As luck would have it, I ran into another former student today, this time at Target. I guess it's not really that surprising that I should encounter people around town whom I once taught, I think my total student count runs to roughly 1500 at this point in my career, all educated in this same little 26 square miles of land that I also call home. I teach 11- and 12-year-olds, and so the oldest of my former students are 27 and 28, some with children of their own, and even though we live next to the big city, this county has a lot of small town left in it. I'm waiting for the day when I sit across the conference table from a parent who was once in my class. I know it will come.
Many of the kids I bump into are cashiers, and so, long ago, I had to get over any hang-ups about having them scan and bag my personal items. I don't think knowing that I may run into students or parents changes the way I behave when I'm out; I'm a pretty demur person to begin with (in public, anyway), but I'm shy, so even after all these years, there's still a little turtle impulse that makes me want to hide or pretend I don't see them. Sometimes it works, and sometimes it doesn't. When I'm the next person in line at Target, and we've already made eye-contact, there's some small talk a-comin'.
How different this interaction was from the one on Saturday: this guy called me by name right away, and I recognized him at once; his face hadn't lost its sixth grade softness. "How old are you, now?" I asked him, and he told me he was 20. He was from the same class that the other boy was from, but if I were ever to wish middle school amnesia on someone, he would have been a good candidate. He was so often in trouble for not doing his work and challenging the teachers' authority. Even so, I had to ask him, "Do you remember sixth grade?"
"Yep," he answered, "I do."
"But only the good stuff, right?" I resorted to humor.
"Well... not so much, actually," he answered honestly. "Those were some tough times."
"Yeah," I acknowledged.
"But I'm doing great now," he continued. "I've finished a couple years of college. I'm going to transfer to Georgetown." His voice was hearty, but there was something in his manner that made me doubt him. It reminded me of so many conversations we'd had. Oh yeah, my homework's done. I just don't have it with me. Still I was moved by this offering; he was trying to give me proof of his success, his redemption. I wanted to absolve him, absolve us both from that painful and unsuccessful stretch he did in middle school, but our transaction was over, and there was a line behind me.
"I'm so glad to hear it," I told him. "Take care."
"Did you find what you needed?" he said to the next customer as I pushed my cart away.
Not really, I thought.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Monday, April 20, 2009
Now, That's a Change
Here's what happened: I told my students that they could pick anything, and I truly meant that, anything, that bothered them for the Making a Difference: Writing for Change thing that we're doing in class. I wanted them to choose something they really cared about, whether it was about themselves, their family, friends, community, state, country, planet, whatever-- no issue was too big or too small for them to take a stand on, as long as it was authentic.
After brainstorming and freewriting and discussing, each student had identified an issue, and the next step was to research, particularly because one of my objectives was to encourage them to understand the problem before jumping to a solution. This is an idea that I have come lately to, because I am a problem-solver from way back. If something is wrong, I want to fix it right away and move on. I don't think I'm alone in this approach. Think about it; when a friend tells you she's tired, what's your response? If you're like me, it's to offer at least a half-dozen suggestions: Maybe you should go to bed earlier? Take a nap? Get some exercise? Cut back on caffeine? See a doctor? Tell your husband to get up with the kids next time? Usually, I'm all about the end game instead of looking at the big picture.
True, any one of my ever-so-excellent suggestions might be the answer to my friend's dilemma, but should she go by trial and error hoping to find the cure? Maybe if she took a bit more time to define the problem, the chances of finding a lasting solution would be greater, and in that case, to be a good and helpful friend, perhaps I could listen more carefully and ask questions before offering my litany of fixes. That's what I'm encouraging my students to do, too.
At the end of the pre-writing stage, they had an assortment of valid concerns ranging from gum under the table to global warming, but there was one problem that I simply could not accept. There are too many dumb shows on TV. Come on, I thought, just change the channel or read a book. What's the big deal? And I made that student use her second choice, because old habits die hard. At least that's what I realized later, when I tried to understand why I was troubled by my decision (but before I resolved to fix it by letting that student pursue her TV topic).
After brainstorming and freewriting and discussing, each student had identified an issue, and the next step was to research, particularly because one of my objectives was to encourage them to understand the problem before jumping to a solution. This is an idea that I have come lately to, because I am a problem-solver from way back. If something is wrong, I want to fix it right away and move on. I don't think I'm alone in this approach. Think about it; when a friend tells you she's tired, what's your response? If you're like me, it's to offer at least a half-dozen suggestions: Maybe you should go to bed earlier? Take a nap? Get some exercise? Cut back on caffeine? See a doctor? Tell your husband to get up with the kids next time? Usually, I'm all about the end game instead of looking at the big picture.
True, any one of my ever-so-excellent suggestions might be the answer to my friend's dilemma, but should she go by trial and error hoping to find the cure? Maybe if she took a bit more time to define the problem, the chances of finding a lasting solution would be greater, and in that case, to be a good and helpful friend, perhaps I could listen more carefully and ask questions before offering my litany of fixes. That's what I'm encouraging my students to do, too.
At the end of the pre-writing stage, they had an assortment of valid concerns ranging from gum under the table to global warming, but there was one problem that I simply could not accept. There are too many dumb shows on TV. Come on, I thought, just change the channel or read a book. What's the big deal? And I made that student use her second choice, because old habits die hard. At least that's what I realized later, when I tried to understand why I was troubled by my decision (but before I resolved to fix it by letting that student pursue her TV topic).
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Art and Life
We saw the movie American Violet today. Based on a true story, it involves a Texas D.A. who, working with the county sheriff's department, targeted Black residents of government-subsidized housing projects and arrested them in sweeping narcotics raids. Once imprisoned, they were offered a plea, often with no jail time, but which ultimately resulted in a felony conviction on their records. As a result of the conviction, these individuals lost the right to vote, access to welfare, WIC coupons, and food stamps, their jobs, and, in many cases, their homes. Most did not realize that these could be consequences of the plea-bargain when they made the choice. If they chose to fight the charges, which their public defenders recommended strongly against, their cases were backlogged, and because of exorbitant bail, they often were forced to remain in prison for months before ever seeing the inside of a court room. American Violet is the story of one young woman who was innocent and held out despite the personal hardship. Eventually, she became the lead plaintiff in an ACLU-assisted suit against the DA, the county, the sheriff and all his officers.
It's a good movie, and I saw it with two other teachers. All three of us are white, and we were properly outraged at the injustice depicted in the film. On the way home, we started talking about our African-American students, because at our schools, these kids are disproportionately represented when it comes to discipline. In the movie, the D.A. (who is ultimately unmasked as racist) is asked why, if African-Americans constitute less than half of the population of the county, they represent 85% of the drug convictions. "I guess they're just the ones using the drugs," he answers.
This is similar to what teachers say when asked about the discipline stats at our school. Those are just the kids who misbehave-- if a white kid acted like that, I'd write him up, too. I don't mean to imply intentional racism on the part of me and my colleagues, but I do think that we must be vigilant of our own biases and how they impact our students. Perhaps what we find tolerable and manageable is influenced by our culture and experience. What is considered to be youthful exuberance in one setting becomes disruptive behavior in another, and students who have little reason to trust established authority may not respond as quickly to our redirection as we would like. Because most of our teachers are white, such a dynamic might explain the inequity in discipline referrals.
As teachers, we cannot afford to be defensive; the stakes are too high. I once noticed a sign on a classroom wall that read, "An error does not become a mistake until you refuse to correct it." That's good advice for us all.
It's a good movie, and I saw it with two other teachers. All three of us are white, and we were properly outraged at the injustice depicted in the film. On the way home, we started talking about our African-American students, because at our schools, these kids are disproportionately represented when it comes to discipline. In the movie, the D.A. (who is ultimately unmasked as racist) is asked why, if African-Americans constitute less than half of the population of the county, they represent 85% of the drug convictions. "I guess they're just the ones using the drugs," he answers.
This is similar to what teachers say when asked about the discipline stats at our school. Those are just the kids who misbehave-- if a white kid acted like that, I'd write him up, too. I don't mean to imply intentional racism on the part of me and my colleagues, but I do think that we must be vigilant of our own biases and how they impact our students. Perhaps what we find tolerable and manageable is influenced by our culture and experience. What is considered to be youthful exuberance in one setting becomes disruptive behavior in another, and students who have little reason to trust established authority may not respond as quickly to our redirection as we would like. Because most of our teachers are white, such a dynamic might explain the inequity in discipline referrals.
As teachers, we cannot afford to be defensive; the stakes are too high. I once noticed a sign on a classroom wall that read, "An error does not become a mistake until you refuse to correct it." That's good advice for us all.
Saturday, April 18, 2009
A Lesson at the Grocery
I ran into a former student at the Whole Foods grocery market today. He was working in the vitamins and supplements, and I asked him to help me find something. He handed me the two items I needed and then turned around and asked if I was a teacher or something. I did what I always do when a person of a certain age asks me that question, I thanked my lucky stars for his name tag. "Adam," I said, and then pulled his last name from the dim recesses of my memory, grateful again, this time that my brain just happens to work like that. I forget a lot of things, but so far, I've never forgotten anyone from school. Sometimes I don't recognize them right away-- kids change a lot after sixth grade-- but I always remember them. The same thing could not be said for Adam. His face was so confused, that at first, I was worried I had the wrong name. "Am I mistaken?" I asked him.
"No, but how do you know me? What did you teach me?" Now it was my turn to be puzzled. Hadn't he initiated this conversation with me? But I told him, and he nodded. "You seemed a lot taller when I was in sixth grade," he said.
"But otherwise, I look exactly the same, right?" I teased him.
"To tell you the truth," he said, "I barely remember you." He furrowed his brow before he went on. "I think it was your voice or your mannerisms or something that seemed familiar." My chagrin, as mild as it was, clearly registered, because he hurried to continue, "I don't remember anything about sixth grade," as if that were a little better.
He only confirmed something that a colleague and I were talking about just the other day. We pour our hearts into these kids, worry about their educational experience every day and in every class, and in the end, most of them don't even have any conscious memory of it. "Think about," I'd said to her, "What do you remember from sixth grade?" She shrugged in agreement.
I told Adam as much, too, and again his eyebrows showed that he was thinking about it. "Maybe it's like bricks in a building," he said. "You can't see all of them, but they're important. I think you definitely helped make me who I am today, even if we're not sure how."
Well, I did teach him simile.
"No, but how do you know me? What did you teach me?" Now it was my turn to be puzzled. Hadn't he initiated this conversation with me? But I told him, and he nodded. "You seemed a lot taller when I was in sixth grade," he said.
"But otherwise, I look exactly the same, right?" I teased him.
"To tell you the truth," he said, "I barely remember you." He furrowed his brow before he went on. "I think it was your voice or your mannerisms or something that seemed familiar." My chagrin, as mild as it was, clearly registered, because he hurried to continue, "I don't remember anything about sixth grade," as if that were a little better.
He only confirmed something that a colleague and I were talking about just the other day. We pour our hearts into these kids, worry about their educational experience every day and in every class, and in the end, most of them don't even have any conscious memory of it. "Think about," I'd said to her, "What do you remember from sixth grade?" She shrugged in agreement.
I told Adam as much, too, and again his eyebrows showed that he was thinking about it. "Maybe it's like bricks in a building," he said. "You can't see all of them, but they're important. I think you definitely helped make me who I am today, even if we're not sure how."
Well, I did teach him simile.
Friday, April 17, 2009
The Dark Side of Middle School
"I don't need to have friends at school, I just want people to be nice to me."
These were the words of one of my homeroom students today as he spoke to me, his mom, and the counselor. He wasn't in school this morning, and it turned out that he had had a huge anxiety attack last night, brought on by a math quiz he felt unprepared for. When his mom e-mailed us about the incident, the counselor invited the two of them in at lunchtime to talk, and there we were.
He's definitely not a run of the mill kid. He is a straight-A student, serious (perhaps overly so) about his grades, and a superior athlete in a sport no one else in our school participates in. He came from a Montessori program, and there is only one other child from his fifth grade class at our school. His transition to middle school has been rocky, and this is the latest in a series of concerning events, and now he wants his mom to home school him.
There are other issues, too, but the stark truth of this remark is what I carried with me from the meeting. Not concerned about buddies to laugh and hang out and study with, all this kid wants is a place to sit in the lunchroom. It's not that hard to see why the other students might be reluctant to reach out to him. It's for the same reason he himself expressed when the counselor told him that sometimes it's easier to make friends when you have at least one. "Not if people think your one friend is weird," he said.
This is the part of middle school that I have the hardest time with. We tell them it's okay to be themselves even if they're different; we try to teach them to be tolerant and accepting of others, but they don't believe us, and they don't listen. Why? Because it really isn't okay to be different in middle school. The social, the emotional and the developmental all collide to compel conformity, and, most often, all we adults can do is clean up the wreckage and bind up the wounds.
These were the words of one of my homeroom students today as he spoke to me, his mom, and the counselor. He wasn't in school this morning, and it turned out that he had had a huge anxiety attack last night, brought on by a math quiz he felt unprepared for. When his mom e-mailed us about the incident, the counselor invited the two of them in at lunchtime to talk, and there we were.
He's definitely not a run of the mill kid. He is a straight-A student, serious (perhaps overly so) about his grades, and a superior athlete in a sport no one else in our school participates in. He came from a Montessori program, and there is only one other child from his fifth grade class at our school. His transition to middle school has been rocky, and this is the latest in a series of concerning events, and now he wants his mom to home school him.
There are other issues, too, but the stark truth of this remark is what I carried with me from the meeting. Not concerned about buddies to laugh and hang out and study with, all this kid wants is a place to sit in the lunchroom. It's not that hard to see why the other students might be reluctant to reach out to him. It's for the same reason he himself expressed when the counselor told him that sometimes it's easier to make friends when you have at least one. "Not if people think your one friend is weird," he said.
This is the part of middle school that I have the hardest time with. We tell them it's okay to be themselves even if they're different; we try to teach them to be tolerant and accepting of others, but they don't believe us, and they don't listen. Why? Because it really isn't okay to be different in middle school. The social, the emotional and the developmental all collide to compel conformity, and, most often, all we adults can do is clean up the wreckage and bind up the wounds.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
The Lilacs are Almost Here
I think my favorite flower is lilac. When I was a little girl in New Jersey, we had a lilac bush in the yard, and I knew what it was, but I took it for granted in that way that children do with plants and birds. We moved to Saudi Arabia when I was 13, and I can't say I missed the lilac bush, although of course there was no such thing growing on that salty strip of land, reclaimed from the Arabian Sea and the Rub' al Khali, where we lived.
At 14, I was sent off to boarding school with the other ex-patriot children of my age. No western teens were allowed to live in the Kingdom full time, bad influence, don't ya know. My school was in Switzerland, and I cannot complain. As part of our curriculum, "in-program travel," we all signed up for short trips to all sorts of European destinations. And so, in the spring of my junior year, I went on a bike trip to the south of France.
It was gray and rainy for the first part of the trip as we made the hard ride across the mountains of Provence. The grass was brilliant green from the season, from the rain, from the light. We rode in twos and threes and made frequent stops to fuel up on an international combo of Swiss chocolate, fromaggio bel paese and baguette. As I pedaled on a rare flat stretch of road, I was literally stopped by the most wonderful fragrance. It was sweet and light and reminded me of... something. Something I knew, but couldn't place. I looked around, unable to go on until I found what it was.
There by a narrow two-story yellow house, grew a bush that spread out like a bouquet beside the road. Its branches were heavy with clusters of light purple flowers. "Lilac!" I whispered to myself. Just then, a boy on the trip caught up to me and stopped to see if I was okay. "Those flowers," I told him, "we had them in my yard when I was a kid." Without a word, he got off his bike and climbed the stone wall that separated the garden from the road and broke a branch from the top of the Lilac and gave it to me and then rode on before I could even say thank you.
At 14, I was sent off to boarding school with the other ex-patriot children of my age. No western teens were allowed to live in the Kingdom full time, bad influence, don't ya know. My school was in Switzerland, and I cannot complain. As part of our curriculum, "in-program travel," we all signed up for short trips to all sorts of European destinations. And so, in the spring of my junior year, I went on a bike trip to the south of France.
It was gray and rainy for the first part of the trip as we made the hard ride across the mountains of Provence. The grass was brilliant green from the season, from the rain, from the light. We rode in twos and threes and made frequent stops to fuel up on an international combo of Swiss chocolate, fromaggio bel paese and baguette. As I pedaled on a rare flat stretch of road, I was literally stopped by the most wonderful fragrance. It was sweet and light and reminded me of... something. Something I knew, but couldn't place. I looked around, unable to go on until I found what it was.
There by a narrow two-story yellow house, grew a bush that spread out like a bouquet beside the road. Its branches were heavy with clusters of light purple flowers. "Lilac!" I whispered to myself. Just then, a boy on the trip caught up to me and stopped to see if I was okay. "Those flowers," I told him, "we had them in my yard when I was a kid." Without a word, he got off his bike and climbed the stone wall that separated the garden from the road and broke a branch from the top of the Lilac and gave it to me and then rode on before I could even say thank you.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Teaching Adages, Revisited
In an earlier post this month, I mentioned a quotation that my school adopted for a short time to delineate the responsibilities of teacher and student: Teachers open the door, but students must pass through on their own. Back when that adage was hanging on my wall, I thought that it was a fair description of what our task is as teachers, but I don't believe so anymore.
To me, teaching and learning can never be mutually exclusive. No matter what I may be doing in my classroom, if my students are not learning, I can't call my actions "teaching." You can bet I'm trying really, really, really hard to teach, but without that learning thing, I'm not quite meeting the mark. I once read an example of this concept. If I try to teach my dog to sit on command, but she doesn't do it, can I fairly say I've taught her? No.
So what is teaching then? Where's the metaphor that best describes it? Another proverb that is often posted on classroom walls is Teaching is not the filling of a bucket, but the lighting of a fire. I like that one a little bit more; I like the image of igniting that passion for learning in the hope that it will continue burning after you're gone. It seems to put all the onus on the teacher, though. Where's the student in that one?
Anyway. After some serious thought, the adage that I currently favor to explain my philosophy of teaching is this one: When the student is ready, the master will appear.
To me, teaching and learning can never be mutually exclusive. No matter what I may be doing in my classroom, if my students are not learning, I can't call my actions "teaching." You can bet I'm trying really, really, really hard to teach, but without that learning thing, I'm not quite meeting the mark. I once read an example of this concept. If I try to teach my dog to sit on command, but she doesn't do it, can I fairly say I've taught her? No.
So what is teaching then? Where's the metaphor that best describes it? Another proverb that is often posted on classroom walls is Teaching is not the filling of a bucket, but the lighting of a fire. I like that one a little bit more; I like the image of igniting that passion for learning in the hope that it will continue burning after you're gone. It seems to put all the onus on the teacher, though. Where's the student in that one?
Anyway. After some serious thought, the adage that I currently favor to explain my philosophy of teaching is this one: When the student is ready, the master will appear.
I imagine my colleagues wondering what our responsibility is to students who are not ready. As public school teachers, we cannot choose our students, and neither can we change them, so I suppose in response I would say that we must do our best to be the teachers our students are ready for.
Therefore, I believe it is my responsibility to frame my instruction in terms of what my students want and need to know about their writing and reading right now, to be relevant and responsive to them, so that even if I am not personally the master they are ready for, I can help them to find the mentor they need. Who knows? Their "master" may be a book or a poem or another student-- it is whatever resource that they can use to better communicate the message they want to deliver. How can they not be ready for that?
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