Empty Threats

"I'm going to blackmail you with this picture," a student threatened me today. 

He was only joking, but he turned his iPad around to show an image of me with my hood up and my phone out. It was taken a couple of weeks ago during a class discussion on rules; I was playfully demonstrating what our class might be like if we eliminated the regulation against hoods and phones.

"You know what?" I said. "I think you should show that picture, which you took of me without my permission and then threatened to blackmail me with, to the assistant principal right away," I looked at him over my glasses. "Should I call the office?"

"I'll just delete it," he said.

"Make sure you remove it from the recently deleted file, too," I advised.

"Got it," he nodded.

It Happened in English Class

I was working with a student when the door to my classroom burst open and a student entered the room. Without so much as a glance toward me, she marched over to another student and thrust a note in her hand, then she turned on her heel and left. It all happened so quickly, I didn't have a chance to react.

"Is that allowed?" asked a student, and his question brought me to my senses.

"No!" I answered and, looking at the student who had received the note, held out my hand.

She knew what was expected, and handed it to me without surprise or complaint. "What was that about?" I asked, and she shrugged in a you-know-her type of gesture, which was pretty accurate considering the personality of the kid who had delivered the note.

"Read it to us!" someone called out.

"No!" I answered, "That would be mean."

"Some teachers do," another student pointed out.

"I can't imagine that many do," I replied, and their silence told me that the request had been wishful thinking. I turned the note over and saw that it was addressed to someone else altogether, and I looked at the kid who had handed it to me. "Why did she give this to you?" I asked.

"Because I'm better at writing and proofreading," she told me, "and she wanted to make sure it was good before she gave it to him."

I laughed. "Good instincts, bad timing." I shook my head and set the note on my desk. "Tell her to come get it from me after school."

Seize the May

When we were kids, every neighborhood in our Levitt-designed township had a pool, right next to the elementary school. The pools opened the day after school got out for the summer, usually sometime in mid-June. My mom had a rule that it had to be at least 70 degrees to go to the pool, which made sense,  considering we were living in New Jersey where the average temperature in June could be a bit chilly. 

I thought of those days today as I walked throughout the neighborhoods around here, noting the progress each was making on readying its pool for our traditional Memorial Day opening. And I remembered the rule again when a friend remarked on how much she wished the pool was open after we had just finished some competitive pickleball playing, but I could not agree.

Oh, Mom would have let us go-- it was close to 80 today, with clear skies and low humidity-- but this spring has been so wonderful, mostly sunny, but cool, the kind of weather you can throw your windows open to, that I am in no rush to welcome summer just yet. 

Especially since we still have five weeks of school left!

Whaaaaaaaat???

Call me jaded (or old), but I can't remember the last time I saw something that truly surprised me. People, places, and situations of interest? Sure. Something unexpected? Maybe.

But this evening when I was running errands, I had a hold-the-phone!!!, what. is. that??? moment. So much so? That I whipped out my phone to take a picture.

Yes! 

That is a neon orange car. 

Way Back

 "You've been teaching here a long time, haven't you?" asked the guy at the desk when I checked into the rec center. 

"Thirty years," I told him.

"My name is Danny," he said.

"I recognize you," I replied. "You've been here a while, too."

"My kids went here way back," he said. "Brandon and--"

"Breaana!" I finished. "Wow! I taught Brandon and coached Breeana!"

"I knew I knew you," he smiled.

"You know what's crazy?" I said. "Brandon was actually in the first-grade class at Drew where I did my student teaching. I still keep school pictures of all those kids in my desk upstairs, because they were the first I ever taught."

"Oh let me see," he looked thoughtful, "that must be Lorenzo, Nikko, John,"

"Deonte, Charmaine, Akeyla," I continued. "When I started teaching here I couldn't wait until they got to sixth grade!"

"Well they're all 35, 36 now," he told me, "and a lot of them are still in the neighborhood and doing good."

"I'm glad to hear it," I said. "And the next time I come down, I'll put those pictures in my gym bag to show you!"

6-8 Who Do We Appreciate?

A colleague stopped by my room on her way out this afternoon. She recently announced she was retiring, and I congratulated her. What followed was a conversation I'm sure many teachers are having all over the country about the needs of the kids, their lack of attachment and social skills after being out (on top of the challenge of early adolescence!), and the dearth of support from administration and the community. 

This particular teacher moved from sixth grade to eighth grade last year, and since then she has faced two very tough classes of kids. Where sixth graders are still mostly sweet, eighth graders can bit a bit surly and rude, even in the best of times. Added to that, the eighth graders last year and this spent a considerable portion of middle school learning from home, and so their connection to the adults here, which can be tenuous at that age, is frayed and in some cases broken.

The behaviors she described were appalling: openly rude, physically threatening, and academically disengaged. Of course, I had heard the stories, but it was disheartening nevertheless. I tried to be optimistic-- the kids in seventh and sixth grade who have been with us full-time, seem much more like their pre-pandemic counterparts I remember. 

She nodded as she turned to leave, and noticed the teacher appreciation pennant on my door. It was covered in notes of gratitude from sixth graders. "I saw these as I came down the hallway from eighth grade," she told me. "There are more and more signatures on each one as you get closer to sixth grade. It reminds me of how different the younger students are."

She pointed to a note at the bottom of my pennant and read out loud, "English is amazing!" She laughed and added, "said no eighth grader, ever!"

Small Victory

I have a student who has been a reluctant writer this year. Unlike many of his peers, his sticking point is not a lack of know-how, for he writes beautifully whenever he chooses to. For him, it seems like more of an inability to engage with any task that is not somehow pleasing to him. His pleasures are not superficial or facile, and his insight and analysis are very astute and comprehensive, but he is eleven, and his refusal to even attempt a simple assignment (or at least look for its small advantages) often devolves into a confrontational tantrum.

BUT, this young scholar happens to love poetry and figurative language, and he also came up with a plot and illustration style for his children's story that he does find pleasing. This happy confluence of events has meant that, although the story was due nearly three weeks ago, he has willingly come most days at lunch and after school to complete the project. (Let's not get into why he won't work on it at home.)

AND, this afternoon at 4:15, he pushed back his chair and leapt up with a whoop of joy. He was finished, and he was pleased with the product, a first for this school year. "I have never been so happy to write one single sentence!" he proclaimed, beaming. Then he turned in his truly charming story (one of the best of the year) and packed his things to go.

I'm not sure if I have been happier to see a single sentence written, either.