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.