Love's Got Much to Do With It

Today was ridiculously hectic. I mean ri-di-cue-luss. So much so that I will just say that it's a good thing I don't scare easy or I would have been in the hills many moons ago.

At the same time, I am going to hold on to the notion that romance isn't completely groundless and that is something--even if it's the faintest of lights--to which I can look to feel the warm glow that results when two who are smitten come together. I need to feel the love!

Romancin' Ain't Easy

So this week I had many conversations in the wake of the second marking period, which like the first, wasn't pretty. Many, many students did not come close to passing, but by some measure of grace, the lowest grade I can log for a student who comes to class but produces nothing is a 55. ANYWAY. Apart from the "No, I didn't give you this grade. You earned this grade" mantra I'd adopted, I had a great talk with the principal that reminded me of things I had learned in teacher school, decided were must-haves in the classroom of my dreams, and then promptly let get pushed to the recesses of my gray matter as the breadth, width and length of teenage hormonal vicissitudes, new co-workers, and mountains of paperwork filled my head and ears.

You see how long that last sentence was? Exactly my point.

SO, here I sit, having been told that though our school has "some of the lowest performing kids in the city," and that "for many of them, homework is a foreign concept" and though according to the state they should be honing their argumentative essay writing skills "you have some with whom you have to teach subject-verb agreement," that their grades are ON ME. Hmmm. Now, let me just say that this is not be the first relationship I've experienced in which heavy lifting is required and the other party isn't doing much more than nose-picking. No, not at all. However, it doesn't change the fact that I sometimes want to just hit something. Hard.

Nonetheless, I am also resolved that this relationship will NOT die. If there is one thing I am, it's determined, and if there is one thing I am not, it's a quitter. Teaching is romantic to me because of the myriad opportunities I have to learn--be it from a student letter telling me why he doesn't work (because the work is boring), or from the strange way data comes from my higher-ups--and become better. I am also charmed by the number of problems to be solved--like this behemoth issue of a classroom in which the kid who has written a novel and the other who struggles to write a full sentence sit next to each other and expect me to meet them (even if they won't admit it). Through my other other imbalanced relationships I learned that not pulling the weight of those who can barely hold up their heads is extremely costly. Frighteningly so.

I've heard it stated in terms of my teacher rating, which in turn affects the rating of the school (not to mention my job), but I'm not studying that. I'll leave that to the administration to fret upon. I've got 50 kids with at least 100 needs each--and they've got years of learning to catch up on. As for me and my classroom, we've got some stereotypes to decimate, strongly held habits to break, and history to redirect.

All in the name of love.

A Matter of Circumstance

Today is the first post-Sandy work day, and also the first with heat and electricity. Kinda nice how that all worked out.

Yesterday I met a kindly gentleman as I tried to navigate streets filled with irritated gas, milk and ice-seekers. His frustrations were of a different ilk because he had been on foot and bus for a long time trying to find an open bank branch from which he needed paperwork to renew his lease. I was looking for an open branch too, so we joined forces. He later said our state-of-emergency-borne union "calmed his ire," which I thought was cool because you don't hear that too often (see my 9.18.12 post titled "The Spirit vs. the Letter"). He also ran down the names of at least seven elected officials for whom he had an earful because of their neglect of his neighbors. One, an 87-year old woman of whom he said "we call her Brown Sugar," fell the other day and hit her head.  He spoke of others who weren't ambulatory or needed oxygen machinery. Even if the politicos couldn't come themselves, he asked, WHY hadn't they sent a representative? I could only agree with him and add a rejoinder I've often lamented--America does not take care of its elderly.  That sad truth was the crux of his ire, and he told me so again. He considered himself blessed--and he SO was--because at 77 he was up and about and even drove a school bus part time when things weren't Sandy-fied. His name is David, and his delight over being able to charge his phone in my car was delightful. I like the name David. I don't meet too many Davids anymore.

I hope his building got electricity last night. They could really use it, but with Mr. David on the case they've got an ace in the hole.

To Organize is Divine

So anyone who knows me has had the dizzying experience, at one point or another, of trying to decipher the discombobulation in my head. I can only wonder what they think as they walk away, sometimes very slowly and at other times, as fast as they can. I am surprised some ever talk to me ever again. I doubt that I would if I could separate me from me. But anyway--such is the fate of one who is nuts. 

Attendant to my way of being are cluttered corners--sometimes literal, like on the nightstand or on the desk, and others that tenaciously cling to the edges of thinking spaces often traveled--that exacerbate my sorry state. The fact that I don't always recognize them takes things to yet another level. Last weekend I accidentally identified and dealt with one and felt a renewal of being I can't describe. 'Twas my clothes closet, which I first approached to find a certain pair of pants and wound up attacking with vigor. I threw things away, packed away others and then, for the pièce de résistance, ORGANIZED THE REST.

I was overwhelmed by the results--so much so that I kept opening the door and looking just to make sure it wasn't someone else's. Now I know where all my pants are, including the pair I sought (which, irony of ironies, didn't surface till about 80 percent through the process). Alas, I looked upon my work and saw that it was good.

Now, if only I can transfer the process of that tiny victory to other corners, where ungraded papes, new ways of teaching vocabulary and term projects are lurking. More on that later.... 

At least 1,000

A Day in the Life

A purple thick haze tinged with gray at the edges, billowing violently as though a thunderous bass drum forced it along a brisk 4-count--that’s what you’d see if you had a microscope with a teeny thingamabob that could get into my ear canal. Yup. 

By the way, the bass is for rhythmic effect, not because I have a headache. I rarely get headaches, strangely enough. I’m a gal with rhythm; it doth move me so. Purple is a deep fave also.  

That aside, I think the value of Hump Day is commensurate with the Hump you have to get over, but I’m still working that out in my head. Yesterday I expunged two loudly bickering boys from my class, which prompted one to call his mommy, and that began a chain of events I’ll get back to in a moment. After the class from which I expunged the bickerers it was lunchtime, but instead of tending to that small but important affair I was hustled into a meeting I barely knew the purpose of only to learn that the meeting’s leader was in the same predicament. It ended with “tomorrow is up in the air (which turned out to be only somewhat true); I’ll have to get back to you.” 

Immediately after that I went to the office to call the mom of the bickerers (one of whom was already alerted by her child, if you recall), but just as I lifted the phone receiver, I was whisked once again to another meeting with the mom of the calling bickerer, who had worked herself into a lather and made her way onsite to sort out this business of her son being ejected from class. Oh boy.

Into that meeting I went with as much briefing as a quick stroll down two hallways with a naturally fast walking dean (who summoned me) will allow. The mom’s voice emanated from the dean’s office--probably not at full register but definitely unavoidable--as I approached. Because her child had continued to push buttons well after he dialed her number, mom's fears were many. Nonetheless, I am proud of my success at bringing her off the ledge. As a matter of fact, I managed to work in a not-so-veiled comment about her baby’s barely lukewarm academic standing. I had her eating out of my hand by then.

Then I ate a five-minute sandwich in three-minutes and went off to class, after which I had a moment to inhale. Then, a scant few moments into my last class of the day I got a message saying I had to cut class short for a meeting, which was filled with what? MORE confusion! Such is the life of an educator in the Greatest City in the World. 

In other news, I did manage to make lunch every day this week and earlier today when the bell rang at the end of my first class, I heard a student say, “Man! Just when it was getting interesting!”

I’ll take that. Yes I will. 

The Science of Rockets

Failure to launch is not an option.

So just to mix things up a bit, I am taking a break from grading papers to read an article for homework (for which I have to write a coherent response before I forget what I read), planning for classes tomorrow, planning for Parent Night on Thursday, and now, stopping in to blog. Somehow it all works together. My reading is called "Seeing the Student," and is about taking time to make deliberate observations about as many individual students as possible for the sake of learning how best to teach them. Mind you, I still need to figure out what to do with my observations of CM, who is given to near meltdown (despite his bravado) as he claims innocence when I call him on disruptive behaviors; or RWB, who studiously avoids anything resembling a test or quiz with feigned illness, overwhelming desires to sleep, or some other affliction. I cannot plan without considering them in particular. I'll just say they have a way of making themselves known. Every single class.

At the same time, I am engaging in an effort to backwards plan, or begin with the end in mind as I think about the next five weeks of instruction. I am excited about what I've planned so far, but let it be known that what I think is exciting is often not viewed thusly by those with 'teen affinities. That applies evenly from shoe styles to lesson plans, trust me!

I hope it works out, though. In the meantime, I must figure out to how to make five hours of sleep power me through the next four days without breaking a sweat. Did I mention the monster assignment I have due on Wednesday night for another class? No matter what, I've gotta look like I have it together when the parents come this week no matter how much of my brains I've left strewn along my commute between now and then.

Oh boy.

Higher Learning

A truly higher education

So earlier this week I was convinced I needed to hitchhike to Hawaii to pursue a doctoral degree in beach combing. Or perhaps find an  apprenticeship with an iron welder--which would make me both unique and skilled. Hungry but unsure of what to eat, tired but unwilling to close my eyes, I wandered desperately close to the border of an existentialist crisis, took a look and high-tailed it back to what I know that I know. 

1. First on the list is the immutable fact that I have light years of leaning to tackle. The more I learn, the more I know I need to learn. I will consider that solace and assurance that I will one day be a teacher whose class I'd like to be in.
2. I have access to, and the support of a delightful team of personal friends, colleagues and even teachers of teachers (an extraordinary undertaking) who have been lending me a smorgasbord of supports without which I would starve. For their wonderful sakes, this thing is gonna fly!
3. I have an abiding commitment to caring. Though it can often land me on the short side of the stick, this is important. It means that I can look a young bloke in the eye, tell him I KNOW he is better than what his actions dictate and see the click just behind his pupils as he registers that I mean what I'm saying.
4. While I really don't like confrontations, I am actually quite good at them when the need arises. So if I need to stride purposefully towards a student until he backs against a wall and looks nervous, well so be it. 'Nuff said.

So Hawaii and that doctorate will have to wait just a little bit longer while I sort out a few things, but I can live with that.

The Good Old Days

SO much to consider when measuring progress

There have been a few educators--ranging from early childhood to higher education--whom I've watched and from whom I've learned over the last several years. One was a school leader who seemed to be a ubiquitous ninja. One weekend I watched her go from a parent night to a 6th grade sleepover to a basketball game and show up well-prepared and looking fresh every time. She was also responded promptly to emails, knew every child's name, personally handed out Kit Kats on the last day of school, and still found time for mani-pedis.


Then there was the southern belle who was quick to question every historical/traditional convention she discovered in her work as a poet, editor or professor. It was she who voiced a tenet of my personal teaching philosophy I didn't even know I possessed. "I'm not here for those students," she said, referring to students at plush private universities whose K-12 experience prepared them well for life in the driver's seat. "I want students who are hungry, who are maybe the first generation in their family to be in college. The ones against whom the odds are stacked." Hopefully I am not begrudging kids who were born into comfy socio-economic circumstances, but there is a difference when students don't assume entitlement.


At first glance, the pre-K teacher I remember fondly to this day dresses in black and probably looks the part of a cross-country Harley riding free spirit, but she was organized, disciplined, soft-spoken, intellectually rigorous, respect-commanding and the creator of some wonderful memories. Two of my children left her class more than ready for Kindergarten.

I tried to be one of those teachers last weekend when I went to my students' football game. What wound up happening is that I got lost and made it for the last 60 seconds of the game (literally). I have so far to go.

Since beginning this post (last weekend, which is more evidence of me getting swallowed by school days and non-ninja status), I had a chance to speak to two different veteran educators, who have at least six decades of experience under their belts. One told me of recently meeting a former student who called over a friend and said, "You see this man here? He used to beat the CRAP out of me everyday, and now I'm a detective!" The vet was slightly alarmed that the object of his handiwork was now armed and much stronger, but apparently something happened during their hands-on experiences. Aaaah, those were the days.

Now, such interactive teaching styles are frowned upon but--I daresay--are muchly needed. In their stead, I am launching a full-on communications effort to get as many parents as possible to the first report card night of the year so I can not-so-subtly suggest some techniques parents can use to help their children along the path to success. 

Let's see how that works out.

The Lion Queen

Don't mess with the Queen!

I have a friend who likes to tease me, saying I've been operating like a wee little pussycat though a lion lies within.

Well, today I roared...and five hours after school let out my teeth are still bared. You see, there's this student who has by and large taken his entree to high school to be 9 parts fun and 1 part work. Now to give him credit, he has turned in some assignments and they do show evidence of him paying attention from time to time, but he thinks he's slick.

How slick, do you say?

He thinks he's Delancey Street Shell Game Slick or Taxi Driver In A Far Away Place Snagging A Juicy American Fare Slick or I-Think-My-Teacher-Is-So-Stupid-She-Won't-Notice-Me-Blatantly-Cheating-Slick. BLA-DOW! I am sure there a lot of people who might not rate what happened next as high octane (after all, as another student informed me, "My teachers used to curse at me ALL the time"), but I was heated. And trust me, the whole class knew it. This little boy who doesn't KNOW me had the unmitigated gall, the untethered temerity, THE NERVE to cheat!!!

Now of course, upon reflection I probably should have handled the whole affair with much more aplomb and dare I say, finesse. On the other hand, I do remember experiencing a twinge of envy when I heard a student saying "Are you kidding me? I can't be late to Ms. So-and-So's class!..." because he knew she didn't play and he had to be on his game from jump. While I rarely have students come late and I do start work immediately, I've struggled to land a pace that inspires students too cool to be rushed and accommodates those who genuinely need a bit more time to process. It can be frustrating, and I am finding my generally accommodating demeanor to be a hindrance. This kitty has got to go somewhere--for real. There are way too many things to teach over the next 168 days for me to be putting up with laziness or other foolishness. Really!

I love classrooms because there are a zillion things to work on all the time, and finding the balance is like the ultimate Tetris game. Let's just say challenge inspires me. If I move at just the right pace, I will not only keep students engaged but I will maintain the balance of power (such an ugly, necessary word), use precious time on what matters, and give students a well-needed sense of urgency. Yes, urgency, because high school is a short ride with a looooong playlist--trust me, you don't want to know how many graduate without basic essay-writing skills. You just DON'T. Then there are the matters of making every lesson accessible to multiple types of learners, me being constantly reflective about what works and what doesn't, maintaining routines, and of course, breathing.

Still and all, I am delighted by what's possible--that silly, cocky freshmen who say things like 'these words are booty' when I give them SAT vocabulary will write circles around their competition on college apps; that their thinking will become sooo flexible that standardized tests are to them what a 2-mile run is to a cheetah; and that at least ONE student will say 'Ah HAH!' every say, week, maybe? Hmmm.

My students groan and talk A LOT about what they can't do, but all I can hear right now is my roar.

Carrots and Cousins

Yesterday was another sprinkled with challenge. Just as I attempted to begin my commute home with a time of solitude and sulking, my principal cheerfully invited me to "meet with a group of colleagues" in a classroom smack dab between mine and the exit. Oomph. For a lot of reasons I saw that it would be good to show my face, so I went.

As we all know, theory is the handsome cousin of practice, so things got dicey pretty quick.

The bottom line was we needed to agree on the bottom line, which was somewhere near a happy place where we consistently, fairly AND cooperatively worked to raise the bar for students and teachers.  Not only raise the bar but hold it in place and regularly inch it up as we see fit. In either case, I reached my limit before it was all done. I came, I saw, and I was conquered. And I remain frustrated because I love this work for the same reasons I could begin to loath it--the jumbled, contradictory, messy, emotive nature of human beings. Whether it's teenaged boys defying a school uniform policy, a career politico stumping for office or a two-year-old one breath from a tantrum, one thing rings true: To live is to struggle. The carrot on the proverbial stick I need to hold before my eyes is: Will I struggle for a solution or for MYSELF? And yes, in case you are wondering, I do consider each option the polar opposite of the other.

Nonetheless, in this moment I am still for the larger good, believing that much, much more is not only possible, but DO-able to make humans less human and more HUMANE. I hope I feel such a way next week, next year and next decade.

Really I do.

Got glue?

Tired. Coffee effects last about 20 minutes if I'm lucky. Lunch I so smartly packed Tuesday night and wisely carried in on Wednesday morning is still waiting (in the staff fridge) for a 10 minute microwave-finding-and-leftover-scarfing mission.

Hopefully, if I find all the king's horses and all the king's men to tend to my issues this weekend they'll do a better job than they did with HD.

Yet, there are many miles to go before I sleep...or just drop my face onto the keyboard, whichever comes first. Now, to make it through this Friday that's coming no matter what  I do.

The spirit vs. the letter

Last week a student protested my use of the phrase "having beef" as we discussed Romeo and Juliet. She said, in slightly different terms, that I should be using more academic terms, rather than those she hears everyday. I guess I encroached (academic word!) on her territory. I told her I appreciated her concern, that the phrase under scrutiny is one I use when talking to my own friends, but that I would curb such dalliances (another!) moving forward. Later during that same class she eagerly took down definitions of the words tactile and amorphous, which I happened to use in passing (but not because of her reproach, I don't think). As they wrote the definitions, I said these were words they should know and if they found use for them in their writings "that would be smooth," which drew a chuckle from another corner. I had slipped again!

I think she ignored me that time, and probably even pursed her lips in disgust.

The fact of the matter is that language delights me to no end. Be it formal or informal, I rather enjoy phrase twists, multiple entendres, and ironies--all of which slang often includes. So do the writings of Anna Quindlen, Christopher Hutchins, V.S. Naipaul and Gabriel Garcia Marquez. These sweet somethings are probably why editing holds a special place on the left side of my brain. They might even be (part of) the reason I write. I will even go so far as to say they are reason enough for me to claim myself a GREAT English teacher someday--once I get a few kinks worked out. 

One time, a friend with a fashion background looked at a pair of my shoes and mentioned they were boot-simulators, which tickled me to death. It was the first time I had heard the phrase, but it pleased me that it made perfect sense the instant I did. It was love at first hearing, if you will. I know: Weird. Nerdy. Whatever. Some people love cars like that and you don't judge them, so why look at me funny? It was a great use of words, I tell ya!

For too long, my house dictionary had fallen prey to my space-challenged shelving system, and had to hang uncomfortably behind a bookcase until the happy day that I got fed up with not seeing it whenever I wanted to. According to that important book, I am a logophile: noun. 1. A lover of words. [Emphasis added]. 

I am good with that, and so be it. 

I will probably have to discuss this seeming disparity to my student at some point this year--with gladness, because I really do appreciate that she wants her English teacher to "speak proper English," but I am not just an English teacher. 

Know-whut-ahm-sayin'?

Oh, JOY....

Today, I learned that a colleague celebrates Friday Eve, which is a completely credible entry for the Teacher's Lexicon. In this case it's even more appropriate because we begin a four-day weekend at 3:00 tomorrow. Perhaps it is student anxiety about not seeing their teachers for so long that explains the number of fights that broke out today. Perhaps.

In either case, fights in the hallways are one of the many things for which NYC schools are known, and not without reason. City kids have to be sure they can hold their own in the face of perceived or real threat--that's just thw way it is. Nonetheless, there are still adults AND young people who genuinely pursue learning every day in all kinds of NYC school buildings all over this magnificent city. Today, JH gave me quite the boost when he came to me after a particularly tough class meeting to say "I think I got it while you were giving the examples."

I hope he saw my heart skip a beat as I was answering another teacher's question, erasing and looking for a stack of stuff, but  I doubt he did. He thought he GOT IT, which means he was THINKING, which means he was LISTENING, which means he CARED enough to pay attention.

For those of you in the studio audience who have ever met and/or engaged in a conversation with a teen male on anything other than video games or sports, you will understand that this is big. Really big.

But WAIT! It gets better. The teen male in my life texted the following to me not an hour later: "3.8 GPA. Just sayin..." He got one B ("I don't like English. That's why.") and the the other grades are As and A-plusses.

YES!!!!!

This Magic Moment

The other day I learned that my 7-year-old best bud, who is in second grade, is on a 7th grade reading level. Seventh. Grade. Seven. Years. Old.

While there are likely many children doing similarly remarkable things, his story makes me quite happy, especially because last school year he was enrolled at a charter school (that shall remain nameless) run by people who all but handed him his hat and invited him to leave the stratosphere, and most definitely the school.

You see, my best bud is a VERY spirited young man with a steel trap of a mind, which he uses at the whim of his 7-year old emotions. Like just about any child, if he senses that one adult or another has dismissed him as a bother, he doesn't regard the matter fondly at all. At this nameless school, it seems the administration, which was heavy-laden with fresh-faced college grads who were both upwardly mobile and clueless, refused to reach beyond their OWN emotions and get to my buddy's extremely hungry mind. Too often and out loud they wondered if there were there problems at home, with his family or his very existence.  Never once in all the meetings his mother moved heaven and earth to arrange did they consider their own ineptitude, forged by inexperience, bigotry and good old-fashioned classism. My bud's mom told me about the scads of cash the parent body raised and the parental snubs that threatened budding friendships naturally formed during my bud's first grade days. Every time she told me of another incident, my skin crawled and my fingers twitched, wanting to write a tell-all in the local paper.  Rather than engage my vengefulness, my bud's mom held on, got him some support AND moved him to another school where being Other Than White and Monied was not a punishable crime. It was at his new school that he began to flourish like Michael Phelps, and his superfast mind was respected and understood as tough to manage in a 7-year-old body.

I believe an important take away is that while charter schools CAN be a good thing, they are NOT the answer. Quality education is to charter schools what fluffy pancakes are to a whisk--if you don't know what you're doing, you'll get flat results. As with all organized efforts involving humans (because the animal and plant communities just don't HAVE these problems), a school's quality really rests on the emotional, psychological, intellectual and spiritual health of its leaders. As they say, fish begin to stink from the head.

I believe another important tidbit this story offers is the ageless truth that ugly isn't divinely favored. On the first day of school this year, this stinky school experienced an unfortunate occurrence, forcing it to close its doors.

And it just so happens that the day I learned of my bud's Olympic reading feats was the same day I learned of the closing.

And I smiled. A lot.

Mission: Possible

My mission for this year, which I have chosen to accept, is to get my students to read, write, think, speak and listen in a manner consistent with post-high school readiness.

It's a good thing I'm not afraid of the Big Bad Wolf. At ALL.

We begin Romeo and Juliet on Monday (not my first choice at all, but there has been some unattractive snafu with book ordering. I REALLY wanted Lorraine Hansberry's A Raisin in the Sun), and as of this moment, I am in no small amount of denial that has caused me to put off planning--not to mention my desire to enjoy what amounted to a rather pleasant Saturday. ANYWAY, the time has come; I must go big or go home, and the latter is not an option at all.

So for Monday, all I need to do is:

• Plan an air-tight week of lessons to get 6 girls and 36 boys on the same page as we embark on a quest to discover how identity (my chosen theme for the year) seems to impact the motivations of the Montagues and Capulets and similarly, the motivations of my very students;
• Plan such that I can achieve this air-tightness with or without technology. This is important because as of this moment, I have not yet received a laptop with which to use my absolutely magnificent SMARTBoard, which is mounted very conspicuously over the EXACT portion of the good old-fashioned chalkboard that I would love to be able to use in the absence of digital technologies, which I would also love to use. (On Friday, the AP said he'd like me "to use the SMARTBoard every day." I second that motion.);
• NOT become unglued thinking about the many ways the above two bullets can go wrong.

Sounds do-able.

P.S. Like my poster? Two of my kids (not students, biological) helped me color it by hand. Coloring never gets old.

The students are coming! The students are coming!

In less than eight hours, I will embark on the ACTUAL first day, featuring kids fresh squeezed from middle school. Today I finished a book that I hope will inform what I do well this year. It's called READING DON'T FIX NO CHEVYS: LITERACY IN THE LIVES OF YOUNG MEN. Great, great, great book saying some really important things about the way young men deal with information gathering. The Big News is that what teachers of English have been doing for years has very little to do with what many young men care about.
Do we discuss cleverly subtle canonical works or have them research topics that get them genuinely excited? Do we lecture at them about how they had better appreciate Shakespeare, or have them research the points of intersection their lives and Billy's plays have in common? Or is it even mandatory that Billy be a part of a class intended to prepare students for life beyond high school?
Did I mention that one of the first things the assistant principal told me when we first met is that this high school is 90 percent boys?
Of questions there is no limit. OK, I'll check in again from the other side of today, if I still have brains left.
Ciao for now...

On pitbulls and progress....

I first noticed the vigorous head nods, perhaps reflexive and a part of a standard listening pose, or maybe not. Turns out what I was seeing was the canary in the mine.

Did I ever mention that the most troublesome people group in education is NOT the kids? Had my departmental meeting today. BOOM! What do you get when you give a high-strung (and insecure) pit bull caffeine and a task to perform in concert WITH other (not necessarily shy and retiring) dogs? CRASH!!! You really don't want to know, trust me.

And I will move on...to the highlights:

The principal embarrassed me in front of the staff with a story of how she wished she had a camera to capture my face when she first showed me my class;

I met more funny, experienced, helpful and nice co-workers;

A few of those co-workers seemed genuinely pleased with my neurotic efforts to decorate my room, which was quite nice.

Despite the challenges, the departmental meeting DID yield a product, though it is still in development.

Did I mention that the first day of school has long been a source of bittersweet euphoria for me? Though every summer I mourned the incremental shortening of days as of June 22, everything from pencil sharpeners to new packs of pens made me downright giddy. It still does! This time I will actually KNOW what the teacher is like--the anticipation of which used to keep me awake on First Day Eve--but that brings little comfort under the inevitable scrutiny of 60-odd pairs of eyeballs. YIKES. N-E-way...

Now BACK to focusing on the First Day Prep for the other students in my household, for we are many. More from the trenches later.

Zero and counting...

I managed to get a sign up outside my door on Friday. It took much more effort than I willing to admit. Tomorrow I go in for teacher orientation and will hopefully get answers to the plethora of questions I have about logistics, statistics and everything in between. The one thing I believe will never get old about this is there is ALWAYS something to learn.

Though I never met with the teachers in my department, I do have a good deal of my lessons for the first several days written out, though much of it is on mental sheet of paper. I hope I will have a chance to meet with the other English teachers tomorrow. Or Wednesday, which is the last day before students fill the halls. Also wondering about the best garb for day one, though I am completely resolved that it will be nothing less than "don't even TRY me; for real."

OK, now to get more of those words from that cerebral document to the real thing....

Five is the magic number, I believe

At the end of last week, two different people I hold near and dear spoke kind and supportive words to me about this endeavor. One, who happens to be my brother, almost convinced me I was a superhero--a moment I will need to revisit a few times this year, I am sure.

After that, I met the school custodian, who was not only helpful but he also gave words of encouragement and support as I fussed about all I don't know.

Then, two OTHER people I think are fantabulous spoke even MORE kind words of affirmation to me--and even pooh poohed as I revisited how much I don't know (which is substantial). And that makes five. Positively delightful way to enjoy that number.

In other news, I was positively STYMIED by the notion of creating posters for my classroom this morning. It seemed I was committing something irreversible, indelible even, by putting tips and strategies on the walls. Sure I know how to read for deeper understanding, write with evidence to support my claims, and think analytically, but what if my students HATE the way I tried to explain it? What if they don't make sense? What if they do make sense and I have to follow through on them?

Whaaaat????

I wound up beginning with a generally accepted educational pep phrase ["Knowledge is power"] to get myself started. I even put it up to prove it look-at-able. Then I went crazy and made several others of increasing pizzazz, which made breakthrough poster less desirable, sort of like first-wife syndrome. :-/

OK, I know I'm going crazy. More to come...

As the world turns...

After A LOT of haranguing on my part, I convinced my children to start a book club with me. We meet for the first time on Friday. Let's see how that goes.

In other news, I am to meet with the other teachers in my department to plan for the year sometime this week. I guess we'll see how that goes also.

In the meantime, I am feverishly trying to decide how I will teach Elizabethean literature. We'll see how that goes as well.

More to come...

It's the finish that counts...

Just finished the three-day fall planning intensive and I'm so wishing it had been the bulk of my EIGHT WEEKS of training I did in June-July. Aside from the phenomenal passion, wit and humor the planning workshop leader exemplified, the content was SO practical, and so NOT disjointed theory with a dangerous proclivity for ringing hollow that I WANT MORE. The bottom line is that on the day students arrive I better be ready to p-e-r-f-o-r-m from the top of the day to the very end, and that's what I need to know how to do.  Period.

One of the many take-aways of the last three days was that there are many, many ways to engage students in the active use of their knowledge, which in turn can/should feed a larger goal of preparing students to succeed in college (as opposed to simply applying or starting).

In another stellar moment, we discussed how each of us comes to our students with assumptions and presumptions that we must reflect on daily as a means to hold ourselves accountable. We broached questions like: Am I enabling escapist behavior if I allow this student to disrupt class every time I assign work that 'is too hard'? What is 'too hard' and why? If I don't have an experience that mirrors that of the stereotypical troubled inner-city family, am I arrogant in my belief that I can help?  Is it more caring to insist that students find ways to work around/over/through tough life circumstances OR cut them slack? Just how much can I do in a year to transform hormonal middle schoolers into equipped and engaged sophomores (who have somewhat managed to check their hormones)?

Will there REALLY be a day when I wake up and feel I just can't do it anymore? What if I don't find teachers who DON'T spend every break complaining about the kids, the kids, the kids (and whom I've been duly warned to stay away from)? How will I get wind back in my sails? Blood re-circulating? Mind working?    

I'll stop there, but the list is by no means done. More to come...

Countdown

Only a few days left. Today I was up at City College doing a three-day intensive geared towards being ready for September. The workshop leader is a VERY enthusiastic person who says she uses her corny-ness [her word] to engage the kids. I wish I had a teacher like her back in the day. She teaches 10th grade Global Studies and she has them study one revolution after another (American, French, South American, what-have-you) as means of understanding civil liberties, group protest, and a bunch of other cool stuff. The kids organize a protest as their final project!! I had to memorize dates ad nauseum. BLEKH...Well at least someone figured out a new way to bring history to life!

She said one day when she was role playing a shopkeeper in Communist Russia who opened her doors to commerce for a scant 30 seconds at a clip, one of her "problem" students began to rally all the other students (who were prepared with rubles) to NOT get on line because "if we don't buy, she goes out of business!" When she offered him a lollipop for thinking that no other student presented, he refused it, saying if everyone couldn't get one, he would not take it. Talk about internalizing a lesson!

I hope to be just as creative/effective someday...by the way, that so-called problem student finished the year very well.

Gooooooooooooaaaaaaaaaalllll!!!!!

To do this, that, and the other thing

At last count, there were a bajillion things to do to be ready for September. Not least among them will be getting an enduring grip on what can realistically be done in a year, month, week, day, or class period. I have a horrific propensity to want to do waay to much with too little (time, energy, money, you name it). I must handle this habit like split ends on a salon floor and BE DONE WITH IT. So much more than a new look is dependent on me getting over myself!

And another thing...

I forgot to mention that in addition to seeing and falling in love with my classroom, I was also aided by a delightful colleague in the understanding of how SMARTBoards work. In that moment, I felt the love coming back to me. Yes I did.

Love at first sight

I got to see my classroom yesterday for the first time! There is sunshine, there are windows, there is a working AC (new) AND a SMARTboard. There are also LOTS of books. Lots. Boxes and shelves full.

What else can I say? I am in love.

I looove people, but humans? Not so much...

This week opened with two rather fantastic things: First, I received (and accepted) an offer to teach at a high school in NY. Second, I started the first of a five-evening commitment to my church's Vacation Bible School. Both are tremendously exciting because of the opportunities they allow for people-watching, which I think could be elevated to an Olympic sport one day, but I digress.

In less than a month I will attempt to set a tone for relationships with total strangers I won't be able to shake for a good 10 months. I've heard many a dire warning about beginning those 10 months on the wrong foot, which of course keeps me shifting from one side to the other. Some say maintain a stern visage and thaw it just a tad at the end of month two; others say make sure you're understood as slightly unpredictable, crazy even, just to keep them off-balance. One thing I do know for sure is I will be going for the gold. Hard, like Gabby Douglas and Michael Phelps.

On evening one of VBS we had 200 kids and no shortage of energy. I'm sure we could have fueled a mission to the moon with all the adrenaline we had in the building. It was awesome. Kids are so incredibly resilient it's close to a crime that we have to leave that stage so quickly. I believe it is at that point we become HUMAN.

You see, people cry with no shame when they're worried their mom won't come back, make you smile, or give hugs freely. Humans carry frustrations from hours, days or even years prior into every new conversation. People let it all hang out--whether they're in a church service or Walmart. Humans put up walls and stand on top of them to shoot arrows at you.

People mess is often immediate, in direct response to an event or emotion. Human mess is a slow, cumulative, hardening process that often takes a long time to unfurl. People emote; humans implode and make war.

For these reasons and more, I look forward to meeting, learning from and hopefully sometimes teaching the PEOPLE in my class to be no less than HUMANE.

Let's see what happens. I hope to keep you posted if I don't get swept away in a tide.