Dark Skies

Soul crushing is how a friend described the month-long rain storm that was September, and I had to agree. In general, the weather doesn't bother me, but 26 days and 9 inches of rain were an exception to that rule.

The politics of the moment do nothing to lift my mood. I'm from the DC area; I went to private school and college in the 70s and 80s; I know how the parties were and what the yearbook codes meant. In addition, the nasty polarization and high stakes of every situation, and this one in particular, takes it toll.

I believe the pervasive national climate of hatred and distrust are beginning to show up in my students, although my evidence is purely anecdotal. It feels like there is much less courtesy toward peers and respect for authority in the group of sixth graders I have now, along with more anger and more needs. Even in our wealthy district, our students can simply not escape the dark clouds immigration concerns, police violence, economic uncertainty, and the opioid crisis, and so of course there will be storms in school.

The sun was out this weekend, and I spent time outside with my dog. I played with my kittens, cooked some good food,  and this morning I laughed out loud at a silly skit from Saturday Night Live that had nothing to do with politics.

I guess the best way to cope with the storm is to put up your umbrella, keep going, and keep a lookout for blue skies ahead.

Serial Advice

Serial, the granddaddy of all podcasts for me, is finally back for a third season. I must confess that I was a little disappointed with the premise at first: rather than examine a questionable murder conviction, or even a high-profile military desertion, this season is focused on the criminal court system in...

Cleveland.

I needn't have worry, though, in less than 5 minutes of the first episode, I was totally on board, and after episode 2? I am hooked. 

To begin with, I had almost forgotten what a fantastic writer and amazing reporter Sarah Koenig is, but more importantly, using Cleveland Criminal Court (mostly because they allow recording) as a microcosm for the American court system turns out to be genius. Race, age, class, and gender all collide in a provocative and sometimes disturbing portrait.

On a personal note, the second episode reminded me that scolding is usually no more than a catharsis for the scolder; such lectures seldom benefit the scoldee. As a 6th grade teacher, that is a lesson I learned many years ago, but seems extremely timely this school year, when scolding a few kids for some of the more egregious antics has seemed pretty tempting in the moment. But venting frustration and building constructive relationships are not usually compatible, and anyone in authority should know that it's the second that is necessary for lasting change.

Breaking Bird

I knew it was out there.

On my way into the building yesterday a couple of sixth graders careened down the sidewalk toward me on a... scooter!

"Boys!" I said sharply, stepping in front of them with my hand raised, the very image of the fun scooter police.

To their credit? They stopped immediately.

"First," I said, "you should be wearing helmets. Secondly? Riding double is not allowed. And finally-- you have to be 18 with a driver's license to get one of these! Where did this come from?"

"My brother got it for me," answered one.

"Well, all I'm saying is that if the resource officer caught you guys riding this, you could get in some trouble," I told them.

"Thank you for the warning," the same student answered, and they walked the scooter slowly away.

Later that afternoon, I told my friend Mary the story.

"I still haven't ridden one of those!" she said.

I pulled out my phone and launched the app. "Now's your chance! It's still outside! And out we went.

A few fat drops of rain were splashing on the pavement as we pushed our way through the heavy glass doors. It took us a minute to find the scooter, because the boys had evidently tossed it to the ground after our conversation. Fortunately the app has a locator chirp, and although it was drizzling, we picked it up, and Mary took a quick spin. "Wheeeeeeeee," she called as she zoomed past, and I knew that she got it. A few minutes later, we locked the Bird, and propped it against the school.

It was on the sidewalk again when I left yesterday evening in the pouring rain, and still there when I walked in this morning. At 1 pm, after a long day of teaching, and before a long afternoon of planning and paperwork and meeting, it occurred to me that it was probably still there.

Brain break! I thought.

20 minutes and 2 miles later, I re-entered the building with a smile on my face, good to go for another 4 hours.

Office Hours

A few years ago our school did away with team-based study halls. There are a lot of pros and cons to that decision, but one benefit was more unencumbered teacher time after school. In order to encourage students to seek help voluntarily, the teachers on my team instituted "office hours", scheduling a 30 minute time once a week when we would be in our room for drop ins.

That information goes home in our weekly newsletter, but to be honest, not many kids take advantage of the opportunity. Earlier this week, I received an email from a parent who wondered if office hours were only for students, or if she might stop by, too. I had never considered such an option, but I couldn't really think of any reason why not, and so I said sure.

It was an interesting half hour: I answered several questions about some of the technology and my objectives for certain activities and assignments. She was very nice, just genuinely curious and confused by some things. At the end of the meeting, she thanked me for my time, and I was happy to help, because I understood we had a common objective.

The beginning of the year is crazy, and it is tempting to push things like that back. But honestly? I am busy from September to June, and any time spent filling in the gaps for any stakeholders-- students, parents, colleagues, community-- who are interested, is well-spent indeed.

A Story to Show What They're Like

We were doing an activity to help the students find possible topics for their personal narratives. Randomly generated questions appeared on the screen, and the kids were supposed to answer them in their small groups. What stories show what my family and I are like? popped up. I looked at the three boys at my table.

"My family likes guns!" said one of them right away, misreading the question. "We love hunting!"

The other boys were wide-eyed.

"What's a story from a time you and your family were hunting?" I asked, trying to refocus him.

"Wait!" one of the other boys said. "Have you really shot a gun?"

"Yes!" the first guy said. "It is really awesome!"

"What about a story, though?" I pressed. "Like a memorable time you were shooting or hunting?"

"My family hates guns!" said the second kid. "We like playing charades, though. Except we always pick the same thing and then it's no fun."

"My family doesn't like guns either," said the third boy. "My parents talk really loud on the phone, though!"

The next question popped up, What was a time you were embarrassed? and off they went on another tangent.

Usy-Bay and Ired-Tay

I was busy all day at school yesterday, from 7:20 to 5:30 with only a 15 minute break for lunch. I dreamed all night last night about the classes and meetings I had just lived through, as well as the classes and meetings I would have today. I woke this morning weary and feeling unready for the day.

BUT, the work I did yesterday paid off a little today, and although I was still busy all day, when 4:15 rolled around and Heidi was ready to go home, I was surprised to find that I was ready, too.

(Then I ran errands and went to the garden and picked a bunch of soggy produce and gotten eaten by mosquitoes. That's a different blog post, though, and now I won't dream about those things tonight.)

That Could've Gone Better

"So before we go on," I said to my homeroom this morning, "why don't you tell me something you already know about IB?"

Crickets.

Finally one boy's hand flailed into the air, so I called on him.

"I was just stretching," he told me.

"Well, what do you know about IB?" I asked again.

"It has an 'I' and a 'B' in it," he answered.

"What does the I and B stand for?" I probed.

"No one knows," he responded crossly.

"Some people know," I said.

"Correction:" he replied, "no one cares."