Three

Q: What do you call the guy who graduates at the bottom of his med school class?

A: Doctor.

What does it take to be a teacher? The credentialing system that is currently in place requires a certain amount of course work and passing scores on some standardized tests. Neither of those things qualifies you to be a teacher, though. In theory, we act as if teaching is quantifiable, but in practice it is no such thing.

Teaching has been compared to herding cats, and that's not a bad analogy. In the name of skills and content, we try to impose a unified vision on a bunch of individuals who have little or no knowledge of those things. That's a lot of free will running around in a confined space for ten months or so-- somebody's bound to get hurt once in a while. Sometimes I think that teachers should swear the Hippocratic oath, first do no harm, because we have such ample opportunity to inflict injury, and in so many cases, we rely on the resiliency of the students to wash away our iniquities.

Neither Ruth nor I had children when we started our M.Ed, program, although she confided in me that she and her husband were trying to start a family. I guess she was thinking that being a teacher might be a good career when it came time to be a mom.

Two

The first thing I remember about Ruth is a shared eye-roll. Two weeks into the class, I was still in that same seat that I had chosen the first night, and she was sitting behind me. One of the younger people, or maybe it was one of the middle-aged women who always seemed to monopolize the class conversation, had said something silly, and I sighed and looked over my shoulder. She had the exact same expression that I imagined was on my face at the time, and we made eye contact and smiled. That was it, too; we were fast friends ever after.

That evening, instead of sitting hunched reading over my notes at break, I actually had a conversation. It turned out that Ruth and I were the same age with what seemed to be similar brands of... Sarcasm? Dry humor? Cynicism? It was hard to tell, but, whatever it was, we found each other very amusing. And even though I had liked the class before, now I really looked forward to going.

Neither of us had any teaching experience, and so to us, everything that Dr. Y said was theoretical and hypothetical. In addition, I had come to the class with a B.A. in philosophy and an M.A. in English Literature, and while I appreciated the educational theory that we discussed, Dewey, Montessori, Piaget, and so forth, all that stuff about classroom management, and dealing with colleagues, parents, and administration, seemed, well, not very intellectual to me, and therefore, not very important.

Are you laughing, yet?

I Wanna Be a Teacher: Part 1

I was 29 when I started my masters in education and licensure program. The first required course was a nine hour class that met every Monday, Tuesday and Thursday from 6:30 to 9:30. It was taught by a kindly retired public school administrator in his early seventies and was called something like foundations of education. There were probably 35 people in there when it started, ranging in age from early 20's to mid-50's. There were experienced teachers who were trying to move up on the pay scale, and military people who were close to retirement and looking for a second career, and people like me, who just thought teaching might be a good idea. In retrospect, that's a pretty broad audience, and I don't know how I would spin a lecture for that group, but Dr. Y did a pretty good job-- at least I remember thinking so at the time.

The first night, I took a seat in one of those one-piece chair-desk combos that so many classrooms are furnished with. My place was one from the front, next to the wall that the door was on. The room was stuffy, but not unpleasant; it had that chalk and textbook smell, although the only books in there were a couple of cracked dictionaries. New notebooks were arranged just so on each desktop, and there was the chirp of pens clicking nervously, like crickets, underneath quiet small talk as we waited for our class to begin. A tiny woman with long black hair sat behind me, and being the introvert that I am, I ignored her; in fact the only reason I know she was there is because later she told me so.

No Bright Lines

I heard a story today about a teacher in our building who was so frustrated with one of his classes that he changed his seating chart so that all the disruptive kids were in the back. He told them why they were there-- they were obviously more interested in talking and socializing than in learning, and he was tired of competing with them. Therefore, the students who were serious about the subject were in front, where he could focus on them. The seat assignments were made strictly on class behavior, but the students complained to another adult in the school that all the black kids were in the back of the room, and sure enough, when that person went to check, that's how it was.

The teacher, who is white, said he never even noticed any racial component to the new seating arrangement, and the black students admitted that they were inappropriately talkative in his class. Obviously, this is a case where it might be easy to start tossing accusations back and forth, but it is also a situation that, to an educator, might seem easy to fix. Put the disruptive kids in front, we might suggest to the teacher. Pay more attention in class, we would say to the kids, followed by, Your education is important, you know.

I was a little appalled by this story, even though I empathized with the teacher's frustration. And it was that idea of frustration that reminded me of something that happened in one of my own classes just last week. Every Monday, my students have an assignment that involves answering some questions in writing about their independent reading book in order to prepare for a short small-group discussion. The groups are heterogeneous, because I think that each student has something of value to contribute. On this particular day, it seemed like there were a couple of students in each group who were really dragging their heels on getting the written part done, and so they were holding up the discussion. Impulsively, I decided to reorganize the groups to put all the slower-working kids together, so that the other students would have more time for their conversation.

In less than a minute, the kids had moved, and three groups were talking, and one was still writing. I went over there. They knew, as did the other students, that the reason I had re-organized everyone was because they weren't finished. Whatever I said to them was a mixture of encouragement and urgency, and for the most part, they responded, hurrying to get their work done so that they could begin their discussion and earn their points.

I went off to check on the other groups, but, keeping that teacher's eye on everybody, it wasn't long before I looked across the room at those students, and for the first time, I saw who they were: two boys who were going through the special ed referral process, a girl with obvious attention issues, another girl who was new to our school system and whom we were finding to have some big gaps in her skills and knowledge, and another girl whose dad is fighting Stage IV cancer. All were kids of color.

I don't know what it all means. As teachers, we group and regroup students all the time, based on many factors. It's called, "Best Practices". I do know this: both of these stories make me uncomfortable, and I'm going to keep thinking about them.

That Kid

You know RJ. You taught him. He was a reluctant reader, writer, worker. Heck, he was a reluctant everything, except talker. Remember? He would not shut up. All through your class he talked. He didn’t even care enough to bother being quiet or sneaky about it. The other kids eventually got as aggravated as you were. They actually preferred listening to you, over him. In fact, if you assigned him a seat near them, they often came up after class and requested a change. God forbid you put him in a group to work. Even the lowest performing students would complain bitterly to be saddled with Mr. Obnoxious, although he was a convenient scapegoat. How could you blame them for not getting the assignment done? They had RJ!

I taught RJ my first year. To begin with, rather than become annoyed, I tried the strategies I’d learned in school. First, I called home. I was certain that he was going to "get it" when I told his mom about his outrageous behavior. I felt a little bad about it, but, hey, I’d warned him. I had specifically told him that I was going to call his parents if he showed up once more without his homework, and he defied my edict. On the day of the call, I was a little surprised when he didn’t seem to care. I was irritated, too. We marched into the team room, and I picked up the phone. I handed it to him and told him to dial the number. He shrugged and punched the buttons. “Mom? It’s me. My teacher wants to talk to you.” He listened for a minute. “Nothing,” he said into the phone. “Okay.” He hung up and turned to me. “She’s too busy to talk right now.”

“What? Give me that phone!”

“She said she doesn’t want to talk to you.”

I rolled my eyes and dialed the number on the data sheet. It rang and rang. I kept the phone to my ear, glaring at RJ.

“I told you so,” he said.

A week later, after constant attempts, I despaired of ever speaking to RJ’s parents. I implemented Plan B: Proximity. There was one seat directly in front of my desk. That is where I put RJ. I intended to personally supervise his education from here on out. There was one little problem, though: RJ talked to whoever was nearby, and I am very distractible. Many times I would catch myself in mid-conversation with him, “I can NOT talk to you right now! I’m trying to give directions.”

One day, I put a journal prompt on the board. If you could make or change any law, what would it be and why? RJ opened his notebook and wrote nothing. He waited patiently for me to engage him.

“RJ,” I started, but he interrupted me.

“You know, there are some crazy laws out there.”

“Well, why don’t you write about one of them?” I suggested.

“I mean it. There are some CRAZY laws.”

“OK,” I said. “WRITE a-bout them,” I spoke slowly and loudly, and I leaned toward him with my head wagging. Some of the other students lifted their eyes toward us.

Undeterred, he continued, “Did you know that in Ohio you’re not allowed to go out on Sunday if you’re ugly?”

“I would love to read about that, IN YOUR JOURNAL,” I said.

“Really. Really! REALLY. It’s true. I should know, I used to live in Ohio,” he finished. He looked at me like, top that.

“Oh yeah?” I said. “Well what’d you do all day on Sundays?” And then I laughed.

The silence was painful, but the “Ooooohh.” was worse. Not for RJ, though. His eyes narrowed, and his face froze for the briefest moment, but then he just changed the subject and moved on to some crazy law in Michigan. His knowledge really was kind of remarkable.

I felt triumphant at first; the other kids were still snickering about it when they left, and I heard a few repeating it to their friends even days later. I was the funny teacher who put that annoying kid RJ in his place.

Not long after the “Ohio incident” RJ moved. I was the last teacher to fill out his transfer slip. I looked at his grades. He was failing everything. I added one more F to the collection and signed my name. I looked up and handed him the paper. “Good luck,” I said.

Ten years later, I ran into a student from that class. We were catching up and reminiscing. “Remember that great skit you and Kristin did for your book project?” I asked her.

“No, not really,” she answered.

“Oh,” I replied, disappointed. “What about that poem…?”

“Mm-mm. You know what I do remember, though?” She said, laughing. “It’s illegal to go outside in Illinois if you’re ugly!”

“Ohio,” I corrected her, “but only on Sunday.”

“Whatever! That was hi-larious; I will never forget that.”

Still chuckling, she walked away, leaving me to wonder what RJ remembers about sixth grade.

In Good Company

Today was National Poem-in-Your-Pocket Day, and I asked all of my students to carry a poem with them. In order to prepare for the big day, I gave them time earlier in the week to look through all of the poems we've read together, but they could also choose something that they or a classmate had written, or another poem they knew of and liked. In each class there was a voluntary read-around where students who were willing rose and introduced their selection by saying a few words about why they'd chosen it and then read the poem to the class. Because they're kids, and I wanted it to be kind of fun, they were rewarded with a lollypop. (An aside-- Dum Dum Pops now come in mango flavor, and they are delicious!)

They picked a nice assortment of poems. Shel Silverstein is always a favorite; Langston Hughes was very popular; there were a couple Dickinsons and Frosts, too. Mary Oliver, Billy Collins, and Ruth Foreman were all represented. I was glad that many chose from our common texts; it was nice to revisit those poems through the students' eyes. Several kids used poems that they had written this year, and that made me happy, too.

Near the end of the day, one student stood to read her selection. She turned to the class and smiled. "This was one of my favorite poems this year," she started. "I picked it because I like it." Then she read a poem that I had written and shared with the class about our school. It was an odd moment for me. To be in the company of those other poets, no matter how fleeting, and to hear my words in her voice was so moving that, when she finished, I realized I'd been holding my breath. And it may have been that, but it could also have been the applause from the other students that made me feel light-headed and a little giddy.

"Thank you, Ana," I said. "For that, you can have two lollypops."

They Don't Have to Like You

Today one of my students called me her favorite teacher. I was mildly flattered, and I thanked her, saying that I was glad she liked our class. Later in the day, another student brought me a cookie from lunch. "Are you sure you won't want this after school?" I asked him, "You might be pretty hungry then." But he was certain that he would not, plus he told me that he wanted me to have the cookie. This guy brings me an orange from his lunch every few days or so, too. In the winter, I usually pack a couple of clementines for myself and set them on my desk after lunch to eat later as a light snack. He must have noticed this, because the first time he brought the orange, he told me that he knew I liked them, and I couldn't find a good way to say no thank you.

I truly appreciate these gestures and the others like them. I care for my students, and I'm touched when they respond in kind. In general, I feel that I have a pretty positive relationship with most of them. It hasn't always been that way, though. When I first started teaching, probably the most common advice I got was to remember that I wasn't there to be their friend. That nugget was always followed by the corollary, They don't have to like you as long as they respect you.

The truth is that when you live by those rules you're likely to have some pretty nasty interactions with the kids. (Think "An Officer and a Gentleman" "tough love" and "you'll thank me later".) In my career, I've been written about in sharpie on the bathroom wall, disparaged in the lunchroom loudly enough that an administrator would take note, and called a "fat bitch" on the first day of school, in addition to all those students who just didn't like me. In the beginning, I dismissed it as "their problem," and refused to take it personally. I didn't refuse to show my anger, however, and there were kids in every class that pushed my buttons and drove me crazy. In retrospect, I'm sure that was a lot more fun for them than learning English. Eventually, I realized that if I didn't allow them to provoke me, it was much easier to handle.

Five years ago, I was a mentor to an experienced teacher who was new to our school and new to middle school, too. Early on, I advised her not to take anything the students say about you to heart. Remember that they are children at a temperamental age, and what they think today will probably be different tomorrow. By that, I meant to let things go, never hold grudges, and try to let each day be a new day. I still think that's good advice, but I've grown to believe that we must at least listen to the complaints the students have about us, because there are two sides to every story, and if a kid doesn't like you, there's something wrong, and it will be better for everyone if you can fix it. Don't take it personally, but do take it seriously.