lunch and then four during class. He was not as amenable to redirection as one would hope on his first damn day (really? You're going to just put your head down on your desk during my class? While I'm standing right next to you? Really?) though he did seem to sort of reach out at one point.

I was having conversation #4 with him, about how it's really not okay to just tell the whole class how boring writing is. To which he replied that that's just how he is, he says everything's boring, even football. My (possibly charitable) interpretation is that means that he says even really fun stuff is boring so I shouldn't take it personally that writing is boring because he didn't intend to be rude.

After class, he was ambling down the hall. I glanced that direction and saw a large group of boys. Soon as I saw them, I knew. A fight was brewing. You know how you can just tell, from the way some are leaning in, some are inching back, the set of their shoulders, the tilt of their head?

So I yelled for the other kid involved to come talk to me. I know him, but not well - I worked with him after school a couple of times two years ago, and I've seen him play sports (he's a hell of a running back), but I've never had him in class.

RB came over, looking back the whole way, and I asked what was up. He said that my new boy, the Antagonizer, was claiming that he'd made RB cry in a football game the week before.

I pointed out (a) no one knows this kid or gives a crap what he says, (b) RB is pretty damn popular and the school's star athlete, so what are the odds anyone will listen to this jerk, and (c) RB is having a really good year so far and shouldn't mess it up over some punk.

I asked him if the Antagonizer was worth getting suspended over.

No, he wasn't.

Okay, good. So who was RB going to talk to if this kid upset him? Who could he go to so that he can get through this without getting in trouble?

He shrugged. Didn't know.

"Well, who do you trust? What teacher or administrator do you know well enough to talk to?"

"You, Ms. Teachin'."

Oh. Okay. "Then you come talk to me. Whatever the issue with this kid, you come talk to me instead of getting into it with him. Will you do that?"

He nodded, and I wrote him a pass to class. I'm not sure he'll do it every time, but I think he'll try.

They must not ALL think I'm super mean.

(Photo credit to vagawi)

Homework: The New Hotness or the New Level of Hell?

Homework. To assign or not to assign: that IS the question, isn't it.

It's a touchy subject; people have remarkable strong feelings on both sides of the divide. Personally, I'm torn.

My homework policy is pretty much, "If you don't do it at home, I reserve the right to have you do it at school on your own time." I am trying really hard this year to make homework stuff that they can't do at school, work that actually needs to be done outside of school hours, so that I'm not assigning homework for homework's sake but rather am assigning it to actually support our work in class. The letter of introduction certainly could have been done in class; that one was just to get the year started with the expectation of doing homework. So, totally antithetical to what I'm actually trying to do with homework. :/ And yet, GREAT return rate. Over 90%.

The next assignment? They had to go someplace they've been before, someplace they spend a lot of time but not inside their home, and write for fifteen minutes. The goal was to focus on using sensory details and creating a sense of setting. That assignment had around a 70% return rate on the day it was due. That's better than I normally get at the beginning of the year, but still pretty mediocre. And that one needed to be done outside of class; inside the classroom would have given far more limited results. But they didn't do it. (By the third day after it was due, all but three kids had completed it. Those three stayed after school that day. We trucked outside and found a place to sit; I chose a spot where a lot of students, parents and teachers would pass us as they left. The three sat there and did the assignment as I told any interested onlookers why they were there. Don't like the publicity? Next time, do your homework on your own time.)

Maybe it's because the letter was about them - their lives, their interests, their goals. Maybe it was because that was the second day of school and they were trying to impress me. (Totally worked, if so. How do we get back to that?) Maybe my sensory assignment wasn't clear enough for them to really understand. Maybe they felt uncomfortable having to go someplace to write - maybe the public nature of it made them feel weird.

I get not wanting to do homework. As a high school freshman, I almost failed math because I didn't do my homework. I got As or Bs on all the tests, so I didn't see the point in doing the practice. If I didn't really need the practice, why waste the time? And I still feel that way, to large extent. On the other hand, I had to figure it out eventually, because that's how the world works. In high school, in college, in the workplace, most people have to do work at home at some point or another. So the sooner kids learn how to manage their time and motivate themselves to do things just because they have to, even if they don't want to, the easier it is in the long run. But it's not fun, and I know that.

No matter what, though, I need them to do homework. Two reasons. First, because there are some things we just can't do in the school day, and they need those life writing experiences to support their school writing. That's how writing workshop works.

And second, because they're eighth graders. Next year they're going to high school. They need to be equipped to succeed in high school, and when we asked some high school teachers what they wanted out of honors students specifically, they said, "Kids who do their homework." I'm sure there's more to it than that, but that was the number one request. I want my kids to be ready for high school success. They NEED to be ready for high school success. Thus we need to do homework.

They might not like it; I won't always like it. But we'll do it.

What do you think about homework? How often do you assign it? How do you deal with kids who don't do it?

(Photo credit to Rennett Stowe)

The Stress of a New School Year

I realized today that a new school year is quickly approaching.

Seems like that should not have been a surprise, right? Pretty expected that as summer comes to an end, a new year correspondingly approaches (yes, I know that for many of you, summer goes till Labor Day - I have till mid August), and yet, it was a shocker.

I was at a baseball game with teacher friends at the time. We'd been talking about a variety of topics (the delightfulness of pedicures, why that guy a few rows down was wearing such a definitively unattractive shirt, my overuse of the word delightful) when one of my friends mentioned that she was feeling stressed about the new year. She's going to have three and a half preps and is unenthused, especially as she reports back next week and just learned about this yesterday.

And as I sat there and commisserated with her, I suddenly thought, hey. I have a new year starting soon too. I have to build new relationships with kids too. I have to get to know IEPs and figure out differentiation and learn how to work with my school's new admin and prep for a new grade level and find new model texts and figure out my room layout and learn a new software grading system that we're adopting and try to implement a pilot advisory program and reorganize my classroom library and and and and and.

Mild panic attack in the middle of the game, there.

But I worked through it quickly. I think the issue is that I loved last year so much. So so so much. It was such a great year - not to say I couldn't do better in some areas, but it really was delightful and it ended on such a positive note. So I'm a liiiiiiiiiiiittle nervous that this year won't live up to last. Maybe it won't, but it'll definitely have some great pieces to it.

Mostly I'm super excited for next year - since I'm going to 8th grade I'll have some kids I had two years ago, and I loved those guys, so that'll be fun. Plus I'll get to see my kids from last year again and catch up with them, and THAT'LL be fun. I hear good things about our new admin, I'm really excited to work with the other 8th grade Language Arts teacher because she's a rock star, I have a friend who's offered to share some of the model texts she's found with me, I'll almost certainly do cooperative learning pods because that's how I roll....it's all gonna be fine. It'll be busy, and overwhelming, and stressful, and exciting, and awesome. And I believe that.

And I'm going to keep believing that every day until the end of next summer. When it'll start all over again.

(Photo credit to Stephen Edmonds.)

MySpace, Facebook, and Student Boundaries

I’ve been meaning to write about MySpace and Facebook in connection with students for a while. I have accounts on both, and have for quite a while. Facebook I actively use, while MySpace I use only on rare occasion to keep in touch with a couple of friends. But I don’t friend students on either.

When a kid finds me on MySpace (my kids don’t use Facebook as far as I can tell), my response is to tell them that I don’t friend students on the site because I’m not their friend, I’m their teacher, and I think it’s important to have a distinction between the two. “However,” I add, “if I did friend students on MySpace, I would totally friend YOU.” That apparently makes sixth graders feel special enough that they’re cool with the policy, and it’s true. Because if I friended anyone, I’d friend everyone, and that would include them. :)

Some of my former students have pushed a little more after I’ve given them my spiel. They say, “But Ms. Teachin’, we’re not your students anymore! So we can be friends!” These are seventh graders. Because one year removed is so clearly different.

To that, I remind them of my responsibility to report information that I consider one of the big three (hurting self or others or being hurt) and then I ask them if they really want me looking at their pages. They always shut up real fast then.

I do add that if they ever have anything going on that they’re worried about or excited about, they can always come talk to me in person, but that I just don’t want to cross that cyberspace line. They seem to get it, and some have then come to take me up on the offer.

To me, if a kid asks to be my friend on MySpace, it’s a compliment – they like me enough to add me to whatever their little social networking world is. I don’t think they’ve necessarily thought the possible repercussions through (as evidenced in this recent letter to the NYTimes’ The Ethicist [and the position the teacher ended up in? Exactly why I don't do it] and then discussed extensively at Joanne Jacobs), and so it’s my responsibility as an adult to remind them of some of the consequences to posting personal information on the internet. I’m hoping this year to incorporate website and internet usage more into class this year, so I’ll probably do a specific lesson or two on internet safety and privacy. They could use it.

One more thing on MySpace, though – through the Facebook discussion at Joanne Jacobs, I found the best teacher MySpace site I have ever seen. His profile explains that he became a teacher to escape his ninja past, and includes a story about a sixth grade girl who was secretly a ninja assassin armed with a Pokemon pencil. Totally hilarious and awesome. If I were going to friend students on MySpace, I’d want to be as badass as Mr. Wright.

Clarity in the classroom.

So. Why they bought in after that day in a way that felt distinctly different. Why they surrounded me and hugged me repeatedly on the last day of school. Why one sweet girl brought me a cake. Why Slick spent his whole first day of summer vacation helping me move my classroom.

I’m going to talk about me with this because I believe that I’m the determining factor in my classroom; I’m the leader and the responsibility for creating this kind of community rests with me. Could I have done it without my students’ full involvement? Absolutely not. But it would never have happened without mine, and they buy in (or don’t) because of me.

I think…it was a lot of things. I was honest. I told them that it hurts to see a kid deteriorate and that I wish I could change things. I was protective of them, explaining that makes me angry when adults speak badly about students. I was vulnerable, sharing with them that it’s hard to not feel like I should give even more when I watch these types of movies. I listened to their ideas, going against my usual seminar rules to answer their questions at the end. I related to them, because I love the movie and so did they. I made it a safe space in which they could talk about their fears and hopes and experiences (like Smiley did another day after school). I honored their ideas by letting them talk about whatever they wanted that connected to the movie without me stepping in.

Every single one of those is an attitude I can, and I try to, express every day. But it doesn’t always happen, and that day it did. It all clicked, shifted into clarity all of a sudden like on a trip to the eye doctor as he fiddles with that strange sight machine (better on one…or two? Three…or four?), and our newfound vision lasted for the rest of the year.

I hope we can do it again next year.

(Photo credit to cheetah100)

Freedom Writers Socratic Seminar

When I said on Thursday I’d finish my post about how my class and I came together tomorrow, I obviously meant Monday. Right? Right.

This actually ties back to a previous post about the movie Freedom Writers. I’d mentioned that I’d shown my kids the movie and they’d been loving it, and that I was planning to finish with a Socratic seminar about the movie. Which I did. I gave them a little seminar pre-planner, nothing extensive, just to get them to think about it a bit and so they’d hopefully have something to say during the seminar – favorite part, least favorite part, anything they didn’t understand, and lessons they could take from the movie to apply to writing, school and life.

For the seminar itself, we started with everyone going around the circle and saying one word that connected to the movie in some way for them (which was so effective as an opening, by the way – I got the idea from a colleague and it rocked!), and then they started talking. We’ve done Socratic seminars before, though not too often, and they enjoy the process, but they’re still figuring it out, so I do get nervous about the whole thing. It’s that whole student-centered classroom in which I have to give up all control – it’s terrifying! But as per usual, they were rock stars and blew me away with their level of conversation and critical thinking about the movie and its issues.

The thing with seminars is they always want my opinion too. I like to flatter myself that it’s because they’re actually interested in what I think, but the odds are good that really they just want to listen to me ramble on rather than have to talk themselves – it’s easier.

And I don’t participate in seminars, as they know, but they were really insistent this time.

And I was nervous about how they would interpret Gruwell’s seventeen jobs to pay for everything in the world for her students.

And I wanted to make sure I wasn’t going to screw over their future teachers by leaving my kids with an expectation that a teacher can only be good by giving up everything personal to be a super teacher.

And so I broke my seminar rule about not talking, and I told them that at the end, I would give them five minutes and they could ask me anything they wanted about the movie and I would answer their questions.

And I did. My favorite part? The part where Gruwell is talking to one of her students who had stopped showing up to class when his brother was convicted for a crime he didn’t commit, and then when he does come back, he says all he deserves is an F. A lot of my kids like it too because she says his attitude is a big fuck you to her and his classmates, and she also uses the word balls, and sixth graders love to hear cursing (so taboo!), so they giggled when I said that, but I explained why I like it. As a teacher, I said, it’s so hard when you see a kid falling apart and you are helpless to stop it. You try you talk to them, but you don’t always get through. I like this part, I said, because you can tell he hears her – you can tell she gets through.

(Is that moment Hollywoodized? Absolutely, and I didn’t address this with my kids – it wasn’t the time for it. But I still believe that if you have a relationship with a kid, even if his life is totally destroyed by forces outside your control, you can remind them that not everything is terrible and he can still overcome. And I have to believe that people can overcome disasters, because otherwise, many of my kids will not make it. They experience so much trauma in their lives that I have to believe in minor miracles because otherwise I’d just sit at home and cry all day every day.)

They nodded thoughtfully. Least favorite part, they asked? Easy. The way some of the other teachers talk about the kids – calling them thugs and criminals (I know some people think that part was overblown and heavy handed, and maybe it was for a movie, but I’ve heard some colleagues use those terms about my kids). I went on. When Ms. G. says to another teacher that he can’t teach them because he doesn’t even like them, and he responds by asking what that has to do with teaching…oh, that part breaks my heart, I said. Liking your students has everything to do with teaching. And then I took the opportunity to be vulnerable to them.

“I think you know I love you,” I said to them, and some nodded while some just listened. “I want what’s best for you. I want you to have every opportunity to be whatever you want to be, just like Ms. G. wanted for her kids. But teaching like she did…it’s not realistic. She taught for four years and she quit. I don’t want to quit after four years – I want to teach forever. So I can’t have three jobs. I wouldn’t be a good teacher if I was personally miserable, which I would be if I lived like her. She got divorced over it.”

I paused and looked at them. Socratic seminars offer a different perspective – sitting in the group, at their level, rather than standing at the front, and it felt so appropriate for this conversation. I continued, “Every teacher I know spends their own money on the classroom. You know that. But we can’t do it like she does, because we don’t want to only be there for one group of kids and then leave. We’re in it for the long haul. So I love this movie, but I don’t like that part of it either.”

After that day, five weeks or so before the end of the year, they were with me. Pretty much every moment of every class, they were with me with whatever we did, on my side, in our lessons, in it together.

I’ll talk about why I think that was tomorrow (real tomorrow! Not fake four-days-from-now tomorrow).

(Photo credit to 9 TM)

Show and tell

Rachel left a comment yesterday that got me thinking. She said, “I think my students know that I care about them and want them to do well...but I'm just not as gregarious as [another teacher] is, so they gravitate towards her. I'm coming to terms with this.”

It sucks to feel that you aren't as well-liked as other teachers. Which I know, because that was totally how I felt during my first year teaching; Ms. Reading was way more popular than I was, for a variety of reasons, and it was really discouraging for a while. But I managed to change that, especially this year. I think this happened for two reasons: the first was that I became more explicit in talking to them about why I do what I do, and why it matters, because everything I do (or almost everything – nobody's perfect) is to help them succeed. The second was that I showed them by giving them my time. Explaining and demonstrating that to them changed the tenor in my room dramatically.

When I think about when that happened, two main moments come into my mind. I'll write about the second in a different post, but the first was right before winter break. My kids tend to fall apart a bit before long holidays because their home lives aren't all very secure, so they start acting out and being even bigger whack jobs than usual. I'd been cracking down on the behavior because I wasn't willing to let my classes completely unravel just because they were going to have two weeks away; frankly, if home is unsafe, they need school to be that much safer. But because of that, none of us were enjoying class as much as usual.

The Wednesday night before winter break started, I spent two hours baking cookies – nothing complicated, shortbread spread with chocolate, and small, a little bigger than one of the old half dollar coins. I made 150, enough for each of my kids and a few extra for others who might ask.

The next day, I gave each student a cookie on their way into class. I didn't let them bite in right away; they had to wait. We used the cookies for a warm up on sensory details, and then I talked to them about the other reason I'd made them cookies.

I told them that I knew I'd been pretty strict recently and that class had been difficult at times. I talked about why, that I was worried about the behaviors I'd seen and we still had a lot of work to do that we couldn't get through when people were being obnoxious, and so I couldn't have that going on. But, I added, that didn't mean I didn't care about them. I said that I loved them all and I wanted them to succeed because they deserved that. I told them that I wanted them to have every chance in life to do whatever they wanted, that it was my job to help them get there and that I felt so lucky to have that opportunity to help them. I explained that I didn't enjoy being so strict, but that I'd enjoy it even less if they someday were limited in their options because they hadn't learned enough to succeed, and so we were going to learn as much as possible together, and if I had to be strict to get there, so be it.

I said that was why I had spent two hours baking them cookies to eat and to use in class; I wanted to remind them that I loved them but that they needed an education to be successful.

I truly believe that being so explicit with them helped tremendously. They got it. They understood exactly what I meant.

But I also believe that the additional time I put into them by baking cookies helped. It wasn't monetarily expensive to make the cookies but it did take time that is outside of my contract hours, and the kids know that's a valuable commodity. My kids might know that better than most, in fact; my kids don't come from families in which the world revolves around their adolescent schedules. My kids have parents with two jobs, sometimes at night, younger brothers and sisters who need caretaking, families who can't or won't drive them to sports practices, finances that won't allow for piano or swimming lessons. So my kids know that when someone takes time out of their day to do something for someone else, that matters.

I know that I don't have the same encumbrances on my time that teachers with families do; I'm married, but I don't have my own children yet, and my husband is very understanding when I stay late. I understand that everyone has to make their own decisions about priorities. But I see how much it matters to them when I'm there, I see the light in their eyes when they see me and the glow on their faces as they bashfully shrug off my congratulations afterward. So I go to after school events – band concerts, basketball games, spelling bees. Not all of them, but I go to at least one type of each event that I have kids in. Again, everyone has their own priorities, but for me, this has really helped.

Tomorrow I'll write about the other time that really solidified us as a family.

(Photo credit to The Scott)

Being liked

Recently I was hanging out with a friend who's also a teacher. We were talking about a variety of teaching stuff, as we are wont to do, when the conversation turned to teacher popularity. Both of us tend to be pretty well-liked (though I was definitely more popular this year than last year), and we've both had colleagues make disparaging remarks about us for that, saying that it's because our classes are easy.

And you know, I really resent that. My class is not easy – my kids work their butts off for me. I just find ways to make it fun (sometimes, at least), and I talk to them about why we're doing what we're doing, and why it matters for them. I also tell them explicitly that their success matters to me, and that I care about them. I praise them regularly, and I talk to them about their lives. Sometimes I reward them with their choice of candy, pencils, or PBS Bucks (Positive Behavior Support, not the Public Broadcasting System) for them doing well on something, or just because. I greet them in the hallways and I laugh at their jokes. When they're struggling, we talk about why they're having trouble and I ask them to come in after school or at lunch for help. If they don't do it on their own, I go and find them in the lunchroom and bring them with me. I let them come into my room at lunch to play games or talk or use the computers. We have fun together, and they know I love them, and that's why they like me, NOT because my class is easy.

I believe it's okay to be liked by my students. It means they try harder for me. It means they're more comfortable talking to me about their problems, which helps me understand them where they're coming from and how that impacts their schoolwork. It means that I can use our relationship to encourage them to do better or to express my disappointment when they fall apart. It means that I don't have management issues with some kids who tear other classes apart.

Yesterday was my first official mentoring meeting with the Charmer. He and I talked for a while, some about his issues with school, some about the world in general.

My favorite part of the conversation came when we were discussing how one of his teachers believes that I fix problems for him. I was trying to figure out how to explain that a lot of teachers prefer a more formal approach, that they don't feel comfortable giving up their personal time (lunch, or after school, or what have you) and that that's okay, though it's not how I work. So I started with, “You know, some people think I'm overinvolved with my students--”

“You are,” he interrupted.

I looked at him, flummoxed. Because, um, plenty of people would probably consider me mentoring him to be overinvolvement. And perhaps he did too and this was his way of letting me know. I tried to figure out how to respond, as he continued.

“That's not a bad thing, though. You just care about your students more, and you spend time with them, and you get to know them better.”

Clearly my friend here didn't understand the prefix “over”, as the implication in its use (or not even implication, but flat out meaning) was that I was too involved, but rather than start critiquing his use of the English language, I felt it would be more productive to just address what he was talking about and bring it back to my original intent in the conversation. “Right, but it takes a lot of time to do that--”

Interrupted again. “But that's what makes you more dedicated. That's what makes you a better teacher than them.” I smiled at that and thanked him. He continued, “Honestly, I think they're just jealous because kids like you more and like your class more and they don't have that.”

Don't you love it when they suck up like that? And when they totally validate your own feelings on a subject?

When the Charmer, his mom and I all sat down last week, his mom ended the conversation by saying, “You know, I can see how you're the type of teacher that students just love.” I laughed and said something about how there were plenty of kids who wouldn't agree with that statement (I am, after all, a big fat meanie), but I really don't think it's a problem to be liked. It makes my life and their lives easier, and isn't that a good thing in the end?

(Photo credit to dhammza, http://www.flickr.com/photos/dhammza/1381101959/)

Speak No Evil

I’ve been the sponsor of the school newspaper for the last two years. It’s been mostly sixth graders participating, I assume both because I taught sixth grade and because sixth graders aren’t allowed to play team sports, but I did have a handful of seventh graders this year. Two were especially fabulous and served as the editors, working with other kids to come up with story ideas, proofread, do some layout stuff…they were great. To thank them, I was going to buy them lunch at the end of the year, but it never ended up happening (other events, absences, etc, all got in the way). So we’re going to lunch tomorrow, except that I just found out that only one of them is coming. The other isn’t allowed. Why? Ah, that’s the awesome part.

These two girls (let’s call them the Chatterbox [like any middle school girl, really] and Miss Opinion [because she always has one]) have been best friends since they got to know each other at the beginning of their sixth grade year – through their mutual interest in the school newspaper, in fact!

But, because they are teen girls, they have had a number of knock-down-drag-out-crying-screaming-mean-text-messaging-and-emailing fights over the past two years. Periodically I hear about them, as I’m close with both girls and they come have lunch with me sometimes. I’m especially close with the Chatterbox, though, and she came to me for advice about something one day after school a few months ago. She’d been chatting about this and that for bit but I could tell something else was up. I assumed another fight with Miss Opinion and said as much.

“Not a fight exactly. Just…I don’t know if I can be her friend anymore.”

Usually when they fight, they are both filled with righteous indignation over how dreadfully wronged (wronged!) they have been by the other, and oh, how could she do such a thing?!? They rant and yell and talk so fast you can hardly understand a word. This was different. The Chatterbox was quiet, fidgety, sad. “How come?” I asked.

“Well…I don’t know if I should tell you.”

“Okay,” I said, and went back to grading papers. I hear about enough middle school drama without asking for more, so I wasn’t going to beg her here.

After a minute, though, “I mean, I guess I can tell you. Just don’t tell anyone else.”

“Honey, you know I can’t promise that [I tell all my kids that I have to report three things: if they’re hurting themselves, if they’re hurting someone else, or if someone else is hurting them, and that I interpret those issues loosely, but that I’m always happy to listen, as long as they understand those base rules]. But if I can avoid reporting it, I will.”

“It’s not anything like that. It’s just that she’s been calling people something that I find really offensive.”

Interesting. “What is it?”

“Spic.”

Now, Miss Opinion is white; the Chatterbox is Latina. So I can see why she’d find it offensive that her best friend is using a derogatory term like that. I kept my voice calm. “Is she calling you that?”

“No! But she doesn’t get why it bothers me.”

“She…doesn’t get why it bothers you? She doesn’t understand that?”

“No. Well, see, she thinks it means illegal immigrant, not just Hispanic.”

“WHY does she think that?”

“Because that’s what her mom told her. Her mom has like a really big problem with illegals and she talks about them all the time and whatever, but I keep telling Miss Opinion that it means Hispanic – I even wrote it down on a napkin at lunch and showed her the letters – and she just doesn’t believe me, and it’s really bothering me.”

I know Miss Opinion’s mom slightly from conferences and stuff, and I’d always liked her, and I knew she had Latino friends, so this was a bit of a shock. And I had no idea what to do. “Well…I…um…do you want me to talk to her with you about this? I mean, I can…I just don’t know if it will do any good.”

“She won’t believe you either. It’s not like it’s a word in the dictionary or something.”

Ah, that was an idea. I grabbed a dictionary from behind my desk and started thumbing through. “Yep, here it is.”

The Chatterbox ran over and looked. She thought for a sec. “No…I don’t want to. Don’t tell her I told you, okay?” I agreed, and the matter passed.

A few weeks later, the Chatterbox burst into my room. “Okay, yes, I need to talk to her about it and I need your help!”

I looked at her blankly. “What?”

She stared back. “Spic?!?!?!?” Like, “Duh, how could you possibly not know exactly what I’m talking about at any given moment? Obviously that’s it!”

Right. “Um…okay.” We agreed on lunch that day, then I hightailed it on up to the counselor to ask if this was something I was okay to talk about with a kid (when I told her the issue, she was horrified and stunned, and thanked me for being willing to be part of a conversation about it rather than just letting Miss Opinion eventually get her ass kicked by saying it to the wrong kid, so that was that).

At lunch, the Chatterbox brought it up. “So it really bugs me when you use the word spic.”

Miss Opinion immediately started shaking her head. “It doesn’t mean Hispanic, I asked my mom, and it doesn’t.”

The Chatterbox looked at me and I stepped in. “Actually, Miss Opinion, it does.” I pulled out the dictionary and showed her the definition.

She was silent for a moment, staring at it. “Well…that’s not what I thought it meant.”

“I know. I believe that you didn’t think it meant that, but it does, and either way, it’s not a nice word. Would you go around using the n-word?”

“No, of course not!” She was truly huffy about that.

“Same thing, honey. You can’t say it. It’s not nice, and it’s going to get you in trouble someday if someone hears you say it and doesn’t appreciate it.”

“Well…fine. I didn’t know, though.”

“I know. Just…don’t say it anymore.”

The Chatterbox came to talk to me the next day. “Well, now she’s not really mad at me but her mom is.”

“For being offended by that word?”

“For telling you. Her mom doesn’t like anyone in her business and she said I got you in her business and she’ll never forgive that.”

“Are you sorry you told me?”

The Chatterbox thought for a minute. “No. I’m glad I stood up for what I knew was right. I just wish it wasn’t so hard sometimes.”

“I know.”

And THAT’S why Miss Opinion isn’t allowed to go to lunch with me; because I told her daughter not to use racial slurs.

I’m sorry I can’t take this girl out to lunch, because she really is a nice kid when she’s not parroting back her mother’s racist filth, but I’m not sorry I stepped in. Because I find that word offensive too, and hopefully hearing that it’s not okay from another white person might have some impact on Miss Opinion, and maybe she’ll think twice before she uses it again.

(Photo credit to The Rocketeer, http://www.flickr.com/photos/kt/309783238/)

A different memorial.

Today’s Memorial Day, a day in which we remember those who have given their lives to protect our country. I am deeply grateful for their dedication and sacrifice, but today I’ve been working on a different kind of memorial. I spent pretty much the whooooooole day writing end-of-year notes to my kids. They’re not long, just three or four sentences and they take about three minutes each to write, but when you’ve got 119 kids, that adds up. Fast.

I meant to start them earlier in the week but kinda forgot, and then I meant to start Saturday morning but kinda procrastinated (I did spend three hours grading on Saturday, so it’s not like I was just, y’know, enjoying my personal free time or something crazy like that), and then I meant to do them yesterday but only got through about fifteen of them, and then this morning, there it was. So I spent the day watching movies and basketball and writing my cheerful little letters.

The point of the letters is to focus on something the kids are good at so that they end the year on a positive note and have a good memory with which to start the summer. To show that they’re seen, as individuals, as someone who matters with individual characteristics that make them different and special. Sometimes I write about content-based stuff, but mostly I focus on personal qualities: hard work, good attitude, sense of humor, loyalty, etc. Traits that can translate to most areas of life.

I started it last year because I had a teacher who wrote me and all my classmates year end notes when I was in high school, and it was incredibly meaningful to me. I think most of my kids really appreciate it; last year I found one in the hallway that a student had dropped, and when I returned it to him, he thanked me profusely and said he’d been worried that he’d lost it. Maybe some couldn’t care less, but no one likes those kids anyway. Kidding, kidding! Probably.

Over the course of the day I managed to get almost all of them done. Then my hand started cramping up, so the last ten are going to have to wait until tomorrow.

I’m kind of excited to give them out. And I hope that the men and women who gave so much would appreciate that instead of just barbequing today, I worked on improving the lives and self-esteem of many of those for whom the sacrifices were made.

Cry me a river.

My new thing that I say to kids when they have a random complaint or problem that they express in the form of a statement.

“Huh. Sad story.”

The point I’m trying to get across is that bitching isn’t going to get them anywhere. Y’all, if you need some damn help, ASK FOR IT. Don’t just tell someone that something’s wrong and expect them to dropeverythingnownownow to fix your mess.

Yes, you’re a delicate tulip whose very existence brightens my day and I probably should want to leap to your assistance at the change of a breeze (What? A mud puddle? Here, my child, let me drape my jean jacket over it to keep your Jordans from being soiled…) But, um, so are my other 125 students. And I’m not actually psychic (though, dude, it would be soooooooo useful if I were….oh, the crazy stories I could see through to the truth) so I need you to USE YOUR WORDS AND ASK ME FOR WHAT YOU NEED.

So now, when I say it, I get a variety of responses. Some laugh and say, “I know, right?” Some rephrase right away to a question. Sometimes they just look at me. And don’t get me wrong, I love my kids and I want to help them, so if the phrase “sad story” gets a blank stare, I add, “What’re you going to do about it?” That cues them that I need some more before we’re going anywhere with this situation.

But they need to learn to ask for help instead of demanding it, and in the meantime, doing it this way keeps me entertained.

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.

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.

Can I do that?

We finished watching Freedom Writers on Monday, but because we got a surprise snowstorm, attendance was low, so I’ve been playing the end of the movie at lunch for the kids who were gone.

The movie ends at the close of sophomore year, when the students find out that they’re going to stay together for junior and senior year too, and will have Ms. Gruwell as a teacher again. It’s a triumphant moment for them, and very sweet to watch because they’re all so excited. You feel how much they love her, and how much they love each other. It's really nice.

After the movie ended and I turned the lights back on, a student turned to me. “Can YOU do that?”

“Can I do what?”

“Go with us to seventh grade.”

I explained that my school doesn’t work that way, that though I’d love to, it’s just not how we do things. There would have to be an opening, and right now there isn’t one. He nodded, and another student asked me something else, and the moment passed. But.

Not everyone would feel that way, I know that. I’m sure plenty of my students will be delighted to move on to a new teacher and not have to deal with my temper and standards. But for the rest of the day, I felt a little crystal of joy in everything I did.