To: Future Self (w/ children)
From: Present Teacher Self
Re: Things not to do to your future child
Dear Future Self,
Never ever....ever....show up in your fifth grader's classroom wearing a giant pig costume and oinking while video taping him/her watching Charlie Brown and the Great Pumpkin. Just don't.
Sincerely,
Present Teacher Self
Friday, October 31, 2008
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
A Little Much?
I walked into school after lunch to find I had been trapped by one hundred twenty third graders. Not only had they trapped me, they were also seranading me. One hundred twenty little voices, with a disembodied guitar coming from somewhere, singing "fa la la la la...la la la la." My first thought was that they sure were practicing for Christmas caroling a little early this year. My second thought was, "How in the world am I going to get to my classroom?"
And then I heard the words "pumpkin patch" mingling with all the fa la la-ing. Yup, not Christmas caroling....Halloween caroling. Eeesh. As if the costume wearing, sugar eating, worst party of the year day wasn't enough, we're now degrading and twisting songs from the hap-happiest time of the year to fit the theme.
My third thought, "What in the...."
Fourth thought, "Thank you, God, that I don't teach third grade."
And then I heard the words "pumpkin patch" mingling with all the fa la la-ing. Yup, not Christmas caroling....Halloween caroling. Eeesh. As if the costume wearing, sugar eating, worst party of the year day wasn't enough, we're now degrading and twisting songs from the hap-happiest time of the year to fit the theme.
My third thought, "What in the...."
Fourth thought, "Thank you, God, that I don't teach third grade."
Thursday, October 16, 2008
loooooong sigh....
Woke up Tuesday morning with abdominal cramping, running back and forth from bed to toilet and back again. As I lay there, curled into a ball, I came to the slow realization that the state of Michigan has dictated four days during the year when I cannot be sick and stay home from school. So, I took a shower, took a ten minute nap, got dressed, took a five minute nap, did minimal hair and makeup, and staggered to work.
All to give the MEAP test.
Back in the day, we had a three week window. In fifth grade we had three different tests to give, and three weeks to do them whenever it fit with our schedule. Yes, imagine that, flexibility.
And then....
One little reporter from Jackson decided to print what the fifth grade writing prompt was. We all had to retake the writing test. And now the state of Michigan tells us the exact day we MUST give each specific test, so we avoid that kind of thing again.
Which means I drag my butt to work, sick or not, on those days, so my kids won't mess their tests up because they have a sub who can't find the pencils, or is unable to read the directions to the test, or decides that there's no reason they can't do the MEAP test in groups. If you think I'm exaggerating, read this. A substitute can't be left to give a test that is this important.
So, a big thank you to the state of michigan for creating such a rigid system that it leaves no room for actual human beings. Yup, good job.
All to give the MEAP test.
Back in the day, we had a three week window. In fifth grade we had three different tests to give, and three weeks to do them whenever it fit with our schedule. Yes, imagine that, flexibility.
And then....
One little reporter from Jackson decided to print what the fifth grade writing prompt was. We all had to retake the writing test. And now the state of Michigan tells us the exact day we MUST give each specific test, so we avoid that kind of thing again.
Which means I drag my butt to work, sick or not, on those days, so my kids won't mess their tests up because they have a sub who can't find the pencils, or is unable to read the directions to the test, or decides that there's no reason they can't do the MEAP test in groups. If you think I'm exaggerating, read this. A substitute can't be left to give a test that is this important.
So, a big thank you to the state of michigan for creating such a rigid system that it leaves no room for actual human beings. Yup, good job.
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
Always another first
Teaching has many firsts - first year, first kid who calls you nasty name, first time you see that "lightbulb" go on. My latest first wasn't any of those, though. Last week was the first time I broke a kid's bone.
Now, before anyone calls CPS or my principal - let me explain. On Mondays and Fridays, our schedule gives us a four hour block with no breaks, no recesses, no nothing. So, I build a break in and we typically go outside and play some sort of running game. This gives them a chance to take a break, and entertains me. The game I like to come back to, the one that entertains me most, is called Army/Navy. Each line of a square gets labeled with a different branch of the armed services, and as I call out a branch, everyone runs toward that line. The last one there is out. I like to switch it up a bit and call out several different branches in a row, so the kids are wheeling around the field like a drunken flock of birds. Like I've said before, I'm in this career simply for the entertainment value.
So last week, as they're careening around the field, I see one of them trip over his own feet and go down. He pops up, grimacing and holding his hand. I immediately assume he has a small scrape, because of the asphalt, and call him over, cheerfully asking if there's blood. He holds his hand out and breathes a shaky "No," as I look down at his hand. I'm all ready with my "No blood? Then you're still in the game!" when I notice his pinky finger is laying on top of his ring finger.
"K! Does your finger always look like that?"
"Not really."
Off to the office he went, mom came and whisked him to the ER, he came back to school the next day with a nice red cast, and I had another first to put on my list.
Now, before anyone calls CPS or my principal - let me explain. On Mondays and Fridays, our schedule gives us a four hour block with no breaks, no recesses, no nothing. So, I build a break in and we typically go outside and play some sort of running game. This gives them a chance to take a break, and entertains me. The game I like to come back to, the one that entertains me most, is called Army/Navy. Each line of a square gets labeled with a different branch of the armed services, and as I call out a branch, everyone runs toward that line. The last one there is out. I like to switch it up a bit and call out several different branches in a row, so the kids are wheeling around the field like a drunken flock of birds. Like I've said before, I'm in this career simply for the entertainment value.
So last week, as they're careening around the field, I see one of them trip over his own feet and go down. He pops up, grimacing and holding his hand. I immediately assume he has a small scrape, because of the asphalt, and call him over, cheerfully asking if there's blood. He holds his hand out and breathes a shaky "No," as I look down at his hand. I'm all ready with my "No blood? Then you're still in the game!" when I notice his pinky finger is laying on top of his ring finger.
"K! Does your finger always look like that?"
"Not really."
Off to the office he went, mom came and whisked him to the ER, he came back to school the next day with a nice red cast, and I had another first to put on my list.
Monday, September 15, 2008
*reflections on teaching* 6th year
VI.
Don’t Lick the Mushrooms
sixth year
I run into them almost everywhere I go. One of the Brookes walks out the door ahead of me at Meijer, Makaila sticks her hand out the window of a passing bus, Joe saunters by with Grandma at the park, Wyatt B., Holly, and Kayla stalk my house, befriending the cat. That year, my sixth year, I finally had the perfect class. The class with a personality that complemented my own. The Wyatts, Kayla, Kyle, the Brookes, Seth, and Tim. It was the first year I really felt able to let my whole personality shine through the teacher persona, because these kids didn’t take advantage of it.
I knew this class would be special two weeks in, on the first field trip of the year. We packed ourselves onto the bus and headed for a nature center about a half an hour away. The friendly staff took us on a nature hike to look at trees. Were these kids concerned about trees? Nope, they were obsessed with mushrooms. Now, I have to admit, there were some really vibrant, beautiful mushrooms in those woods, but these kids took mushroom hunting to a whole new place.
“Miss L! Look at that big yellow mushroom!! I think it’s poisonous!!” they hollered.
“Well, were you planning on licking it?”
“Eeew, no!”
“Well, then, let’s not worry about it,” I stated calmly, thinking that would be the end of it.
Not more than ten minutes later, I heard Kyle yell from the front of the line, “AH! There’s a big mushroom! It might be poisonous! Nobody lick it!!”
They weren’t the brightest kids I’ve ever taught. Most of them were of average intelligence, really. After two weeks of studying for a geography test entitled “Where Am I?” many of these kids failed miserably. But they were the most entertaining answers of any test I’ve ever given.
“What hemisphere do you live in?”
“Shape,” came the confident reply.
“What continent do you live on?”
“The lower peninsula,” they hazarded.
“What galaxy do you live in?”
“2006, of course.”
“What country do you live in?”
The prizewinning answer to this question was delivered by Mr. Mitch. What country does he live in? Mitchigan. Must be nice having your own country.
They were horrible at tests, and the common sense gene had missed some of them entirely. One confused child spoke with me one day about a broken pencil lead. She just didn’t know what to do until I pointed out that our generous Parent Teacher Organization had bought an electric pencil sharpener for our classroom. Brookie H. wondered why she wasn’t allowed to add something to her penpal letter five days after the due date. After I explained that those letters were on their way to Massachusetts, she looked at me with a wrinkled brow and said, “But I forgot to put the picture in. I need to put the picture in.” Makaila decided to wear strappy, four-inch, hooker heels to complete her Halloween costume. A glance at her feet after the half-hour long costume parade downtown revealed blood. I guessed her ears weren’t working when I gave my yearly teacher speech about wearing walking shoes for the parade.
This was the year I began to see that besides amazing health insurance, teaching also has a lot to offer in the way of entertainment value.
They volunteered to have themselves laminated.
They christened my black faux leather sandals the “lalligator sandals.” Their reasoning? They aren’t leather, but they look like alligator skin, therefore they are the lalligators.
Krysta folded every assignment into an accordion.
They humored me and played games purely for my entertainment. The Christmas party that year found them helping each other put thick, winter mittens on before attempting to unwrap a package sealed shut with heavy-duty packing tape.
They joked about me torturing them, but I think they secretly enjoyed our daily running games. Army/Navy tag, complete with last minute switches, aircraft carriers, and rowboats became our game of choice.
Those little things paled in comparison to their largest invention of the school year. They invented a high school boyfriend for me. They found it unbelievable that there was no man in my life and were curious about my dating past. When they learned I’d had no boyfriend during high school, they didn’t believe me. And so, they created Ben.
It all began when one of the Wyatts was having computer trouble. I was bent over the screen, trying to coax the problem out when James wandered up to turn in his assignment. On his way back to his seat, he meandered by the computer where I was working and said, “So, Miss L, tell me about Ben.”
I was only half listening to him, and confusedly said, “Ben Youngs, from across the hall? What happened to him?”
“No, not Ben Youngs,” he said, as if that were the most ridiculous thing he’d heard all day. “Your high school boyfriend Ben. Tell me about him.”
“What’s wrong with you? Are you a crackhead?” I said without thinking.
James hit the floor, shaking with laughter as I cringed at the thought of what I’d just said. I caught him alone later in the day and apologized, asking if I’d hurt his feelings. His response was, “Seriously, Miss L? I thought that was completely hilarious.” Any other class, a slip like that would have meant at least a fifteen minute calm down period, and probably a phone call from concerned parents. But not these kids.
That was just the beginning. As the year wore on, Ben continued to be treated as a real person, although he felt to me like an imaginary friend. They often greeted him when they came in the door at the beginning of the day and they waved to him while I was reading our class novel. My brow often furrowed as Sethie, or Joshie, or Krysta would walk up to my desk with a huge toothy grin. I would look up, ready to assist them in whatever way I could, only to see them do the “Hi, Mom” wave and say, “Hi Ben! How’s it going, Ben? Are you having a good day, Ben?” I would roll my eyes, turning back to the task at hand.
“Aw, Ben, is she ignoring you, Ben? I’m so sorry, Ben.”
“Don’t you have something to be working on? I think it’s due in about three minutes,” I’d warn.
“What’s that, Ben? You’re going to talk her into not collecting this assignment? Aw, Ben, you’re the best!” They would traipse off, happy to complete their work after their brief interlude with Ben.
Little did they know, I’d have the chance to return the favor. When I let it slip in March that I had spent the last weekend visiting my new boyfriend, my real boyfriend, their curiosity immediately spun out of control. On a walk down to the park, they flung questions at me.
“So where does your boyfriend live?”
“Somewhere.”
“No, seriously, where does he live?”
“In Boringville.”
“That’s not a real place! Well, if you’re not telling us where he lives, at least tell us what his name is.”
“Eggbert.”
“No, it’s not! Tell us his name!”
“Ok, if you guess the right name, I’ll tell you.”
“That’s not fair, there’s like a million names.”
“Then if you want to know you’d better start guessing.”
The torture continued for days, but eventually I shared the details with them. Their comment? “Your boyfriend is from Detroit and he lets you walk around with that old crappy cell phone?”
The year ended too soon for me. For the first time, I shed tears on the last day of school. We had enjoyed each other’s stories, successes, and quirks. We knew that Brookie P. loved frogs and Wyatt M. was the go-to guy for pet questions. We knew Joe had a bizarre sense of humor, Emily could organize anything, and Holly sometimes didn’t smell so good, and that was alright.
As a teacher, I’m blessed to have these kids in my life. They became a living reminder to me of the joys of my calling. They were the hot fudge sundae at the end of a five year liver and onions meal, coming along at just the right time to keep me dining for at least another six years.
Don’t Lick the Mushrooms
sixth year
I run into them almost everywhere I go. One of the Brookes walks out the door ahead of me at Meijer, Makaila sticks her hand out the window of a passing bus, Joe saunters by with Grandma at the park, Wyatt B., Holly, and Kayla stalk my house, befriending the cat. That year, my sixth year, I finally had the perfect class. The class with a personality that complemented my own. The Wyatts, Kayla, Kyle, the Brookes, Seth, and Tim. It was the first year I really felt able to let my whole personality shine through the teacher persona, because these kids didn’t take advantage of it.
I knew this class would be special two weeks in, on the first field trip of the year. We packed ourselves onto the bus and headed for a nature center about a half an hour away. The friendly staff took us on a nature hike to look at trees. Were these kids concerned about trees? Nope, they were obsessed with mushrooms. Now, I have to admit, there were some really vibrant, beautiful mushrooms in those woods, but these kids took mushroom hunting to a whole new place.
“Miss L! Look at that big yellow mushroom!! I think it’s poisonous!!” they hollered.
“Well, were you planning on licking it?”
“Eeew, no!”
“Well, then, let’s not worry about it,” I stated calmly, thinking that would be the end of it.
Not more than ten minutes later, I heard Kyle yell from the front of the line, “AH! There’s a big mushroom! It might be poisonous! Nobody lick it!!”
They weren’t the brightest kids I’ve ever taught. Most of them were of average intelligence, really. After two weeks of studying for a geography test entitled “Where Am I?” many of these kids failed miserably. But they were the most entertaining answers of any test I’ve ever given.
“What hemisphere do you live in?”
“Shape,” came the confident reply.
“What continent do you live on?”
“The lower peninsula,” they hazarded.
“What galaxy do you live in?”
“2006, of course.”
“What country do you live in?”
The prizewinning answer to this question was delivered by Mr. Mitch. What country does he live in? Mitchigan. Must be nice having your own country.
They were horrible at tests, and the common sense gene had missed some of them entirely. One confused child spoke with me one day about a broken pencil lead. She just didn’t know what to do until I pointed out that our generous Parent Teacher Organization had bought an electric pencil sharpener for our classroom. Brookie H. wondered why she wasn’t allowed to add something to her penpal letter five days after the due date. After I explained that those letters were on their way to Massachusetts, she looked at me with a wrinkled brow and said, “But I forgot to put the picture in. I need to put the picture in.” Makaila decided to wear strappy, four-inch, hooker heels to complete her Halloween costume. A glance at her feet after the half-hour long costume parade downtown revealed blood. I guessed her ears weren’t working when I gave my yearly teacher speech about wearing walking shoes for the parade.
This was the year I began to see that besides amazing health insurance, teaching also has a lot to offer in the way of entertainment value.
They volunteered to have themselves laminated.
They christened my black faux leather sandals the “lalligator sandals.” Their reasoning? They aren’t leather, but they look like alligator skin, therefore they are the lalligators.
Krysta folded every assignment into an accordion.
They humored me and played games purely for my entertainment. The Christmas party that year found them helping each other put thick, winter mittens on before attempting to unwrap a package sealed shut with heavy-duty packing tape.
They joked about me torturing them, but I think they secretly enjoyed our daily running games. Army/Navy tag, complete with last minute switches, aircraft carriers, and rowboats became our game of choice.
Those little things paled in comparison to their largest invention of the school year. They invented a high school boyfriend for me. They found it unbelievable that there was no man in my life and were curious about my dating past. When they learned I’d had no boyfriend during high school, they didn’t believe me. And so, they created Ben.
It all began when one of the Wyatts was having computer trouble. I was bent over the screen, trying to coax the problem out when James wandered up to turn in his assignment. On his way back to his seat, he meandered by the computer where I was working and said, “So, Miss L, tell me about Ben.”
I was only half listening to him, and confusedly said, “Ben Youngs, from across the hall? What happened to him?”
“No, not Ben Youngs,” he said, as if that were the most ridiculous thing he’d heard all day. “Your high school boyfriend Ben. Tell me about him.”
“What’s wrong with you? Are you a crackhead?” I said without thinking.
James hit the floor, shaking with laughter as I cringed at the thought of what I’d just said. I caught him alone later in the day and apologized, asking if I’d hurt his feelings. His response was, “Seriously, Miss L? I thought that was completely hilarious.” Any other class, a slip like that would have meant at least a fifteen minute calm down period, and probably a phone call from concerned parents. But not these kids.
That was just the beginning. As the year wore on, Ben continued to be treated as a real person, although he felt to me like an imaginary friend. They often greeted him when they came in the door at the beginning of the day and they waved to him while I was reading our class novel. My brow often furrowed as Sethie, or Joshie, or Krysta would walk up to my desk with a huge toothy grin. I would look up, ready to assist them in whatever way I could, only to see them do the “Hi, Mom” wave and say, “Hi Ben! How’s it going, Ben? Are you having a good day, Ben?” I would roll my eyes, turning back to the task at hand.
“Aw, Ben, is she ignoring you, Ben? I’m so sorry, Ben.”
“Don’t you have something to be working on? I think it’s due in about three minutes,” I’d warn.
“What’s that, Ben? You’re going to talk her into not collecting this assignment? Aw, Ben, you’re the best!” They would traipse off, happy to complete their work after their brief interlude with Ben.
Little did they know, I’d have the chance to return the favor. When I let it slip in March that I had spent the last weekend visiting my new boyfriend, my real boyfriend, their curiosity immediately spun out of control. On a walk down to the park, they flung questions at me.
“So where does your boyfriend live?”
“Somewhere.”
“No, seriously, where does he live?”
“In Boringville.”
“That’s not a real place! Well, if you’re not telling us where he lives, at least tell us what his name is.”
“Eggbert.”
“No, it’s not! Tell us his name!”
“Ok, if you guess the right name, I’ll tell you.”
“That’s not fair, there’s like a million names.”
“Then if you want to know you’d better start guessing.”
The torture continued for days, but eventually I shared the details with them. Their comment? “Your boyfriend is from Detroit and he lets you walk around with that old crappy cell phone?”
The year ended too soon for me. For the first time, I shed tears on the last day of school. We had enjoyed each other’s stories, successes, and quirks. We knew that Brookie P. loved frogs and Wyatt M. was the go-to guy for pet questions. We knew Joe had a bizarre sense of humor, Emily could organize anything, and Holly sometimes didn’t smell so good, and that was alright.
As a teacher, I’m blessed to have these kids in my life. They became a living reminder to me of the joys of my calling. They were the hot fudge sundae at the end of a five year liver and onions meal, coming along at just the right time to keep me dining for at least another six years.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
*Reflections on Teaching* 5th year
I just finished this today during writer's workshop. I read the last part to this class, and they wanted to tell me stories about the times when this has happened to them. Maybe you'll have a story at the end, as well! :o)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
V.
Decisions
fifth year
I hate to confess it. My fifth year of teaching is a hazy, fuzzy memory. I know I had an average group of kids, I know we went on some field trips, read some books, and had some fun together. I know I had a few stinkers. Alex, who liked to think he could pick and choose what he was or wasn’t going to do; Cody, the hyper ADHD child who acted before thinking; Robert, angry from a divorce, who sobbed when he had to call both parents and tell them he’d deliberately taken a third-graders glove and flushed it down a toilet. But really, those kids were nothing compared with the spirit-crushing previous year.
The only incident from that year that really sticks out in my mind began on one of those mornings when I couldn’t decide. Was I sick, or just tired? Should I haul my worn out self into my classroom and write lesson plans for a sub, or just suffer through the day? When the lightheadedness began, I decided a sub was the way to go. I made the phone call, threw my hair in a ponytail, and headed off in my pajamas to school.
Sometimes it’s just easier to go to school sick than it is to go through the hassle of writing sub plans. The lunch count needs to be done by 8:15, Andy can take care of that for you. Don’t mark Rachel absent, she doesn’t attend school here anymore. Students have lists of partners in their desks, don’t let them just choose their own or Cody and Alex will beeline towards each other. Make sure you don’t let those two wind up working with each other. The schedule says lunch is at 12:05, but you have to start lining them up at 12:00 so they have enough time. Walk them to gym, make sure to check that the gym teacher is actually in the gym before you leave them there. Have Johanna pass out this packet of papers to go home, but don’t let her do it more than five minutes before the bell rings or they’ll lose them before they leave the room.
Teachers do so much during the day without thinking; verbalizing it for another adult is almost impossible. So, we write the plans, usually not knowing what that early morning phone call will bring us. It could be a retired teacher, who knows all the tricks of the trade and will have those kids behaving better than you do. Or it could be a frazzled, burned-out hippie, who wants children to be free to express themselves. Lesson plans, who needs lesson plans?
On this particular day, my sub would be a familiar face. A local, she’d been in my room before. She wasn’t my favorite sub, but she wasn’t the worst either. She could be mean-spirited with the kids, but she followed the lesson plans and left good notes. I wrote the plans, straggled back home, and poured myself back into bed, thankful for the coziness.
The phone call came at about 3:30 that day. I had made it to the couch by then, Vernors and soda crackers in hand, so when I heard my partner teacher’s voice I was partially lucid.
“Gina, I am so sorry to bother you, but I needed to give you a heads up.”
“Ok,” I croaked.
“You may be getting some phone calls tonight.”
“Seriously?” I asked.
“Yeah,” she continued, “Mrs. Smith brought up thong underwear in social studies class today.”
“Huh? She what? Thongs?”
“Uh-huh. Apparently the lesson was on Pursuit of Happiness?”
“Yeah, but I didn’t leave anything about thongs.”
“Yeah, well, she took it upon herself to give an additional example of pursuing happiness. I think the exact quote was ‘You have the right to wear thong underwear, even if you have a big fat butt and no one wants to see it.’”
“No,” I gasped. “Why – what – why would you do that?”
“I don’t know, I couldn’t figure it out either. The kids were very disturbed. I’ll let you go, but I didn’t want you to be caught off guard if a parent called you tonight. I let the principal know already.”
“Thanks, Dawn,” I answered as I hung up the phone.
Thong underwear. Fifth graders. These were two concepts that shouldn’t go together. This woman had children. Would she want her kids spoken to like that in school? “Well,” I thought, “there’s another sub who’s not allowed to be in my room anymore.”
She was in good company. There was the man who let the kids run wild. A woman who left a note saying no one misbehaved and everything was fine. I found out later the kids had thrown books out the second story window on her watch. Another woman was unable to show the video I’d left because she couldn’t locate the enormous, thirty-inch television strapped on the cupboard directly behind my desk. She didn’t bother to ask the kids the location of the TV, either. Another sub informed me that she had helped me out by not using the plans I’d left. Instead, she told my fifth graders a ninety minute story about Bobo the Duck, then let them color. Now that must have been an educationally valuable day.
Maybe I shouldn’t care so much. After all, one bad day probably won’t destroy these children, or their education. They’ll recover. But even though I know that, these thoughts still run through my head when I wake up with an achy tickle in the back of my throat, or after I’ve spent the night running from bed to bathroom and back again. Yet, I do care, and I know that the next time I watch the numbers on the thermometer rise above 100 degrees, I’ll find my slippers and shuffle off to school to write detailed lesson plans for whatever the luck of the draw brings me that day.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
V.
Decisions
fifth year
I hate to confess it. My fifth year of teaching is a hazy, fuzzy memory. I know I had an average group of kids, I know we went on some field trips, read some books, and had some fun together. I know I had a few stinkers. Alex, who liked to think he could pick and choose what he was or wasn’t going to do; Cody, the hyper ADHD child who acted before thinking; Robert, angry from a divorce, who sobbed when he had to call both parents and tell them he’d deliberately taken a third-graders glove and flushed it down a toilet. But really, those kids were nothing compared with the spirit-crushing previous year.
The only incident from that year that really sticks out in my mind began on one of those mornings when I couldn’t decide. Was I sick, or just tired? Should I haul my worn out self into my classroom and write lesson plans for a sub, or just suffer through the day? When the lightheadedness began, I decided a sub was the way to go. I made the phone call, threw my hair in a ponytail, and headed off in my pajamas to school.
Sometimes it’s just easier to go to school sick than it is to go through the hassle of writing sub plans. The lunch count needs to be done by 8:15, Andy can take care of that for you. Don’t mark Rachel absent, she doesn’t attend school here anymore. Students have lists of partners in their desks, don’t let them just choose their own or Cody and Alex will beeline towards each other. Make sure you don’t let those two wind up working with each other. The schedule says lunch is at 12:05, but you have to start lining them up at 12:00 so they have enough time. Walk them to gym, make sure to check that the gym teacher is actually in the gym before you leave them there. Have Johanna pass out this packet of papers to go home, but don’t let her do it more than five minutes before the bell rings or they’ll lose them before they leave the room.
Teachers do so much during the day without thinking; verbalizing it for another adult is almost impossible. So, we write the plans, usually not knowing what that early morning phone call will bring us. It could be a retired teacher, who knows all the tricks of the trade and will have those kids behaving better than you do. Or it could be a frazzled, burned-out hippie, who wants children to be free to express themselves. Lesson plans, who needs lesson plans?
On this particular day, my sub would be a familiar face. A local, she’d been in my room before. She wasn’t my favorite sub, but she wasn’t the worst either. She could be mean-spirited with the kids, but she followed the lesson plans and left good notes. I wrote the plans, straggled back home, and poured myself back into bed, thankful for the coziness.
The phone call came at about 3:30 that day. I had made it to the couch by then, Vernors and soda crackers in hand, so when I heard my partner teacher’s voice I was partially lucid.
“Gina, I am so sorry to bother you, but I needed to give you a heads up.”
“Ok,” I croaked.
“You may be getting some phone calls tonight.”
“Seriously?” I asked.
“Yeah,” she continued, “Mrs. Smith brought up thong underwear in social studies class today.”
“Huh? She what? Thongs?”
“Uh-huh. Apparently the lesson was on Pursuit of Happiness?”
“Yeah, but I didn’t leave anything about thongs.”
“Yeah, well, she took it upon herself to give an additional example of pursuing happiness. I think the exact quote was ‘You have the right to wear thong underwear, even if you have a big fat butt and no one wants to see it.’”
“No,” I gasped. “Why – what – why would you do that?”
“I don’t know, I couldn’t figure it out either. The kids were very disturbed. I’ll let you go, but I didn’t want you to be caught off guard if a parent called you tonight. I let the principal know already.”
“Thanks, Dawn,” I answered as I hung up the phone.
Thong underwear. Fifth graders. These were two concepts that shouldn’t go together. This woman had children. Would she want her kids spoken to like that in school? “Well,” I thought, “there’s another sub who’s not allowed to be in my room anymore.”
She was in good company. There was the man who let the kids run wild. A woman who left a note saying no one misbehaved and everything was fine. I found out later the kids had thrown books out the second story window on her watch. Another woman was unable to show the video I’d left because she couldn’t locate the enormous, thirty-inch television strapped on the cupboard directly behind my desk. She didn’t bother to ask the kids the location of the TV, either. Another sub informed me that she had helped me out by not using the plans I’d left. Instead, she told my fifth graders a ninety minute story about Bobo the Duck, then let them color. Now that must have been an educationally valuable day.
Maybe I shouldn’t care so much. After all, one bad day probably won’t destroy these children, or their education. They’ll recover. But even though I know that, these thoughts still run through my head when I wake up with an achy tickle in the back of my throat, or after I’ve spent the night running from bed to bathroom and back again. Yet, I do care, and I know that the next time I watch the numbers on the thermometer rise above 100 degrees, I’ll find my slippers and shuffle off to school to write detailed lesson plans for whatever the luck of the draw brings me that day.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
*Reflections on Teaching* fourth year
IV.
Progress?
fourth year
I sat down at the computer. I stared at the screen. The quiet of children reading was punctuated by muffled noises from the hallway. I didn’t even know where to start, but I knew I had to tell someone. “I just put a kid in an invisible box,” I typed, “and he stayed there.”
~~~~~~~~~~
When I got the phone call five days before the beginning of my fourth year of teaching informing me that I would be moving from fourth grade back up to fifth grade, I knew I’d have some of the same students again. I had six of them to be exact; and Chris was one of them. Colleagues and union reps offered to plead my case for me, untenured as I was. “No one should be forced to have a child with that many problems two years in a row,” but I politely refused. I didn’t believe in fate or accidents, and there was some purpose for this particular child to be in my classroom again. Plus, this was a kid I genuinely enjoyed, on his lucid days, anyways. He wasn’t purposefully malicious, didn’t seem to intentionally disobey, just couldn’t handle life in a typical classroom.
It became apparent a few days into the school year that some maturing had taken place over the summer. He’d gone from his first year in fourth grade, crawling on the floor, barking and sometimes biting people to his second year in fourth grade, sometimes barking but never biting anyone, to fifth grade, occasionally crawling on the floor, but no biting or barking. Progress.
Except that most days, Chris still couldn’t function. This year I decided to try removing him from the eight other boys in my room who loved to encourage him. Many days he ended up in the hallway; I didn’t always get him there in time.
My room was situated on the second floor of our building, at the top of the stairs. Any class coming from the ground floor used that staircase when traveling to Art, Computers, or Library. Added to that, the office was across the hall from my room; parents and students were back and forth all day long.
On one otherwise normal day, Chris began coping with some perceived problem during class by shredding paper and making towers and streets on his desk with it. This would have been fine, except for the sounds of a city being constructed on his desk. I asked him to please wait for me at the back of the room. Loud noises continued to find their way to the front of the room as construction continued, this time with books and other refuse. His next step was the hallway. I carefully propped the door open and attempted to continue teaching. From my position near the desk of another student, I heard him, then heard another class on their way to the library. I maneuvered myself to a position where I could keep one eye on the hall and one eye on the teaching moment I was having with another student. What I saw embarrassed me: Chris, rolling back and forth across the narrow hall, forcing other students to hop over him, or somehow quickly run around him as they went by.
Asking the rest of the class to take out silent reading books, I marched into the hallway, ready to yell, but knowing that wouldn’t do any good. Instead, I spotted two desks, reserved for kids who liked working in the hallway, sitting about three feet apart on the wall opposite the door. Moving Chris to his feet, I gently placed him between the desks. “Chris,” I said, “I’ve just made a box for you. There’s an invisible line between these two desks, and you may not cross it.” I stood back to watch. With a slight yelp, he flung himself at the invisible wall, hands extended mime-style, feeling the “walls” of his new cage. I went back and sat down where I could discreetly watch. Mrs. Hilliard’s class came through on their way to art. Chris leaped, snarling, but stopped short at the invisible wall. He felt the wall with his hands, growled at those walking by, but stayed behind the wall. I shook my head. Even on the bad days, he was so clever, so entertaining. I couldn’t help but like this kid.
Still, this was not enough progress for me to feel comfortable feeding him to the wolves at the middle school with absolutely no support.
I approached our school-family liaison and interim principal. District policy stated that I should take Chris’s case in front of the Teacher Assistance Team to determine whether testing him was the best option. I had followed the rules the first year I had Chris. I didn’t want to take this child’s name before the Team a second year and be told, again, that his home life had damaged him beyond repair and there was nothing anyone could do. I explained to the principal that I’d like to approach his mom about having the school psychologists do some testing with Chris, to see what kinds of help we could give him to help prepare him for middle school. When she heard of the dog days, the daily removals from the room, and the invisible box, the interim principal gave her blessing.
I approached mom from the perspective of wanting Chris to have the most successful middle school experience possible. Even after repeating a grade, he had not improved enough, and we needed more information if we were to be able to help him. Mom agreed.
So began the revolving door of adults in my room. Three different school psychologists, the occupational therapist, a physical therapist, and a speech therapist, just to name a few. They all came to observe Chris in his unnatural habitat. They agreed, every single one, that something was not right, but that was where the agreement ended. Some said “Oppositional Defiant,” some said, “Emotionally Impaired,” still others said, “Autistic.” Our resident psychologist shared with me that this was, by far, the most difficult evaluation she’d ever been involved with. In the end, they finally had to sit down with the manual for definitions of disabilities provided by the Department of Education. As a team, they went through the parameters of each disability, looking at test results and observations to determine fit. At last, the diagnosis was settled. High functioning Asberger’s Syndrome.
Would he have been tested if he had been in another classroom? It’s hard to say. The teacher would most likely have followed protocol, taken his name before the panel of teachers to get suggestions. They would most likely have been told again that home was so messed up there was no point in testing. Chris may have gone to middle school with no evaluation, no diagnosis.
But in this district, a diagnosis of Asberger’s Syndrome got you a teacher consultant who’d meet with you twice a month, a half hour at a time. Maybe a few accommodations listed on an IEP, which teachers might or might not read. So had I really helped him?
One of the benefits and one of the downfalls of living in a small town with a small school system is that even after kids leave our building, we still hear about them. So I kept up on Chris. I heard about his initial mix of good and bad days. Of teachers who found him amusing when he stood up in the middle of class with an imaginary camcorder, videotaping classmates. Then I heard about his further withdrawal. How a navy blue hoodie became his uniform of choice. He’d sit in the back of the class, hood up, interacting with no one. I heard about the meeting attended by all of Chris’s teachers; one stood up and fought for accommodations for this child, while the rest continued repeating, “We have a hundred other students a day. We’re supposed to change the way we do things for just one kid?”
~~~~~~~~~~
I saw Chris just one final time. The meeting showed that the progress he’d made in two years with me hadn’t been enough.
It was a warm, April day. Over a year had passed since he’d been in my class. I stood outside the new elementary building, policing children anxious to be on the bus home. A tall, thin boy wearing a blue hoodie exited bus 00-7 and headed for me. I didn’t recognize him at first, but as he approached, I realized it was Chris.
“Hey, Chris, how are you?”
He looked at the ground, unwilling or unable to meet my gaze and mumbled, “Can I get a pop?”
“If it’s OK with your bus driver,” I sighed. I had been foolish to assume the connection was still there.
He loped into the building, bought a Pepsi, and returned to the bus, without so much as a wave or a glance in my direction.
Progress?
fourth year
I sat down at the computer. I stared at the screen. The quiet of children reading was punctuated by muffled noises from the hallway. I didn’t even know where to start, but I knew I had to tell someone. “I just put a kid in an invisible box,” I typed, “and he stayed there.”
~~~~~~~~~~
When I got the phone call five days before the beginning of my fourth year of teaching informing me that I would be moving from fourth grade back up to fifth grade, I knew I’d have some of the same students again. I had six of them to be exact; and Chris was one of them. Colleagues and union reps offered to plead my case for me, untenured as I was. “No one should be forced to have a child with that many problems two years in a row,” but I politely refused. I didn’t believe in fate or accidents, and there was some purpose for this particular child to be in my classroom again. Plus, this was a kid I genuinely enjoyed, on his lucid days, anyways. He wasn’t purposefully malicious, didn’t seem to intentionally disobey, just couldn’t handle life in a typical classroom.
It became apparent a few days into the school year that some maturing had taken place over the summer. He’d gone from his first year in fourth grade, crawling on the floor, barking and sometimes biting people to his second year in fourth grade, sometimes barking but never biting anyone, to fifth grade, occasionally crawling on the floor, but no biting or barking. Progress.
Except that most days, Chris still couldn’t function. This year I decided to try removing him from the eight other boys in my room who loved to encourage him. Many days he ended up in the hallway; I didn’t always get him there in time.
My room was situated on the second floor of our building, at the top of the stairs. Any class coming from the ground floor used that staircase when traveling to Art, Computers, or Library. Added to that, the office was across the hall from my room; parents and students were back and forth all day long.
On one otherwise normal day, Chris began coping with some perceived problem during class by shredding paper and making towers and streets on his desk with it. This would have been fine, except for the sounds of a city being constructed on his desk. I asked him to please wait for me at the back of the room. Loud noises continued to find their way to the front of the room as construction continued, this time with books and other refuse. His next step was the hallway. I carefully propped the door open and attempted to continue teaching. From my position near the desk of another student, I heard him, then heard another class on their way to the library. I maneuvered myself to a position where I could keep one eye on the hall and one eye on the teaching moment I was having with another student. What I saw embarrassed me: Chris, rolling back and forth across the narrow hall, forcing other students to hop over him, or somehow quickly run around him as they went by.
Asking the rest of the class to take out silent reading books, I marched into the hallway, ready to yell, but knowing that wouldn’t do any good. Instead, I spotted two desks, reserved for kids who liked working in the hallway, sitting about three feet apart on the wall opposite the door. Moving Chris to his feet, I gently placed him between the desks. “Chris,” I said, “I’ve just made a box for you. There’s an invisible line between these two desks, and you may not cross it.” I stood back to watch. With a slight yelp, he flung himself at the invisible wall, hands extended mime-style, feeling the “walls” of his new cage. I went back and sat down where I could discreetly watch. Mrs. Hilliard’s class came through on their way to art. Chris leaped, snarling, but stopped short at the invisible wall. He felt the wall with his hands, growled at those walking by, but stayed behind the wall. I shook my head. Even on the bad days, he was so clever, so entertaining. I couldn’t help but like this kid.
Still, this was not enough progress for me to feel comfortable feeding him to the wolves at the middle school with absolutely no support.
I approached our school-family liaison and interim principal. District policy stated that I should take Chris’s case in front of the Teacher Assistance Team to determine whether testing him was the best option. I had followed the rules the first year I had Chris. I didn’t want to take this child’s name before the Team a second year and be told, again, that his home life had damaged him beyond repair and there was nothing anyone could do. I explained to the principal that I’d like to approach his mom about having the school psychologists do some testing with Chris, to see what kinds of help we could give him to help prepare him for middle school. When she heard of the dog days, the daily removals from the room, and the invisible box, the interim principal gave her blessing.
I approached mom from the perspective of wanting Chris to have the most successful middle school experience possible. Even after repeating a grade, he had not improved enough, and we needed more information if we were to be able to help him. Mom agreed.
So began the revolving door of adults in my room. Three different school psychologists, the occupational therapist, a physical therapist, and a speech therapist, just to name a few. They all came to observe Chris in his unnatural habitat. They agreed, every single one, that something was not right, but that was where the agreement ended. Some said “Oppositional Defiant,” some said, “Emotionally Impaired,” still others said, “Autistic.” Our resident psychologist shared with me that this was, by far, the most difficult evaluation she’d ever been involved with. In the end, they finally had to sit down with the manual for definitions of disabilities provided by the Department of Education. As a team, they went through the parameters of each disability, looking at test results and observations to determine fit. At last, the diagnosis was settled. High functioning Asberger’s Syndrome.
Would he have been tested if he had been in another classroom? It’s hard to say. The teacher would most likely have followed protocol, taken his name before the panel of teachers to get suggestions. They would most likely have been told again that home was so messed up there was no point in testing. Chris may have gone to middle school with no evaluation, no diagnosis.
But in this district, a diagnosis of Asberger’s Syndrome got you a teacher consultant who’d meet with you twice a month, a half hour at a time. Maybe a few accommodations listed on an IEP, which teachers might or might not read. So had I really helped him?
One of the benefits and one of the downfalls of living in a small town with a small school system is that even after kids leave our building, we still hear about them. So I kept up on Chris. I heard about his initial mix of good and bad days. Of teachers who found him amusing when he stood up in the middle of class with an imaginary camcorder, videotaping classmates. Then I heard about his further withdrawal. How a navy blue hoodie became his uniform of choice. He’d sit in the back of the class, hood up, interacting with no one. I heard about the meeting attended by all of Chris’s teachers; one stood up and fought for accommodations for this child, while the rest continued repeating, “We have a hundred other students a day. We’re supposed to change the way we do things for just one kid?”
~~~~~~~~~~
I saw Chris just one final time. The meeting showed that the progress he’d made in two years with me hadn’t been enough.
It was a warm, April day. Over a year had passed since he’d been in my class. I stood outside the new elementary building, policing children anxious to be on the bus home. A tall, thin boy wearing a blue hoodie exited bus 00-7 and headed for me. I didn’t recognize him at first, but as he approached, I realized it was Chris.
“Hey, Chris, how are you?”
He looked at the ground, unwilling or unable to meet my gaze and mumbled, “Can I get a pop?”
“If it’s OK with your bus driver,” I sighed. I had been foolish to assume the connection was still there.
He loped into the building, bought a Pepsi, and returned to the bus, without so much as a wave or a glance in my direction.
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