I have had a tremendous few weeks, and I am excited to share it with you. I will pick a random place to begin, and then tangentially progress from there.
As the school year has unfolded, I have noticed my principal putting me in progressively more positions of responsibility. First, there was the principals’ meeting, for which I am still receiving good-natured flak at my school—“Oh, here comes Principal Cook!” And then I became responsible for all of the information in that meeting. I had to train the teachers on the new program for submitting lesson plans, and somehow I became responsible for how to scan the answer sheets from the district’s nine weeks tests as well—though I never received any training on it myself! My principal sent me to the UniBond training on Monday, which is a neat and painless way that a school can create and bind books or handbooks. During our professional development day, my principal asked me to create the handbook for the school’s Positive Behavior Interventions and Supports (PBIS) program, as mandated by the MS Department of Education. AND she selected me to serve on the SACS steering committee in addition to my required presence on one of the subcommittees. I barely understand it, but SACS has something to do with the district’s re-accreditation process, and all faculty and staff—including our custodial staff—have to serve on one of the subcommittees, so there was no way of avoiding it anyway. Now I am just doubly involved, I suppose.
After yet another phone call of, “Oh, and my principal has selected me for ___________ committee or _____________ training,” my mom gave me a long pause and finally said, “Does she realize that your commitment was only for two years?” Good, I am not the only one to wonder what it is exactly that my principal is playing at! I am honored by the strong voice of confidence, but I also wonder what will happen next year. I don’t even know what I plan to do, but it seems that my principal is hoping to help me make the decision to stay another year! For the present, it feels very gratifying to be doing more than simply teaching in my school. I am trying to make a positive impact on my students, their parents, AND my co-workers. I am causing some movement, if nothing else!
First thing Thursday morning, two fourth grade girls came to my class asking to see three of my boys. Another teacher requested a chat with them. Two of the three are pretty good kids without any history of trouble, but the third has a reputation that precedes him. Having been caught stealing in the past and possessing a pronounced anger management issue that continues to plague him, this student is in trouble at least a few times a week. I sent them off with a little consternation about what they had done. The first two returned relatively quickly, and they were extremely agitated about the incident, telling me that the teacher had some stuff come up missing and the third boy was the one accused of stealing it (accused by the two fourth grade girls who came to get them). Not too long later, he returned to my classroom in a huff, obviously upset and angry. I have never had a single issue with this kid, and I am very good at diffusing his anger before it even gets a chance to fully develop, which means he is awesome in my class. In some ways, he is actually beyond awesome. I was still standing in front of him when the door to my room flew open, and here came this teacher in an even bigger huff. She demanded to see his bookbag, which she snatched from under his desk and proceeded to search. She pulled out two plastic toy cars from the front pocket, held them up to my class, and asked, “Who do these belong to? Who do they belong to?” The class shook their collective heads in horrified confusion as the boy replied over and over, “They’re mine! They’re mine!” As she continued on through his messy possessions, she kept a constant stream of dialog about how he would never step in her room again, how he was no good, and she wanted to see “the person who made you.” The student of course responded disrespectfully and angrily to each one of her comments, and all the while I attempted to keep him from saying anything. If this wasn’t enough, as she left she even took the time to disrespect me, though now I forget her words.
As soon as she left, I ushered the student out of the room, took him calmly by the arms as he tearfully asserted that he had not taken anything from her classroom. I asked him to tell the absolute truth without fear of any consequences, and still he denied stealing. I asked if he had stolen anything from anyone else this year (I knew he had, on the second day of school), and he admitted in detail the earlier incident. I had no reason to believe he was lying in this new case, and so I explained to him the power of a reputation and the necessity for him to stop any more behavior that could get him in trouble. I urged him to never mouth off to a teacher, even if he felt that person was wrong, because then it made it more difficult for other adults to believe him. He calmed down sufficiently, and he re-entered my classroom sound in the knowledge that at least I trusted his story.
Not long after, my principal showed up at the door, wanting to talk to the kid about what he had done. I told her that I wished to speak with her first, and in the hallway I explained the entire situation as far as I could see it. I also told her that I wanted to lodge an official complaint against the teacher for her lack of professionalism and respect toward me, and the obvious and unnecessary abuse she exhibited toward one of my students. She agreed to investigate the matter further, and talked with the student at length to get his story.
I went home still disturbed by the incident, though not completely surprised, since this teacher has a history of an incredibly sour attitude and borderline abusive nature toward the students. I have only a few kids who have ever wanted to go to her class in two years of teaching. But then I finally realized what made the situation so damaging for me: it wasn’t so much this teacher’s actions. Instead, it was my own: I had failed to protect not only this one student, but also my entire class from her out-of-control anger. I had failed to stop a situation that escalated beyond reason, and I felt responsible for the hurt it caused.
I woke up in the morning determined to do something about these events and to definitively prevent a similar incident from ever happening again. I went straight to my principal’s office and requested that she mediate a meeting between me and this teacher. I told her I felt the need to resolve the situation on my terms. She was completely supportive. During my planning period, my principal called us both to the office, and told the teacher that I had something I wanted to say. I explained to the woman that I have worked hard in my classroom to create an atmosphere where students feel safe, welcome, and respected, but her behavior in my classroom jeopardized that environment for ALL of my students, not just the boy in question. She lost control, she provoked a kid with a known anger problem, and she was not welcome in my classroom anymore. In the future, if she needs to address an issue with one of my students, she needs to do it in her own room or in the principal’s office. I do not want her entering my room ever again without express permission beforehand.
If you are surprised at those words, believe it: I really did say them. I also explained to her that this kid is an angel in my classroom, because—shockingly—I treat him with calm and respect. I model for him everyday how I want his behavior to look, and he never fails to meet my expectations. Her and my responsibility as teachers is to model for these types of kids exactly what kind of behavior we want from them. If she wants to persistently have such a negative relationship with this student, then she will get it. All she has to do is continue provoking him with her own issues of anger and lack of control.
I gotta tell you: this felt pretty damn good. I stood up for my kids, I ensured that a similar incident would never happen again within my four walls, and…..I made an enemy. So be it. That tells me that I am living. If I don’t make someone angry, I am not doing it right.
One of my girls sadly remarked to me, “Ms. Cook, you have a bruise right here,” and she pointed to the area right under my eye. Yes, sweetheart, I am losing sleep over all of you. That is how much I care.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Saturday, October 9, 2010
Nine Weeks In...
This past Thursday marked the end of the first nine weeks! Already! The school year has a momentum that I never expected, but always hoped to experience, and the result is pretty amazing. I cannot believe how differently this school year has started than just one year ago. Long overdue, I am really excited to discuss my progress.
From day one, I established a classroom culture that practices—or at least attempts to practice—respect and cooperation rather than selfishness and getting one’s “licks back.” I hated last year how students would steal from each other and fight one another with such anger and animosity all of the time and would only occasionally demonstrate incredible generosity and kindness. So this year I actively modeled and rewarded more positive behaviors, and the outcomes have been tangible. Rather than stealing a stray pencil on the floor, my students say, “Is this anyone’s pencil? Ms. Cook, I found a loose pencil on the floor and no one has claimed it.” OR, the best one yet, “Ms. Cook, I found this dollar on the floor behind your chair.” And then another student, “I think it’s Teja’s dollar. She had one in her pocket earlier and she was just by your chair a while ago.” Plus I have not sent ONE student to the office this year for fighting or antagonizing another student. These are encouraging developments, to say the least! I have one student whom I knew from last year had substantial anger and behavior problems, and I was not looking forward to teaching him. But I have yet to have a problem with him in my classroom. I know my two co-teachers struggle with him quite a bit, but so far, he is great!
I think the key to my success at the beginning is that I have ascribed to a very simple principle: I am going to treat students’ behavior and misbehavior as something that is not personal to me. I teach my students that they are in charge of their own actions. They make a choice to act in certain ways. I will nonchalantly say to them, “Oops, you made a choice to [insert misbehavior], so here is the consequence.” I make it clear that I am not upset and not taking it personally, but I do want them to learn to act in ways that will help them succeed in school. Last year I would get so upset with my students and their misbehavior, taking it as an affront to me, but this year I am doing a much better job keeping calm and keeping students separate from me. It means that students see a model of a peaceful and respectful adult who they can emulate and I get to go home less stressed.
As a result of all this, I am going to arrogantly boast that of all aspects of my teaching practice, I am super proud of my behavior management. As you will remember, last year was just plain difficult on this front, but I managed to survive and even make some improvements. This year, I am extremely satisfied with the control and structure I have given my students. My lines look great in the hallway and the cafeteria, my classroom is quiet and productive, and my students do not need me to constantly monitor them in order for them to be on their best behavior (though this last point still requires some work).
My new co-teacher is struggling with behavior management, and so she wanted to implement a common behavior system across the three classes. She started a behavior stick with clips, where individual student clips start on green and go down to yellow, orange, or red for misbehavior. I tried the whole behavior stick thing last year and hated it, but I wanted to be supportive of my co-teacher and her attempts to gain greater control. I get frustrated because students’ behavior clips carry over from the other two classes into my class, so they come to me much lower than their usual behavior in my classroom would justify. So I have made the system work for me by emphasizing that students can move back UP the behavior stick by displaying good behavior. I have students tell me each day why their clip is down, and then what they need to do to change that: step 1, stop the misbehavior; and step 2, get caught being that good. It is simple for them, and great for me. I very rarely move a clip down, and students almost always finish on green by the end of my class. So if nothing else, students are finding my class as an opportunity for redemption!
I have received a few great compliments: one from another teacher who wants to observe and gather ideas, one from my principal, and one inadvertently from my students. My students were at Unified Arts, but as I walked to a corner of the hallway, I could hear that some of them were out waiting for their art teacher to arrive. As I rounded the corner, they caught sight of me, loudly whispered, “Here comes Ms. Cook!” and the line immediately snapped to silent attention. It was a beautiful sight. Truly.
As for my principal, she was sick this past week, and she had to attend several meetings for all the principals in the school district (about 11) and the central office administration. She chose me to fill in for her. I was honored. I must say, it was interesting to see how differently meetings are for the administrators versus the teachers. There were plenty of yummy goodies for the principals, but I have never had any at a teachers’ meeting. I took advantage of my temporary status. I was also displeased with the attitudes of some principals, who spoke of their teachers as though they were children who required administrative controls to get them to do their jobs. We received information about a new program for submitting lesson plans online, and rather than seeing the program as a great way to streamline a paper-heavy process, the principals looked at it as a way to catch and punish teachers who do not submit their lesson plans on time. They certainly highlighted the divide between the teachers and the administration, making it feel like we are on opposite sides rather than the same team. What are we here for, guys? To complain about each other? Or to work together in educating these students? Perhaps this is one of the reasons behind the crappy quality of education in the Mississippi Delta.
And I should note, I am such a better TFA corps member this year than I was last year! I have not quite drunk the Kool-Aid, but I have come to value the solid training that I have received. TFA has the right ideas when it comes to education, such as backward planning, positive behavior management, and investing the students, and I can see how much more my students are accomplishing when I use the system to my advantage rather than seeing it as additional work. Ultimately, my thinking is more in line with TFA teachings, and so things are progressing organically from there. I just wanted to survive last year, but this year I am looking to be a better teacher.
AND, I love my job. Perhaps not every single day, but I am happy with what I have achieved and what my students continue to achieve. What an awesome feeling.
From day one, I established a classroom culture that practices—or at least attempts to practice—respect and cooperation rather than selfishness and getting one’s “licks back.” I hated last year how students would steal from each other and fight one another with such anger and animosity all of the time and would only occasionally demonstrate incredible generosity and kindness. So this year I actively modeled and rewarded more positive behaviors, and the outcomes have been tangible. Rather than stealing a stray pencil on the floor, my students say, “Is this anyone’s pencil? Ms. Cook, I found a loose pencil on the floor and no one has claimed it.” OR, the best one yet, “Ms. Cook, I found this dollar on the floor behind your chair.” And then another student, “I think it’s Teja’s dollar. She had one in her pocket earlier and she was just by your chair a while ago.” Plus I have not sent ONE student to the office this year for fighting or antagonizing another student. These are encouraging developments, to say the least! I have one student whom I knew from last year had substantial anger and behavior problems, and I was not looking forward to teaching him. But I have yet to have a problem with him in my classroom. I know my two co-teachers struggle with him quite a bit, but so far, he is great!
I think the key to my success at the beginning is that I have ascribed to a very simple principle: I am going to treat students’ behavior and misbehavior as something that is not personal to me. I teach my students that they are in charge of their own actions. They make a choice to act in certain ways. I will nonchalantly say to them, “Oops, you made a choice to [insert misbehavior], so here is the consequence.” I make it clear that I am not upset and not taking it personally, but I do want them to learn to act in ways that will help them succeed in school. Last year I would get so upset with my students and their misbehavior, taking it as an affront to me, but this year I am doing a much better job keeping calm and keeping students separate from me. It means that students see a model of a peaceful and respectful adult who they can emulate and I get to go home less stressed.
As a result of all this, I am going to arrogantly boast that of all aspects of my teaching practice, I am super proud of my behavior management. As you will remember, last year was just plain difficult on this front, but I managed to survive and even make some improvements. This year, I am extremely satisfied with the control and structure I have given my students. My lines look great in the hallway and the cafeteria, my classroom is quiet and productive, and my students do not need me to constantly monitor them in order for them to be on their best behavior (though this last point still requires some work).
My new co-teacher is struggling with behavior management, and so she wanted to implement a common behavior system across the three classes. She started a behavior stick with clips, where individual student clips start on green and go down to yellow, orange, or red for misbehavior. I tried the whole behavior stick thing last year and hated it, but I wanted to be supportive of my co-teacher and her attempts to gain greater control. I get frustrated because students’ behavior clips carry over from the other two classes into my class, so they come to me much lower than their usual behavior in my classroom would justify. So I have made the system work for me by emphasizing that students can move back UP the behavior stick by displaying good behavior. I have students tell me each day why their clip is down, and then what they need to do to change that: step 1, stop the misbehavior; and step 2, get caught being that good. It is simple for them, and great for me. I very rarely move a clip down, and students almost always finish on green by the end of my class. So if nothing else, students are finding my class as an opportunity for redemption!
I have received a few great compliments: one from another teacher who wants to observe and gather ideas, one from my principal, and one inadvertently from my students. My students were at Unified Arts, but as I walked to a corner of the hallway, I could hear that some of them were out waiting for their art teacher to arrive. As I rounded the corner, they caught sight of me, loudly whispered, “Here comes Ms. Cook!” and the line immediately snapped to silent attention. It was a beautiful sight. Truly.
As for my principal, she was sick this past week, and she had to attend several meetings for all the principals in the school district (about 11) and the central office administration. She chose me to fill in for her. I was honored. I must say, it was interesting to see how differently meetings are for the administrators versus the teachers. There were plenty of yummy goodies for the principals, but I have never had any at a teachers’ meeting. I took advantage of my temporary status. I was also displeased with the attitudes of some principals, who spoke of their teachers as though they were children who required administrative controls to get them to do their jobs. We received information about a new program for submitting lesson plans online, and rather than seeing the program as a great way to streamline a paper-heavy process, the principals looked at it as a way to catch and punish teachers who do not submit their lesson plans on time. They certainly highlighted the divide between the teachers and the administration, making it feel like we are on opposite sides rather than the same team. What are we here for, guys? To complain about each other? Or to work together in educating these students? Perhaps this is one of the reasons behind the crappy quality of education in the Mississippi Delta.
And I should note, I am such a better TFA corps member this year than I was last year! I have not quite drunk the Kool-Aid, but I have come to value the solid training that I have received. TFA has the right ideas when it comes to education, such as backward planning, positive behavior management, and investing the students, and I can see how much more my students are accomplishing when I use the system to my advantage rather than seeing it as additional work. Ultimately, my thinking is more in line with TFA teachings, and so things are progressing organically from there. I just wanted to survive last year, but this year I am looking to be a better teacher.
AND, I love my job. Perhaps not every single day, but I am happy with what I have achieved and what my students continue to achieve. What an awesome feeling.
Saturday, August 7, 2010
Round Two!
One of my most important updates EVER coming up! I spend each day in disbelief, and that is all there is to it. I hope you enjoy these revelations almost as much as I continue to enjoy experiencing them!
The summer was great. I relaxed, spent time with family, and generally did none of the work I had planned on completing. Turns out, ironically, that this was actually a very good thing!
Two weeks before the start of this new school year, I switched subjects. No longer teaching language arts, I now teach science and social studies! The third grade class expanded to the point where we could no longer fit them all in two sections, so we needed to add a third. Our school’s reading lab teacher (of 30-some years) got pulled from the lab (due to budget cuts) and begrudgingly re-planted as a full-time classroom teacher. I will admit that I did drop the hint that I wanted to be switched out; I was completely sold on the possibility of teaching something other than a state-tested subject area and having the freedom to be as creative as a visual and performing arts magnet school could possibly allow. I wanted less stress, ultimately. And now I have all of that, while the new language arts teacher is stuck in my old trap. It is extremely liberating for me, but quite depressing and stressful for her. I spend at least a piece of every day in wracking guilt for helping to cause this situation. Even then, though, I still cannot ignore my satisfaction in my new subject areas.
But to make things interesting, my principal decided it would be best to move me to a new classroom and to keep good ole room 146 as the language arts class. Sounds great, but for one problem: that single transition set off an avalanche of other classroom moves. By the end of last Friday, five teachers and five classrooms were in upheaval and the hallways were once again a trash and junk-filled nightmare as we (read: I) tried to complete such a daunting overhaul. My principal attempted unsuccessfully to hide her stress and worry about getting her school ready for the start of school this past Thursday. It is a testament to how far I personally have come when I didn’t also freak out! Instead, I enjoyed the four days of heavy lifting and intense shifting, but I also rejoiced when I was finally settled into my new room. And because of the move, I did actually manage to complete my biggest summer project: to entirely rid myself and my classroom of clutter and extraneous resources, materials, books, and defunct manipulatives. My new room is a remarkable transformation from the cramped conditions of my old space, and every teacher (and parent!) who has walked by has found the room’s airy and welcoming feel to be quite eye-catching. If nothing else, it feels great to finally experience some pride in my teaching space.
Because of these changes, I am starting out a little bit behind, but I still find time each day to be thrilled. I can’t wait to implement all of my ideas for making science and social studies engaging, relevant, hands-on, and nothing less than the best class these new students have ever taken. I am also a second-year teacher, which is a truly incredible and gratifying experience. I came into this week as a so-called “veteran” teacher. I am no longer the newest face, which means I don’t have to earn respect or surmount that initial, racial skepticism (the latter being a phenomenon that I now more fully understand and accept). I cannot fully articulate the satisfaction and happiness I derive from my place within my school, but somehow I have managed to establish myself as a solid and influential part of the faculty. My principal has appointed me to a leadership position in the district’s implementation of PBIS (Positive Behavioral Interventions and Supports), and other, much more experienced teachers have come to me for help with beginning-of-year family and student surveys, ideas for class jobs, and even advice on how to organize and decorate a classroom. I feel respected, valued, and dare I say it—even popular. Truly incredible.
At our faculty meeting on Wednesday, I chose a seat next to one of our first grade teachers and her assistant. I didn’t particularly think much of it, but as I approached, the teacher smiled and remarked repeatedly to her assistant, “We’re in! We’re in!” as though my presence at their table was somehow a compliment to them. It really felt like one of those moments when the “popular kid” in school chooses who to grace with her presence and to whom she will temporarily imbue some of her popularity. Unaccustomed to being on the “choosing” end, I just smiled at the unexpectedly warm reception. After other teachers trickled in, another teacher at the table caught my attention: “Ms. Cook, [the first grade teacher] was just telling me, ‘We are moving up—we have some color at our table!’ But I just told her, ‘Ms. Cook comes around to my church whenever we are serving food! That’s what we blacks do. She BLACK!! She don’t count as color!!’” Could you all understand that this is the strangest and possibly one of the most profound compliments I have ever received?!
This particular teacher who called me black is unquestionably the most outspoken in terms of referencing race. On several occasions the two other [white] TFAs and I have been on the receiving end of her good-humored teasing, especially since we are three young, white teachers in a harem of black female teachers (and they are both men). Even when only two of us chat together within her eyesight, she cannot refrain from making a comment about the “white meeting” going on right under her nose. So for this woman to call me black, even in a strange, kind of back-handed way, I have never before come so close to feeling such a true sense of belonging. I never would have thought it possible after only one, partially shaky year, but here I am in all of my racial ambiguity!
I also find it comical that I am the one who counts as “color” at a table of black women. It is so much fun to think of this as an unusual twist on the prevailing goal of “diversity.” Mind-bending. Truly.
And for the record, I do not show up at her church only when they are serving food. It happened once, after another teacher explicitly invited me. I cannot help the coincidence. And I cannot help that her church is the only other place in Clarksdale (outside of school) where I have felt sincerely welcome and at home. :)
The first two days of school, I ROCKED. It. OUT. I spent a lot of prep time planning exactly how I wanted my classroom to function, and so I was extremely explicit in teaching my procedures and routines. I have approached the new year with a detailed strategy and awareness of where third graders are mentally and developmentally. I can already tell that these new ones still seek the approval of their teacher, so I am heaping on the positive praise and withholding my attention when students misbehave. They almost fall over themselves trying to gain my praise, and their eagerness is written on even the toughest of their third grade faces. I am going to focus my classroom on positivity so much that when these third graders become more like fourth graders and no longer need my approval, it will be too late for them to change their habits. I am going to single-handedly take on character education and actually succeed. It has only been two days, but I feel pretty confident that we are on track. Remembering where I was after two days last year, I have at least made some HUGE improvements. And this initial success has preserved my almost overwhelming excitement for the school year.
My interactions with this round of parents definitely have a different vibe. Last year I did my best to feign confidence as I grappled to establish some credibility, and I was not always successful. This year, I can sense that my reputation has preceded me…in a GOOD way. I am not simply a white teacher in a black school; I am a white teacher who has somehow embraced the local culture so well that I have left my more prejudiced parents deeply confused. I break every expectation and every rule they have for white teachers. I had a mother stop by yesterday and ask about her son, knowing that he has a history of being a challenging behavior problem. I simply stated to her that he is a talker and I was obliged to move him to a new seat that day. She immediately assured me that she wasn’t going to tolerate his misbehavior in my class and that she would handle any problems he caused. I stopped her short and explained that he had handled the switch so well that I rewarded him by moving him back to his regular seat with his classmates. I told her that I understood when certain students can’t sit together, and I would be sure to rectify any personality clashes her son might have with his table mates by making the necessary moves as we all got to know one another. I told her with sincere assurance that I do not expect any serious problems from her son this year and am not worried about having had to move him that day. She seemed to blink and look at me anew, and then asked me, “What is your name?” It struck me as an important breakthrough.
And I am delighted to report that I am starting to notice some things that I will miss about the Delta when I finally choose to leave this place. I will miss always getting to wave at strangers on the street as I drive past, and actually getting an enthusiastic wave in response rather than puzzled looks. I will miss running into parents, fellow teachers, and students in most public places, and the feeling of satisfaction that comes from holding a teaching position in this community. I will miss the daily opportunities to break down racial prejudice in an area of the country that seems to have invented the art of judging people based on color and the most discouraging of stereotypes. I will miss fitting in everywhere and nowhere. I will miss making the smallest of differences in this seemingly steadfast society.
I realize how utterly opposite this new update is compared to ALL of my previous entries, and that is why this one is so important. I know that I have a history of fairly quick adjustment, but this one astounds me. And I am so completely pleased with the results. When I joined TFA, I was never truly excited about my choice or the impending undertaking. If anything, I felt somewhat forced into it because of a terrible economy and my indecision about my long-term future. But now, I realize that I cannot even begin to comprehend the greater forces at work.
The summer was great. I relaxed, spent time with family, and generally did none of the work I had planned on completing. Turns out, ironically, that this was actually a very good thing!
Two weeks before the start of this new school year, I switched subjects. No longer teaching language arts, I now teach science and social studies! The third grade class expanded to the point where we could no longer fit them all in two sections, so we needed to add a third. Our school’s reading lab teacher (of 30-some years) got pulled from the lab (due to budget cuts) and begrudgingly re-planted as a full-time classroom teacher. I will admit that I did drop the hint that I wanted to be switched out; I was completely sold on the possibility of teaching something other than a state-tested subject area and having the freedom to be as creative as a visual and performing arts magnet school could possibly allow. I wanted less stress, ultimately. And now I have all of that, while the new language arts teacher is stuck in my old trap. It is extremely liberating for me, but quite depressing and stressful for her. I spend at least a piece of every day in wracking guilt for helping to cause this situation. Even then, though, I still cannot ignore my satisfaction in my new subject areas.
But to make things interesting, my principal decided it would be best to move me to a new classroom and to keep good ole room 146 as the language arts class. Sounds great, but for one problem: that single transition set off an avalanche of other classroom moves. By the end of last Friday, five teachers and five classrooms were in upheaval and the hallways were once again a trash and junk-filled nightmare as we (read: I) tried to complete such a daunting overhaul. My principal attempted unsuccessfully to hide her stress and worry about getting her school ready for the start of school this past Thursday. It is a testament to how far I personally have come when I didn’t also freak out! Instead, I enjoyed the four days of heavy lifting and intense shifting, but I also rejoiced when I was finally settled into my new room. And because of the move, I did actually manage to complete my biggest summer project: to entirely rid myself and my classroom of clutter and extraneous resources, materials, books, and defunct manipulatives. My new room is a remarkable transformation from the cramped conditions of my old space, and every teacher (and parent!) who has walked by has found the room’s airy and welcoming feel to be quite eye-catching. If nothing else, it feels great to finally experience some pride in my teaching space.
Because of these changes, I am starting out a little bit behind, but I still find time each day to be thrilled. I can’t wait to implement all of my ideas for making science and social studies engaging, relevant, hands-on, and nothing less than the best class these new students have ever taken. I am also a second-year teacher, which is a truly incredible and gratifying experience. I came into this week as a so-called “veteran” teacher. I am no longer the newest face, which means I don’t have to earn respect or surmount that initial, racial skepticism (the latter being a phenomenon that I now more fully understand and accept). I cannot fully articulate the satisfaction and happiness I derive from my place within my school, but somehow I have managed to establish myself as a solid and influential part of the faculty. My principal has appointed me to a leadership position in the district’s implementation of PBIS (Positive Behavioral Interventions and Supports), and other, much more experienced teachers have come to me for help with beginning-of-year family and student surveys, ideas for class jobs, and even advice on how to organize and decorate a classroom. I feel respected, valued, and dare I say it—even popular. Truly incredible.
At our faculty meeting on Wednesday, I chose a seat next to one of our first grade teachers and her assistant. I didn’t particularly think much of it, but as I approached, the teacher smiled and remarked repeatedly to her assistant, “We’re in! We’re in!” as though my presence at their table was somehow a compliment to them. It really felt like one of those moments when the “popular kid” in school chooses who to grace with her presence and to whom she will temporarily imbue some of her popularity. Unaccustomed to being on the “choosing” end, I just smiled at the unexpectedly warm reception. After other teachers trickled in, another teacher at the table caught my attention: “Ms. Cook, [the first grade teacher] was just telling me, ‘We are moving up—we have some color at our table!’ But I just told her, ‘Ms. Cook comes around to my church whenever we are serving food! That’s what we blacks do. She BLACK!! She don’t count as color!!’” Could you all understand that this is the strangest and possibly one of the most profound compliments I have ever received?!
This particular teacher who called me black is unquestionably the most outspoken in terms of referencing race. On several occasions the two other [white] TFAs and I have been on the receiving end of her good-humored teasing, especially since we are three young, white teachers in a harem of black female teachers (and they are both men). Even when only two of us chat together within her eyesight, she cannot refrain from making a comment about the “white meeting” going on right under her nose. So for this woman to call me black, even in a strange, kind of back-handed way, I have never before come so close to feeling such a true sense of belonging. I never would have thought it possible after only one, partially shaky year, but here I am in all of my racial ambiguity!
I also find it comical that I am the one who counts as “color” at a table of black women. It is so much fun to think of this as an unusual twist on the prevailing goal of “diversity.” Mind-bending. Truly.
And for the record, I do not show up at her church only when they are serving food. It happened once, after another teacher explicitly invited me. I cannot help the coincidence. And I cannot help that her church is the only other place in Clarksdale (outside of school) where I have felt sincerely welcome and at home. :)
The first two days of school, I ROCKED. It. OUT. I spent a lot of prep time planning exactly how I wanted my classroom to function, and so I was extremely explicit in teaching my procedures and routines. I have approached the new year with a detailed strategy and awareness of where third graders are mentally and developmentally. I can already tell that these new ones still seek the approval of their teacher, so I am heaping on the positive praise and withholding my attention when students misbehave. They almost fall over themselves trying to gain my praise, and their eagerness is written on even the toughest of their third grade faces. I am going to focus my classroom on positivity so much that when these third graders become more like fourth graders and no longer need my approval, it will be too late for them to change their habits. I am going to single-handedly take on character education and actually succeed. It has only been two days, but I feel pretty confident that we are on track. Remembering where I was after two days last year, I have at least made some HUGE improvements. And this initial success has preserved my almost overwhelming excitement for the school year.
My interactions with this round of parents definitely have a different vibe. Last year I did my best to feign confidence as I grappled to establish some credibility, and I was not always successful. This year, I can sense that my reputation has preceded me…in a GOOD way. I am not simply a white teacher in a black school; I am a white teacher who has somehow embraced the local culture so well that I have left my more prejudiced parents deeply confused. I break every expectation and every rule they have for white teachers. I had a mother stop by yesterday and ask about her son, knowing that he has a history of being a challenging behavior problem. I simply stated to her that he is a talker and I was obliged to move him to a new seat that day. She immediately assured me that she wasn’t going to tolerate his misbehavior in my class and that she would handle any problems he caused. I stopped her short and explained that he had handled the switch so well that I rewarded him by moving him back to his regular seat with his classmates. I told her that I understood when certain students can’t sit together, and I would be sure to rectify any personality clashes her son might have with his table mates by making the necessary moves as we all got to know one another. I told her with sincere assurance that I do not expect any serious problems from her son this year and am not worried about having had to move him that day. She seemed to blink and look at me anew, and then asked me, “What is your name?” It struck me as an important breakthrough.
And I am delighted to report that I am starting to notice some things that I will miss about the Delta when I finally choose to leave this place. I will miss always getting to wave at strangers on the street as I drive past, and actually getting an enthusiastic wave in response rather than puzzled looks. I will miss running into parents, fellow teachers, and students in most public places, and the feeling of satisfaction that comes from holding a teaching position in this community. I will miss the daily opportunities to break down racial prejudice in an area of the country that seems to have invented the art of judging people based on color and the most discouraging of stereotypes. I will miss fitting in everywhere and nowhere. I will miss making the smallest of differences in this seemingly steadfast society.
I realize how utterly opposite this new update is compared to ALL of my previous entries, and that is why this one is so important. I know that I have a history of fairly quick adjustment, but this one astounds me. And I am so completely pleased with the results. When I joined TFA, I was never truly excited about my choice or the impending undertaking. If anything, I felt somewhat forced into it because of a terrible economy and my indecision about my long-term future. But now, I realize that I cannot even begin to comprehend the greater forces at work.
Sunday, May 16, 2010
7th Inning Stretch! Almost There!
All year, I was feverishly driven by one significant, inevitable event: third grade state testing. All of my planning, my classwork, and my after-school programs centered around preparing my students to the best of my ability so that they could earn themselves passing scores. To this day, and for many more days into the future, I still maintain the complete absurdity of the standardized testing system. But until we find a better way to hold everyone accountable, I have to accept the MCT2 as an unavoidable presence in my teaching methods.
This past week, my students finally took those state tests, and I know for a fact that I suffered greater anxiety and turmoil than my students. I never imagined in my life that I would become a test administrator for a standardized test, much less that I would do it for three days straight, and never have I ever imagined that I would be held so accountable for the performance of fifty-four children.
But all things considered, I am hopeful that these tests turned out to be easier than the practice test I had been using for weeks. I tried to refrain from reading the questions over my students’ shoulders, simply because I did not even want to know the questions, and I thought in this case that ignorance could actually be bliss. But what I did manage to witness were questions that seemed somewhat reasonable, and my students had mixed performance. All I can say is that these third graders will likely have better test scores than last year’s third graders, and that is an achievement—especially considering the previous third grade teachers had over eighty years of teaching experience between the three of them, and I am a lowly and naïve first-year.
So now what do we have? Glorified babysitting for the next five days. I already realize my students will not be the best behaved little ones, but I also finally have a few days to do fun things with my kids, and this far outweighs the looming classroom management challenges.
On Friday, my students helped me collect our ridiculous number of textbooks and clean out the cubby holes. They were such eager and actually helpful helpers! I remarked to my co-teacher on the unexpected dependability of one particular student, and she replied, “Well, that is probably the role he must play at home. We both know that woman [his mother] is crazy.” I quickly agreed with her sentiment. After all, it makes sense with comments I have already made—my students are still children when they start to take on adult responsibilities by caring for younger siblings and possibly nieces or nephews. This particular child has one hell of a negligent mother, so it would make sense that he is often left to care for his baby sister. All of that means that I am surrounded by children who can do—and are eager to do!—all sorts of chores around the classroom. It was a surprisingly fun morning.
For this final week, I am so excited to do the fun learning activities that I never made the time to do while we were under the hefty pressure of state tests. We are going to color and do art projects, play Language Arts Bingo, go outside, and just enjoy these final days of school. I refuse to get stressed about any type of summative, unexpected school assemblies, or obnoxiously bureaucratic end-of-year paperwork, because I am going to miss these kids terribly once they are gone, and everything else is just drivel.
My brother remarked while he was here that he was taken aback by the constant references to race here in the Delta, and even though I agree with his sentiment, I still see the importance of race in my ongoing experiences. With that in mind, two interesting events worthy of note: I realized these past few weeks that I am a white woman who has been educated in the black way of Southern living. I happened to meet the daughter of a fellow teacher at my school—a speech therapist and a white woman (side note: all of the white teachers at my school are in cushy, specialized positions. None of them are in high-pressure classrooms, but hold jobs as the gifted teacher, the reading lab coordinator, and the speech therapist. Not a coincidence, I will tell you). Her daughter was at school taking private guitar lessons from our TFA music teacher, and her mother introduced her in passing. The content of the small talk is lost on me now, but what is important is the impression this young lady gave me: while friendly and arguably attempting to be charming, I was HORRIBLY offended by this girl’s informal manner. When I first met her, I had assumed she was a young teenager at most, but she acted as though we were equals, so I reframed my thinking to assume she was a young teacher like myself. Only later did I learn that she was indeed a young teenager, and to this day, I cannot see this girl without getting offended all over again!
I have come to consider myself an adult full of real-world responsibilities, as well as an educated professional in my field. My interactions with young Southerners have been limited to my co-teacher’s daughter, who has always treated me with humility, respect, and cognizance of my adult position over her. I understand the differences and the limitations of using these two girls as my sample, but I am still appalled by how this white girl treated me as though we were equals. I am not more than ten years older than her, but they are an important ten years—she was a child talking to an adult, and yet she acted as though she was trying to charm a new kid at her school. I found it to be terribly inappropriate for reasons I still do not completely understand.
In any case, I do recognize this incident is poorly articulated and probably makes me seem a snob, but I think the important element of all this is to note that I have somehow become programmed over the past year to expect deference from children and teenagers and to get offended if I do not receive it. I insist upon students addressing me as “ma’am” and never fail to point out its omission. I demand respect from any and all students I encounter, and do not hesitate to discipline them if they do not demonstrate it. I have noticed that this is a behavior pattern I have picked up from my black co-workers; they are all tough and stern women you wouldn’t dare get caught addressing without the proper “ma’am” attached. Many of my parents act in a similar way towards their children. I do not even know what the adult/child or parent/child relationship looks like in the white Southern community, but given my experiences I would venture to guess that the relationships are closer to what I experienced as a child in the North. The emphasis would be more on talkative nurture than unyielding respect.
I realize now that my behavior adaptations could be interpreted as something other than the chameleon tendencies that they are. I think that maybe some of my students and their parents could reasonably perceive me as racist. Here I am, demanding the utmost respect from their children, so much so that I could be treading a boundary invisible to my non-Southern upbringing and awareness. From what I have observed, the three white teachers at my school do not command the level of almost fearful respect that the black teachers do. Granted, there are many factors that play into this circumstance, but I still think the comparison is valid. I know that I am doing things differently than those three white teachers. I know that I am closer in mannerisms to the black teachers than to the white, but that behavior does not change the color of my skin. My parents do not often question the authority of these black women, but would they question the same type of authority from me as a white woman? Is there a double standard that I do not fully perceive?
Having asked the questions, I can already tentatively answer them: with only one or two exceptions, I have not yet encountered a parent who held me to another standard because of my race…or at least not directly to my face. I have never caught wind of an indignant parent because of my race (aside from my infamous exception) or because of my teaching and classroom management practices. The more I think about it, the more I believe that I represent a unique combination: I am fairly confident that I enjoy more respect than the white teachers and more popularity than the black teachers. I also think that I have earned more respect from the black teachers than the other white teachers, and the white teachers respect me more than the other classroom teachers. My co-teacher has always praised my ability to warmly embrace my school and my community’s culture, and I think my own, outward respect has started to reciprocate the respect of others.
Granted, I represent a paradox to some of my co-workers: I am a minority white woman in a black school, but everywhere else in Clarksdale and in the Delta I can claim a racial privilege that they can never hope to experience. I think this gives cause for some racial jokes made at my expense, but never have they offended me. I cannot help the color of my skin, but I CAN control what I do with it, and I refuse to act like a white Southerner. That is what has earned me the respect. My actions speak louder than my skin pigmentation, thankfully.
My co-teacher has maintained that I am destined to be a school administrator and has actively attempted to push me in that direction. She really wants me to enroll in a Master’s program at Ole Miss, but I have dragged my feet while my future has remained so uncertain. In any case, she has discussed my potential with other teachers at our school, and I was surprised to learn that the general consensus agreed with my co-teacher’s findings. I have been deeply humbled by the voices of confidence expressed on my behalf from some of the toughest old birds at my school, and so much so that I really do wonder how I manage to come across this way to others. My co-teacher even went so far as to discuss me with our superintendent. He made a recent visit to her classroom, and she took the opportunity to express her praise for my abilities and her hopes that the superintendent would be active in persuading me to stay beyond my two-year commitment. I even met a parent of a first-grader who asked me to stick around long enough to teach her son. She said, “Of course you will be here. We need to keep good teachers like you!” Words cannot express my appreciation for such acceptance. It has been hard-earned, let me tell you.
Ok, second noteworthy event: this past Friday I had the unique opportunity to interact with my black co-workers on a social basis. To celebrate the end of state testing, we gathered at a local Mexican restaurant for dinner and drinks. Heavy emphasis on the drinks. Now, anyone who has neighbored or been a part of a large table of heavy drinkers can understand the spectacle this group of teachers created. But what made it so interesting to me was the fact that I was seeing rabble-rousers from the other side of a racial divide. Here I am, sitting among the cackle and loud jokes of tipsy black women and the social weirdness of our lone male teacher, and I witnessed tiny social cues to which I had never before been privy. One flirted shamelessly and aggressively with our Hispanic waiter, another bossed him around in a clearly racist way, and another threw noticeably hateful looks toward surrounding [white] patrons. Usually the restaurants in town are unofficially segregated, but this one had no such designation. Despite that, I sensed a self-imposed divide between the patrons. None of the white customers made eye contact with members of my group, much less wanted to partake of the late Friday night frivolity. In fact, a police officer sitting with his wife kept a watchful eye on our party, and members of our group voiced disgust when they saw him enter. Apparently he had the sort of reputation that preceded him.
All of this stuff sounds silly to me as a Northerner—and perhaps not actually worth mentioning—but I am reminded absolutely every day that I am living in a place where race still matters in every way. It is unconscious and deeply ingrained, so much so that most people here do not even think twice about it. But my very presence as a white Northerner has forced those around me to confront their prejudices in new ways. I do not hesitate to point out what I observe or to ask when I do not understand, and I rank this honesty as one of my greatest enjoyments in the Delta. It helps to educate me, but it also inadvertently educates those around me. It forces some self-reflection from those who are out of practice and shines some understanding in the Delta’s dark and dusty corners. My curiosity and openness have been huge assets in unexpected ways.
The male teacher drank himself to shocking excess, which I found distasteful. I am well aware of the tiny nature of our community, and I am not about to act irresponsibly in public. I want to be a role model for my students. But aside from him, the group was tons of fun, and I do hope we will arrange an encore gathering before school is finished!
I also realized today that, regardless how much I struggled and suffered all manners of anguish this year, I am not looking forward to the end of this week. I am going to miss my students terribly. They have wiggled their giggly faces and sticky hands all the way around my heart.
This past week, my students finally took those state tests, and I know for a fact that I suffered greater anxiety and turmoil than my students. I never imagined in my life that I would become a test administrator for a standardized test, much less that I would do it for three days straight, and never have I ever imagined that I would be held so accountable for the performance of fifty-four children.
But all things considered, I am hopeful that these tests turned out to be easier than the practice test I had been using for weeks. I tried to refrain from reading the questions over my students’ shoulders, simply because I did not even want to know the questions, and I thought in this case that ignorance could actually be bliss. But what I did manage to witness were questions that seemed somewhat reasonable, and my students had mixed performance. All I can say is that these third graders will likely have better test scores than last year’s third graders, and that is an achievement—especially considering the previous third grade teachers had over eighty years of teaching experience between the three of them, and I am a lowly and naïve first-year.
So now what do we have? Glorified babysitting for the next five days. I already realize my students will not be the best behaved little ones, but I also finally have a few days to do fun things with my kids, and this far outweighs the looming classroom management challenges.
On Friday, my students helped me collect our ridiculous number of textbooks and clean out the cubby holes. They were such eager and actually helpful helpers! I remarked to my co-teacher on the unexpected dependability of one particular student, and she replied, “Well, that is probably the role he must play at home. We both know that woman [his mother] is crazy.” I quickly agreed with her sentiment. After all, it makes sense with comments I have already made—my students are still children when they start to take on adult responsibilities by caring for younger siblings and possibly nieces or nephews. This particular child has one hell of a negligent mother, so it would make sense that he is often left to care for his baby sister. All of that means that I am surrounded by children who can do—and are eager to do!—all sorts of chores around the classroom. It was a surprisingly fun morning.
For this final week, I am so excited to do the fun learning activities that I never made the time to do while we were under the hefty pressure of state tests. We are going to color and do art projects, play Language Arts Bingo, go outside, and just enjoy these final days of school. I refuse to get stressed about any type of summative, unexpected school assemblies, or obnoxiously bureaucratic end-of-year paperwork, because I am going to miss these kids terribly once they are gone, and everything else is just drivel.
My brother remarked while he was here that he was taken aback by the constant references to race here in the Delta, and even though I agree with his sentiment, I still see the importance of race in my ongoing experiences. With that in mind, two interesting events worthy of note: I realized these past few weeks that I am a white woman who has been educated in the black way of Southern living. I happened to meet the daughter of a fellow teacher at my school—a speech therapist and a white woman (side note: all of the white teachers at my school are in cushy, specialized positions. None of them are in high-pressure classrooms, but hold jobs as the gifted teacher, the reading lab coordinator, and the speech therapist. Not a coincidence, I will tell you). Her daughter was at school taking private guitar lessons from our TFA music teacher, and her mother introduced her in passing. The content of the small talk is lost on me now, but what is important is the impression this young lady gave me: while friendly and arguably attempting to be charming, I was HORRIBLY offended by this girl’s informal manner. When I first met her, I had assumed she was a young teenager at most, but she acted as though we were equals, so I reframed my thinking to assume she was a young teacher like myself. Only later did I learn that she was indeed a young teenager, and to this day, I cannot see this girl without getting offended all over again!
I have come to consider myself an adult full of real-world responsibilities, as well as an educated professional in my field. My interactions with young Southerners have been limited to my co-teacher’s daughter, who has always treated me with humility, respect, and cognizance of my adult position over her. I understand the differences and the limitations of using these two girls as my sample, but I am still appalled by how this white girl treated me as though we were equals. I am not more than ten years older than her, but they are an important ten years—she was a child talking to an adult, and yet she acted as though she was trying to charm a new kid at her school. I found it to be terribly inappropriate for reasons I still do not completely understand.
In any case, I do recognize this incident is poorly articulated and probably makes me seem a snob, but I think the important element of all this is to note that I have somehow become programmed over the past year to expect deference from children and teenagers and to get offended if I do not receive it. I insist upon students addressing me as “ma’am” and never fail to point out its omission. I demand respect from any and all students I encounter, and do not hesitate to discipline them if they do not demonstrate it. I have noticed that this is a behavior pattern I have picked up from my black co-workers; they are all tough and stern women you wouldn’t dare get caught addressing without the proper “ma’am” attached. Many of my parents act in a similar way towards their children. I do not even know what the adult/child or parent/child relationship looks like in the white Southern community, but given my experiences I would venture to guess that the relationships are closer to what I experienced as a child in the North. The emphasis would be more on talkative nurture than unyielding respect.
I realize now that my behavior adaptations could be interpreted as something other than the chameleon tendencies that they are. I think that maybe some of my students and their parents could reasonably perceive me as racist. Here I am, demanding the utmost respect from their children, so much so that I could be treading a boundary invisible to my non-Southern upbringing and awareness. From what I have observed, the three white teachers at my school do not command the level of almost fearful respect that the black teachers do. Granted, there are many factors that play into this circumstance, but I still think the comparison is valid. I know that I am doing things differently than those three white teachers. I know that I am closer in mannerisms to the black teachers than to the white, but that behavior does not change the color of my skin. My parents do not often question the authority of these black women, but would they question the same type of authority from me as a white woman? Is there a double standard that I do not fully perceive?
Having asked the questions, I can already tentatively answer them: with only one or two exceptions, I have not yet encountered a parent who held me to another standard because of my race…or at least not directly to my face. I have never caught wind of an indignant parent because of my race (aside from my infamous exception) or because of my teaching and classroom management practices. The more I think about it, the more I believe that I represent a unique combination: I am fairly confident that I enjoy more respect than the white teachers and more popularity than the black teachers. I also think that I have earned more respect from the black teachers than the other white teachers, and the white teachers respect me more than the other classroom teachers. My co-teacher has always praised my ability to warmly embrace my school and my community’s culture, and I think my own, outward respect has started to reciprocate the respect of others.
Granted, I represent a paradox to some of my co-workers: I am a minority white woman in a black school, but everywhere else in Clarksdale and in the Delta I can claim a racial privilege that they can never hope to experience. I think this gives cause for some racial jokes made at my expense, but never have they offended me. I cannot help the color of my skin, but I CAN control what I do with it, and I refuse to act like a white Southerner. That is what has earned me the respect. My actions speak louder than my skin pigmentation, thankfully.
My co-teacher has maintained that I am destined to be a school administrator and has actively attempted to push me in that direction. She really wants me to enroll in a Master’s program at Ole Miss, but I have dragged my feet while my future has remained so uncertain. In any case, she has discussed my potential with other teachers at our school, and I was surprised to learn that the general consensus agreed with my co-teacher’s findings. I have been deeply humbled by the voices of confidence expressed on my behalf from some of the toughest old birds at my school, and so much so that I really do wonder how I manage to come across this way to others. My co-teacher even went so far as to discuss me with our superintendent. He made a recent visit to her classroom, and she took the opportunity to express her praise for my abilities and her hopes that the superintendent would be active in persuading me to stay beyond my two-year commitment. I even met a parent of a first-grader who asked me to stick around long enough to teach her son. She said, “Of course you will be here. We need to keep good teachers like you!” Words cannot express my appreciation for such acceptance. It has been hard-earned, let me tell you.
Ok, second noteworthy event: this past Friday I had the unique opportunity to interact with my black co-workers on a social basis. To celebrate the end of state testing, we gathered at a local Mexican restaurant for dinner and drinks. Heavy emphasis on the drinks. Now, anyone who has neighbored or been a part of a large table of heavy drinkers can understand the spectacle this group of teachers created. But what made it so interesting to me was the fact that I was seeing rabble-rousers from the other side of a racial divide. Here I am, sitting among the cackle and loud jokes of tipsy black women and the social weirdness of our lone male teacher, and I witnessed tiny social cues to which I had never before been privy. One flirted shamelessly and aggressively with our Hispanic waiter, another bossed him around in a clearly racist way, and another threw noticeably hateful looks toward surrounding [white] patrons. Usually the restaurants in town are unofficially segregated, but this one had no such designation. Despite that, I sensed a self-imposed divide between the patrons. None of the white customers made eye contact with members of my group, much less wanted to partake of the late Friday night frivolity. In fact, a police officer sitting with his wife kept a watchful eye on our party, and members of our group voiced disgust when they saw him enter. Apparently he had the sort of reputation that preceded him.
All of this stuff sounds silly to me as a Northerner—and perhaps not actually worth mentioning—but I am reminded absolutely every day that I am living in a place where race still matters in every way. It is unconscious and deeply ingrained, so much so that most people here do not even think twice about it. But my very presence as a white Northerner has forced those around me to confront their prejudices in new ways. I do not hesitate to point out what I observe or to ask when I do not understand, and I rank this honesty as one of my greatest enjoyments in the Delta. It helps to educate me, but it also inadvertently educates those around me. It forces some self-reflection from those who are out of practice and shines some understanding in the Delta’s dark and dusty corners. My curiosity and openness have been huge assets in unexpected ways.
The male teacher drank himself to shocking excess, which I found distasteful. I am well aware of the tiny nature of our community, and I am not about to act irresponsibly in public. I want to be a role model for my students. But aside from him, the group was tons of fun, and I do hope we will arrange an encore gathering before school is finished!
I also realized today that, regardless how much I struggled and suffered all manners of anguish this year, I am not looking forward to the end of this week. I am going to miss my students terribly. They have wiggled their giggly faces and sticky hands all the way around my heart.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Fortune's Wheel and Related Adventures
This past week, I had the unique experience to see one of my Delta hypotheses proven correct. This is a rather long story, so grab a snack and let this tale unfold.
I was in Memphis last Friday retrieving my brother from the airport for a weekend visit, and as luck or fate would have it, this was the exact moment that my car started to act up for the first time since moving to Mississippi. Apparently a common problem in Saturns, my ignition cylinder was faulty, and I found that I could not turn off my car. Perplexing problem, right? I called a fix-it man in Clarksdale, who put me in touch with a mechanic, who told me that in order to get the car to stop, I would have to pull some fuses. Exciting start to my brother’s visit!
We drove back to Clarksdale without incident, and my brother pulled some fuses to stop the car. We discovered that when we turned the car back on, it would not accelerate, jerked terribly when shifting from first to second, and generally acted rebelliously. Saturday morning we took the car to a repair shop down the road, but they sent us on to another shop across town. With a car barely running, this was an adventure for my brother’s driving prowess! At this second shop, they asked me to leave the car until someone could look at it on Monday. It wasn’t much use to us at the time anyway, so we just bummed rides and loaner vehicles for the rest of the weekend, and I rode with fellow teachers to and from work.
On Monday, the repair shop informed me that the problem could only be addressed at a Saturn dealership, which in my case is 90 miles away on the northeastern corner of Memphis. The car could not possibly make such a journey on its own, so I was obliged to hire a tow truck, which was discouragingly expensive. I rightly suspected I was at the start of a rather costly repair job.
By Tuesday evening, my car had arrived in Memphis, and the dealership hit me with an estimate, which only covered the cost to replace the ignition cylinder and housing. If the driving problems persisted, who knew what kind of nightmare would ensue! However, this is a tale of merely inconvenience and not highway robbery, so the expenses ended there, thank God.
Wednesday was a half-day at school, which seemed to me the perfect opportunity; my car was fixed and ready to go by noon and I had an afternoon free of teaching. On a regular day, I could never make it to the dealership before they closed at 5:30, and I loathed the idea of leaving my students with a substitute (read: babysitter) while I trekked to Memphis. I found out my co-teacher had a doctor’s appointment in Germantown (just south of the dealership) that afternoon, so I could just tag along and get my car! Everything was lining up perfectly.
I approached my principal with my solid plan, explaining that I would miss nothing but my professional development session, which did not promise to be very helpful this late in the school year anyway. Besides, I had never missed any sessions, so I had a reliable track record behind me, and I was positive the administration at the central office would be accommodating.
THIS is where my tale of vehicular adventures turns into a shocking nightmare: my principal told me that she would rather that my co-teacher and I missed a day of school than for us to miss an afternoon of professional development. After all, the state education department would theoretically be checking to see that our school’s teachers attended PD and NOT that we were missing school. In short, my principal would rather cover her own a** than have me in school teaching! She preferred to pay money for a substitute—IF she managed to do that; I had taken a scheduled day of vacation the previous Friday, and she left my co-teacher with all 54 students for the ENTIRE day, even though she had plenty of advance notice to hire a substitute! I knew that if I wasn’t at school, the whole day would be wasted for my students. And apparently unlike my principal, my first priority is my students’ education!
So I bummed one more ride to Kirkpatrick Elementary, where I was scheduled to attend a fourth training session on my Shurley English curriculum (seriously?!). Then guess what! After 45 minutes of doing NOTHING, the facilitator sent us home, expressing her apologies for our district’s misguided request for her services, saying that she knew our teaching priorities rested with the state tests and NOT in her already-covered training. Unbelievable!
As I walked home from Kirkpatrick, I realized I had a choice: I could either take my free afternoon—and boil with anger at this twist of incompetence—OR I could scramble to find a ride to Memphis! I called another teacher I knew had no PD sessions to attend (lucky bastard) and who happened to owe me a favor. At 3:15, he picked me up and we headed off to Memphis for the start of even more adventures.
I should tell you that 3:15 is the time my school day usually ends, so this would be a grand experiment in my original premise—that I could not make it to the Saturn dealership before it closed. But I had high hopes: this guy is roughly my age, and my generation is a culture of speeders, and he drives a sporty little Honda. But nope, he happens to be the one red-blooded American male who religiously observes the speed limit. Luck had turned against me again! And as we sat in deadlock rush-hour traffic, I was seething with dread, especially after I called Saturn Mikey and he told me, “Either get here by 5:30 or you are out of luck.” What grown man calls himself Mikey anyway??
So what time do you think we made it to Saturn of Memphis? At 5:30 on the dot. Thank God a salesman was “working” a customer, otherwise who knows! Best part: the receptionist gathered all the paperwork, and then forgot to make me pay. THAT in itself tells you I was there past 5:30. (Don’t worry. I did actually pay.)
As I rolled up to school the following morning in my own car (for the first time in five days!), I was already highly strung with pent-up frustration at my principal. I welcomed the opportunity to call her out on her misplaced priorities and to point out the fact that I was even there, rather than on my way to Memphis to get my car. But I imagine it is very much for the best that that confrontation never took place. I am just so happy that I have my car back and I did not have to miss a single minute of school to take care of it!
And that is why I Teach for America.
Whew.
I was in Memphis last Friday retrieving my brother from the airport for a weekend visit, and as luck or fate would have it, this was the exact moment that my car started to act up for the first time since moving to Mississippi. Apparently a common problem in Saturns, my ignition cylinder was faulty, and I found that I could not turn off my car. Perplexing problem, right? I called a fix-it man in Clarksdale, who put me in touch with a mechanic, who told me that in order to get the car to stop, I would have to pull some fuses. Exciting start to my brother’s visit!
We drove back to Clarksdale without incident, and my brother pulled some fuses to stop the car. We discovered that when we turned the car back on, it would not accelerate, jerked terribly when shifting from first to second, and generally acted rebelliously. Saturday morning we took the car to a repair shop down the road, but they sent us on to another shop across town. With a car barely running, this was an adventure for my brother’s driving prowess! At this second shop, they asked me to leave the car until someone could look at it on Monday. It wasn’t much use to us at the time anyway, so we just bummed rides and loaner vehicles for the rest of the weekend, and I rode with fellow teachers to and from work.
On Monday, the repair shop informed me that the problem could only be addressed at a Saturn dealership, which in my case is 90 miles away on the northeastern corner of Memphis. The car could not possibly make such a journey on its own, so I was obliged to hire a tow truck, which was discouragingly expensive. I rightly suspected I was at the start of a rather costly repair job.
By Tuesday evening, my car had arrived in Memphis, and the dealership hit me with an estimate, which only covered the cost to replace the ignition cylinder and housing. If the driving problems persisted, who knew what kind of nightmare would ensue! However, this is a tale of merely inconvenience and not highway robbery, so the expenses ended there, thank God.
Wednesday was a half-day at school, which seemed to me the perfect opportunity; my car was fixed and ready to go by noon and I had an afternoon free of teaching. On a regular day, I could never make it to the dealership before they closed at 5:30, and I loathed the idea of leaving my students with a substitute (read: babysitter) while I trekked to Memphis. I found out my co-teacher had a doctor’s appointment in Germantown (just south of the dealership) that afternoon, so I could just tag along and get my car! Everything was lining up perfectly.
I approached my principal with my solid plan, explaining that I would miss nothing but my professional development session, which did not promise to be very helpful this late in the school year anyway. Besides, I had never missed any sessions, so I had a reliable track record behind me, and I was positive the administration at the central office would be accommodating.
THIS is where my tale of vehicular adventures turns into a shocking nightmare: my principal told me that she would rather that my co-teacher and I missed a day of school than for us to miss an afternoon of professional development. After all, the state education department would theoretically be checking to see that our school’s teachers attended PD and NOT that we were missing school. In short, my principal would rather cover her own a** than have me in school teaching! She preferred to pay money for a substitute—IF she managed to do that; I had taken a scheduled day of vacation the previous Friday, and she left my co-teacher with all 54 students for the ENTIRE day, even though she had plenty of advance notice to hire a substitute! I knew that if I wasn’t at school, the whole day would be wasted for my students. And apparently unlike my principal, my first priority is my students’ education!
So I bummed one more ride to Kirkpatrick Elementary, where I was scheduled to attend a fourth training session on my Shurley English curriculum (seriously?!). Then guess what! After 45 minutes of doing NOTHING, the facilitator sent us home, expressing her apologies for our district’s misguided request for her services, saying that she knew our teaching priorities rested with the state tests and NOT in her already-covered training. Unbelievable!
As I walked home from Kirkpatrick, I realized I had a choice: I could either take my free afternoon—and boil with anger at this twist of incompetence—OR I could scramble to find a ride to Memphis! I called another teacher I knew had no PD sessions to attend (lucky bastard) and who happened to owe me a favor. At 3:15, he picked me up and we headed off to Memphis for the start of even more adventures.
I should tell you that 3:15 is the time my school day usually ends, so this would be a grand experiment in my original premise—that I could not make it to the Saturn dealership before it closed. But I had high hopes: this guy is roughly my age, and my generation is a culture of speeders, and he drives a sporty little Honda. But nope, he happens to be the one red-blooded American male who religiously observes the speed limit. Luck had turned against me again! And as we sat in deadlock rush-hour traffic, I was seething with dread, especially after I called Saturn Mikey and he told me, “Either get here by 5:30 or you are out of luck.” What grown man calls himself Mikey anyway??
So what time do you think we made it to Saturn of Memphis? At 5:30 on the dot. Thank God a salesman was “working” a customer, otherwise who knows! Best part: the receptionist gathered all the paperwork, and then forgot to make me pay. THAT in itself tells you I was there past 5:30. (Don’t worry. I did actually pay.)
As I rolled up to school the following morning in my own car (for the first time in five days!), I was already highly strung with pent-up frustration at my principal. I welcomed the opportunity to call her out on her misplaced priorities and to point out the fact that I was even there, rather than on my way to Memphis to get my car. But I imagine it is very much for the best that that confrontation never took place. I am just so happy that I have my car back and I did not have to miss a single minute of school to take care of it!
And that is why I Teach for America.
Whew.
Friday, April 2, 2010
Landing Right Side Up
When I first started writing updates, I remember I kept saying that I would continue to work towards some conclusions about the curiosities I experience here in the Delta. After eight months of teaching and learning, I feel that I have finally embraced some concrete ideas. So here it goes.
TFA is not the solution to the challenges I am seeing in the Delta. It is great that we are trying to get rid of—or at least diminish—the evils of the achievement gap in this country, but I think the achievement gap in the Delta is merely a surface issue masking a more significant problem. Without addressing the deeper ills, we are never going to make any progress in education.
The problem is the role of education in this society: I am simply a glorified babysitter. As long as my kids are not bullied by other kids, and as long as they manage to not fail, then the parents are happy. They get frustrated when they feel that their kids have been somehow victimized, at which point the teacher becomes accountable for not better protecting the children. Academically, I have been taken to task for failing a child and the parent thinks it is my fault. Whenever I give a parent lower-than-expected grade summaries, I am immediately fearful for myself rather than for the student. Sure, the child is going to get his/her “tail whooped,” but the wrath will also fall to me. I will be challenged by parents who, if I am going to be brutally honest, are ignorant, self-entitled, and self-righteous. They are not interested in academic achievement; they just want me to pass the kids on and get out of the way. They see any below-average grade as my attempt to hinder their children, rather than a reflection of what the kids have honestly earned.
A parent once accosted me for not telling her that her daughter was failing. In truth, I had warned her constantly, but she was more concerned about behavior. What weapon could I wield against such selective, obstinate memory? But here is something even more interesting: my co-teacher insisted on significantly inflating this child’s grades in order to protect both the child and ourselves from this crazy parent. To an extent, fair enough. But she inflated them so much that this child ended up on honor roll. And when the mother found out at conferences this week, she screamed, hollered, and carried on like a full-grown third-grader. No words to describe the whole encounter, except: WOW.
As I write this, my school has been threatened with a lawsuit by a mother whose daughter is failing the first grade. The mother is suing the first-grade teachers and the principal for I-don’t-even-know. When the first-grade teacher told me, I was confused by what legal leg this woman has to take the school to court. It baffles me even now. But this is not the first parent—and certainly will not be the last—who seems to expect something different out of a school than her child’s education.
The point is this: though there are exceptions, many of my parents teeter on the verge of confrontation at all times. They are waiting to pick a fight because the children are getting into fights, because I am academically demanding, or because I refuse to inflate grades. I have to justify everything I do. I understand this accountability to an extent, but I really believe there has to be a limit. I also believe that these confrontations are the parents’ way of shifting the sphere of responsibility from themselves to someone else. Let’s face it: most of my parents were children when they started having children, and many of them remain mentally frozen in immaturity and recklessness. They unfoundedly expect so much of me because they still have not grown up, and I am the perceived adult and authority figure. How else do you explain parents asking ME, a 23-year-old novice in family, in education, and in life, for advice?? The important difference is that these reckless adolescents do not hesitate to pull the victim card and dream up a scenario of inequality, prejudice, and injustice.
Paradoxically, many of my problems in the classroom come from the fact that my students insist on “acting grown;” they chastise each other for behavior and seek to punish one another just as they do at home to their younger siblings, nieces, nephews, cousins, etc. They want to take on childish problems with “adult” attitude, “adult” consequences, and “adult” vocabulary. They get carried away and then refuse to submit to my legitimately adult intervention.
So we have children having children because they think they are ready for adult roles, and then they pass off those children to the care of other children (younger siblings, relatives, and even neighbors) so that they can continue their irresponsible and childish pastimes. Kids grow up already knowing how to physically take care of other kids, but everyone remains trapped in an adolescent mentality.
I can’t even get my head all the way around that phenomenon!
Then we have testing: the ultimate mark of so-called achievement in the public schools. But I think that such heavy reliance on tests as the solution to the Delta’s education inequity is missing the proverbial forest for the trees. Even if I manage to improve the test scores this year and next, that is a short-lived, short-term success. I mean, let’s be real here: I teach THIRD grade. Do any of us remember how we did on those state tests when we were eight-years-old? Or better yet, how many of us experienced long-lasting effects because of that third grade test? These tests only matter to the people in charge. It is important to the teachers, the principals, the superintendent, the state department of education. If you think about it, the state tests actually have VERY LITTLE to do with our students. It is a way to hold the adults accountable for how and what they teach kids. We judge children for a test they don’t understand or value, and then we punish the adults for how these children performed. The responsibility is inexplicably disfigured and distorted. We have warped the ladder of accountability so that the adults are responsible for all the prep work, the children ultimately have all the power over that test, and then we go back and execute educational justice on the adults. But who ultimately suffers? Exactly: the children. Please tell me how that is fair.
Perhaps instead of worrying so much about a damn test we should focus more energy on community development. We need to create a culture that values education by training parents to accept some responsibility for their children’s moral upbringing. As it stands, the Delta is mass producing citizens who think that the number one rule, when it comes to accountability on every level, is: "Cover your own ***, and don’t be afraid to lie, cheat, steal, or sell out your friends in order to do it." Simple example: I once had two best friends tell on each other and try to get the other in trouble. When my reaction was, “Are you seriously telling on your best friend?” the two girls were not nearly as mystified as me about the whole ordeal. Parents do not believe that they have any responsibility for their children’s education. They do not help with homework, and so many of them were confused when I asked them to take their children to the public library and get them a library card. Their role is not to help them or encourage them to read. That is my responsibility. If I fail in that, it’s my problem, and it better not affect their children’s grades.
So where does that leave me? It means that I spend more of my time thinking about how to reach my students outside the classroom than in it. I see many of my classroom efforts as me trying to stand still in a stampede; moving the opposite (read: correct) direction is simply impossible. That doesn’t mean there isn’t value in my day; each moment is an opportunity to gain some respect and approval. Despite what many parents might initially think, I am not the enemy (a perception inevitably based upon the accident of my race). I am actually here to offer support in every way I can.
I understand now that I can make a much bigger impact on my students by mentoring them for three hours after school than I ever could in the seven hours I see them during the day. What my kids need is a guide to show them humanity. They need an education in what it means to see value in themselves AND in others. They need someone to take them to the store and teach them the value of money. They need to go to a restaurant and practice proper manners. They need to experience and find pride in diversity. (I actually had a fourth-grader tell on another student because he called her a “white Puerto Rican.” I told her to be proud of her heritage and stop treating it like an insult.) They need to learn charity and hard work and humility. Most important, they need to be taken away from their negative influences. My stupid, irresponsible, abusive parents and the idiots, jailbirds, and pseudo-thugs they call friends are the ones who manage to undo all of my day’s work in a matter of minutes. If I could remove my kids from that, I cannot even fathom the individuals these children would become.
Remember the kid who brought the BB gun? On his good days, that kid absolutely adores me. He will follow me around and call me his mother. Another teacher even said it once: “Here comes Ms. Cook with her son!” My reply has always been, “If you were my kid, you would be a very different little boy.” My students love that comment, and I never thought they completely understood the layers of meaning or implications, but then one of them got it spot-on: “Ms. Cook, if we were your kids, we would be straight-A students, and we would never get in trouble. We would be completely different.” Maybe. Maybe not. But the important thing would be that I would teach them how to be a good human being. Or at least, I would give it a more concerted effort than I see happening around me.
This past week, the Mississippi Department of Education visited my school for three days. We are on an improvement plan because we did not make AYP (Adequate Yearly Progress) in our math scores. On Monday I had an observation and interview, both of which went as well as I could expect. The interview was particularly interesting: the woman told me that Mississippi is divided into three regions: the hills, the coast, and the Delta. She did not hide her disdain for the Delta (she is from the hills) and she certainly acted as though we shared a special bond (called race) that made her more a friend than a scary authority figure. The sensation was that together, we are fighting the depravity of this black problem in the Delta. She indicated that I should consider moving to one of the other two regions in Mississippi if I plan to stay in teaching. I appreciated the compliment that she feels I am already a good teacher, and in time I will become truly great. (I wish I had gotten that on tape for my TFA program director). As she left, her parting words were, “I will be praying for you.” That interview, in a nutshell, sums up what I experience daily as a white woman and a Northerner in the Delta. Suspicion from the black community; willful ignorance and neglect from the white. Wow.
More than ever, I am committed in my mission to help these children. I am revitalized by a deeper understanding of the problem and thus the solution. I can better visualize my purpose and my potential impact. I work with students four nights a week, and I can’t wait to work with my kids this summer. I already know what I need to do to improve for next year. Even though each day still has its own challenge, I feel better equipped to handle it, and I can see the progress we have made together.
I have also decided to track my daily answer to a simple but also hugely significant question: Stay for a third year?
TFA is not the solution to the challenges I am seeing in the Delta. It is great that we are trying to get rid of—or at least diminish—the evils of the achievement gap in this country, but I think the achievement gap in the Delta is merely a surface issue masking a more significant problem. Without addressing the deeper ills, we are never going to make any progress in education.
The problem is the role of education in this society: I am simply a glorified babysitter. As long as my kids are not bullied by other kids, and as long as they manage to not fail, then the parents are happy. They get frustrated when they feel that their kids have been somehow victimized, at which point the teacher becomes accountable for not better protecting the children. Academically, I have been taken to task for failing a child and the parent thinks it is my fault. Whenever I give a parent lower-than-expected grade summaries, I am immediately fearful for myself rather than for the student. Sure, the child is going to get his/her “tail whooped,” but the wrath will also fall to me. I will be challenged by parents who, if I am going to be brutally honest, are ignorant, self-entitled, and self-righteous. They are not interested in academic achievement; they just want me to pass the kids on and get out of the way. They see any below-average grade as my attempt to hinder their children, rather than a reflection of what the kids have honestly earned.
A parent once accosted me for not telling her that her daughter was failing. In truth, I had warned her constantly, but she was more concerned about behavior. What weapon could I wield against such selective, obstinate memory? But here is something even more interesting: my co-teacher insisted on significantly inflating this child’s grades in order to protect both the child and ourselves from this crazy parent. To an extent, fair enough. But she inflated them so much that this child ended up on honor roll. And when the mother found out at conferences this week, she screamed, hollered, and carried on like a full-grown third-grader. No words to describe the whole encounter, except: WOW.
As I write this, my school has been threatened with a lawsuit by a mother whose daughter is failing the first grade. The mother is suing the first-grade teachers and the principal for I-don’t-even-know. When the first-grade teacher told me, I was confused by what legal leg this woman has to take the school to court. It baffles me even now. But this is not the first parent—and certainly will not be the last—who seems to expect something different out of a school than her child’s education.
The point is this: though there are exceptions, many of my parents teeter on the verge of confrontation at all times. They are waiting to pick a fight because the children are getting into fights, because I am academically demanding, or because I refuse to inflate grades. I have to justify everything I do. I understand this accountability to an extent, but I really believe there has to be a limit. I also believe that these confrontations are the parents’ way of shifting the sphere of responsibility from themselves to someone else. Let’s face it: most of my parents were children when they started having children, and many of them remain mentally frozen in immaturity and recklessness. They unfoundedly expect so much of me because they still have not grown up, and I am the perceived adult and authority figure. How else do you explain parents asking ME, a 23-year-old novice in family, in education, and in life, for advice?? The important difference is that these reckless adolescents do not hesitate to pull the victim card and dream up a scenario of inequality, prejudice, and injustice.
Paradoxically, many of my problems in the classroom come from the fact that my students insist on “acting grown;” they chastise each other for behavior and seek to punish one another just as they do at home to their younger siblings, nieces, nephews, cousins, etc. They want to take on childish problems with “adult” attitude, “adult” consequences, and “adult” vocabulary. They get carried away and then refuse to submit to my legitimately adult intervention.
So we have children having children because they think they are ready for adult roles, and then they pass off those children to the care of other children (younger siblings, relatives, and even neighbors) so that they can continue their irresponsible and childish pastimes. Kids grow up already knowing how to physically take care of other kids, but everyone remains trapped in an adolescent mentality.
I can’t even get my head all the way around that phenomenon!
Then we have testing: the ultimate mark of so-called achievement in the public schools. But I think that such heavy reliance on tests as the solution to the Delta’s education inequity is missing the proverbial forest for the trees. Even if I manage to improve the test scores this year and next, that is a short-lived, short-term success. I mean, let’s be real here: I teach THIRD grade. Do any of us remember how we did on those state tests when we were eight-years-old? Or better yet, how many of us experienced long-lasting effects because of that third grade test? These tests only matter to the people in charge. It is important to the teachers, the principals, the superintendent, the state department of education. If you think about it, the state tests actually have VERY LITTLE to do with our students. It is a way to hold the adults accountable for how and what they teach kids. We judge children for a test they don’t understand or value, and then we punish the adults for how these children performed. The responsibility is inexplicably disfigured and distorted. We have warped the ladder of accountability so that the adults are responsible for all the prep work, the children ultimately have all the power over that test, and then we go back and execute educational justice on the adults. But who ultimately suffers? Exactly: the children. Please tell me how that is fair.
Perhaps instead of worrying so much about a damn test we should focus more energy on community development. We need to create a culture that values education by training parents to accept some responsibility for their children’s moral upbringing. As it stands, the Delta is mass producing citizens who think that the number one rule, when it comes to accountability on every level, is: "Cover your own ***, and don’t be afraid to lie, cheat, steal, or sell out your friends in order to do it." Simple example: I once had two best friends tell on each other and try to get the other in trouble. When my reaction was, “Are you seriously telling on your best friend?” the two girls were not nearly as mystified as me about the whole ordeal. Parents do not believe that they have any responsibility for their children’s education. They do not help with homework, and so many of them were confused when I asked them to take their children to the public library and get them a library card. Their role is not to help them or encourage them to read. That is my responsibility. If I fail in that, it’s my problem, and it better not affect their children’s grades.
So where does that leave me? It means that I spend more of my time thinking about how to reach my students outside the classroom than in it. I see many of my classroom efforts as me trying to stand still in a stampede; moving the opposite (read: correct) direction is simply impossible. That doesn’t mean there isn’t value in my day; each moment is an opportunity to gain some respect and approval. Despite what many parents might initially think, I am not the enemy (a perception inevitably based upon the accident of my race). I am actually here to offer support in every way I can.
I understand now that I can make a much bigger impact on my students by mentoring them for three hours after school than I ever could in the seven hours I see them during the day. What my kids need is a guide to show them humanity. They need an education in what it means to see value in themselves AND in others. They need someone to take them to the store and teach them the value of money. They need to go to a restaurant and practice proper manners. They need to experience and find pride in diversity. (I actually had a fourth-grader tell on another student because he called her a “white Puerto Rican.” I told her to be proud of her heritage and stop treating it like an insult.) They need to learn charity and hard work and humility. Most important, they need to be taken away from their negative influences. My stupid, irresponsible, abusive parents and the idiots, jailbirds, and pseudo-thugs they call friends are the ones who manage to undo all of my day’s work in a matter of minutes. If I could remove my kids from that, I cannot even fathom the individuals these children would become.
Remember the kid who brought the BB gun? On his good days, that kid absolutely adores me. He will follow me around and call me his mother. Another teacher even said it once: “Here comes Ms. Cook with her son!” My reply has always been, “If you were my kid, you would be a very different little boy.” My students love that comment, and I never thought they completely understood the layers of meaning or implications, but then one of them got it spot-on: “Ms. Cook, if we were your kids, we would be straight-A students, and we would never get in trouble. We would be completely different.” Maybe. Maybe not. But the important thing would be that I would teach them how to be a good human being. Or at least, I would give it a more concerted effort than I see happening around me.
This past week, the Mississippi Department of Education visited my school for three days. We are on an improvement plan because we did not make AYP (Adequate Yearly Progress) in our math scores. On Monday I had an observation and interview, both of which went as well as I could expect. The interview was particularly interesting: the woman told me that Mississippi is divided into three regions: the hills, the coast, and the Delta. She did not hide her disdain for the Delta (she is from the hills) and she certainly acted as though we shared a special bond (called race) that made her more a friend than a scary authority figure. The sensation was that together, we are fighting the depravity of this black problem in the Delta. She indicated that I should consider moving to one of the other two regions in Mississippi if I plan to stay in teaching. I appreciated the compliment that she feels I am already a good teacher, and in time I will become truly great. (I wish I had gotten that on tape for my TFA program director). As she left, her parting words were, “I will be praying for you.” That interview, in a nutshell, sums up what I experience daily as a white woman and a Northerner in the Delta. Suspicion from the black community; willful ignorance and neglect from the white. Wow.
More than ever, I am committed in my mission to help these children. I am revitalized by a deeper understanding of the problem and thus the solution. I can better visualize my purpose and my potential impact. I work with students four nights a week, and I can’t wait to work with my kids this summer. I already know what I need to do to improve for next year. Even though each day still has its own challenge, I feel better equipped to handle it, and I can see the progress we have made together.
I have also decided to track my daily answer to a simple but also hugely significant question: Stay for a third year?
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Hodgepodge
Worthy of note are three specific student incidents from the past couple weeks, and interestingly all three occurred during dismissal. This is perhaps the most intriguing part of my day. Last week, I alarmingly rushed to a tight ring of students, fearing an outrageous fight in the middle. What I found instead was one student, the center of attention, with the happiest look I have ever seen on her face (not surprising, given the circumstances). A new wave of alarm settled in as I immediately remembered that this girl is not usually the primary focus. And then the reason slammed into me as dozens of students jumped eagerly to relay the student’s story: she had told everyone she was pregnant.
I personally have no idea what to make of the situation even now. Sure, it was a “look-at-me” ploy. But it also strikes me powerfully when considering the fact that I know of at least one student for whom such a statement could physiologically be true, and this unnerves me for ALL of my girls. Then I take into account the unsettling prevalence of teen pregnancy in the Delta, and the prevailing acceptance of childbearing as a solution for every type of lifestyle. I almost think that young, unwed pregnancies are as close to a rite of passage as high school graduation…well, quite frankly, even more so. I cannot even fully articulate the phenomenon, other than to say: pregnancy is EVERYWHERE. It continues to mystify me.
Event #2: One of my students, who is nothing short of a third-grade thug destined for jail, brought a BB gun to school—including bullets. He brandished it proudly after school, and one of my braver, sweeter boys immediately brought it to my attention. Until the “fun” ended, I gathered from other students that this student saw such idiocy as the coolest thing imaginable. I can barely comprehend the kind of woman his mother is and the type of people to whom she is exposing her children. Such an occurrence makes me dishearteningly realize that I know of no way to help this child in the long term; he must have a terrible home life with zero acceptable role models, and the school officials are either inept or too passive about such behavior. What to do to save this child from himself?
Event#3: In some ways, this last anecdote is the scariest of all to me. I have heard plenty of rumors circulating about one of my students concerning her home life: her father is abusive, the family is tragically poor, and the mother had tried to give away her children. It is heartbreaking, and this incredibly bright student has significant behavior problems as a result. On Wednesday, this girl’s mother came rushing up to me after school, asking me if I could take her daughter home with me while she went to Batesville (forty minutes away). I knew in that instant, without any doubt, that if I said yes, this mother would never come to get her child.
The incident forced me to see my lifestyle in an entirely new perspective. In many ways, I still live and function as though I am in college. I live with roommates, I do not spend much time cooking, I am minimalist when it comes to furniture, and I am focused almost solely on my work. Even though I am committed to my job, I still approach it with an understanding that it is temporary, and so I have spent no time creating a home. That is no atmosphere for a child even for a night, and especially not in this case, when it appeared that this girl just might be abandoned into that environment.
And so I suddenly sense an even greater disconnect between me and the rest of Clarksdale. I live differently, I think differently, I bring a completely different context to every single decision and tiny movement I make. I am floating in my own bubble, isolated and sheltered from the true realities of the Delta. Everything I experience is real life for the first time. It is harsh and brutal. And yet, relatively speaking, I walk away each day unscathed by the hardship everyone else faces. In this way, I am much closer to the people at the Chinese New Year’s party than I am to all of my co-workers and students and parents. And there is no hope EVER that I will get any closer.
My co-teacher had volunteered me to help supervise students during the after-school practices for the black history program, and this role quickly evolved into one where I was in charge of both behavior during our ridiculous number of practices and the backstage during the actual production. The multiple layers of irony were never lost on me. I got acquainted with students from all the grades, which was the most rewarding part, and I earned myself some “street cred” on every imaginable front: parents, students, and even other teachers. And when the show started off with a fairly major crisis, I handled the backstage turmoil with calm and success. It was an energizing experience, especially since my co-teacher did her best to make sure everyone knew and sufficiently appreciated my role. I imagine I will be involved in future performances, perhaps even improve them a bit!
On a personal front, I reached an important conclusion in the past couple weeks. First, some background: My roommate had told me about a very close friend she had had while in the Peace Corps, and to whom she never speaks anymore. She was lamenting this situation, especially in light of the intensity of that former relationship. It reminded me of my senior year at AU, when I would spend every night of the spring semester in tears as I contemplated all of the friendships I was about to lose as a result of graduation. I could not accept the prospect of such loss. And then an extremely wise professor told me that friendships will inevitably grow and evolve as our circumstances change. The key to surviving the transition is to recognize that you and your friend will continue to support one another in new ways. Relationships should not require constant contact (as they did in college); friends can acknowledge that despite the distance and the longer lapses of conversation, their friendship can always just pick up where it left off. There is no need for awkwardness or resentment, just security in the friendship. For many of my relationships from college, this has been the most liberating and truthful piece of advice I have ever received. It was a truly helpful way to approach my impending graduation.
Now, I find myself intermittently struggling with the relationships I have created here in the Delta. To me, they are one of the most important aspects of my survival on a daily basis, but they are also priority in the greater scheme of my life and experiences. I find myself wondering how these relationships will fit into the larger picture after TFA. Where I flounder is that I cannot quite comprehend how important my friendship is to them. When this is all over, will we continue to stay in touch? Or even, is this relationship only significant here in the Delta? I have already deliberated on the Delta vacuum, but this discussion requires a return visit. I propose that most of what I have experienced in TFA is a heightened experience, largely because there is a nagging void in my environment. Earlier I said that I function in a protective bubble of sorts. I think this applies to just about everything, including the relationships I create. We have surrounded ourselves with the things and the people that can offer us the support and comfort we need during a truly grueling process. But remove that factor from the equation and put us back in our old lives, and I would argue that the things and the people would fall away. The need is no longer there, and the commonality is lost. The hardships would suddenly be less hard and the void would be filled with all sorts of other distractions.
It is the same thing that happened when I studied abroad; the intensity of the experience gave me three truly remarkable friends, and I grieved the loss of their constant companionship when I returned home. But today, I never talk to them, I never think about them, and I never miss them. I have fond memories, certainly, and I would love the opportunity to see them again, but it is not something for which I yearn or constantly strive.
I imagine my friendships here will go in the same way. For a while, I created the same internal battle that I had when leaving Germany and graduating from AU. I was always devastated by the upcoming change in my friendships, and all I wanted was to keep these people predominantly in my life. I have already felt the same way here in the Delta. A part of me did not want to let go of what I had managed to create, and that same part of me resisted any attempt to change those relationships. But now, I understand the necessity of pre-empting that inevitable hardship by re-framing my outlook. I already know that such a course will be difficult, but it must be done: I have decided to approach my friendships the same way I have approached everything else in TFA—temporary. Even though I might care deeply about the people I have met, I must accept the fact that I will only be important to them for the duration of my TFA commitment. After that, we will go our separate ways, and inevitably the new demands of the next stage will overcome any lingering closeness from the previous experiences.
I struggle with this realization almost as much as I did with the actual feeling of loss at other times, but I am hoping that being realistic now will help to save me some heartache in the long run. Moral of the story: enjoy it while it lasts, but do not be too devastated when it is gone. I am going to be too busy embracing the next step. And none of this means that I can’t look back on the memories fondly. And in ten years, there is no reason why we won’t be able to just pick up where we left off.
I personally have no idea what to make of the situation even now. Sure, it was a “look-at-me” ploy. But it also strikes me powerfully when considering the fact that I know of at least one student for whom such a statement could physiologically be true, and this unnerves me for ALL of my girls. Then I take into account the unsettling prevalence of teen pregnancy in the Delta, and the prevailing acceptance of childbearing as a solution for every type of lifestyle. I almost think that young, unwed pregnancies are as close to a rite of passage as high school graduation…well, quite frankly, even more so. I cannot even fully articulate the phenomenon, other than to say: pregnancy is EVERYWHERE. It continues to mystify me.
Event #2: One of my students, who is nothing short of a third-grade thug destined for jail, brought a BB gun to school—including bullets. He brandished it proudly after school, and one of my braver, sweeter boys immediately brought it to my attention. Until the “fun” ended, I gathered from other students that this student saw such idiocy as the coolest thing imaginable. I can barely comprehend the kind of woman his mother is and the type of people to whom she is exposing her children. Such an occurrence makes me dishearteningly realize that I know of no way to help this child in the long term; he must have a terrible home life with zero acceptable role models, and the school officials are either inept or too passive about such behavior. What to do to save this child from himself?
Event#3: In some ways, this last anecdote is the scariest of all to me. I have heard plenty of rumors circulating about one of my students concerning her home life: her father is abusive, the family is tragically poor, and the mother had tried to give away her children. It is heartbreaking, and this incredibly bright student has significant behavior problems as a result. On Wednesday, this girl’s mother came rushing up to me after school, asking me if I could take her daughter home with me while she went to Batesville (forty minutes away). I knew in that instant, without any doubt, that if I said yes, this mother would never come to get her child.
The incident forced me to see my lifestyle in an entirely new perspective. In many ways, I still live and function as though I am in college. I live with roommates, I do not spend much time cooking, I am minimalist when it comes to furniture, and I am focused almost solely on my work. Even though I am committed to my job, I still approach it with an understanding that it is temporary, and so I have spent no time creating a home. That is no atmosphere for a child even for a night, and especially not in this case, when it appeared that this girl just might be abandoned into that environment.
And so I suddenly sense an even greater disconnect between me and the rest of Clarksdale. I live differently, I think differently, I bring a completely different context to every single decision and tiny movement I make. I am floating in my own bubble, isolated and sheltered from the true realities of the Delta. Everything I experience is real life for the first time. It is harsh and brutal. And yet, relatively speaking, I walk away each day unscathed by the hardship everyone else faces. In this way, I am much closer to the people at the Chinese New Year’s party than I am to all of my co-workers and students and parents. And there is no hope EVER that I will get any closer.
My co-teacher had volunteered me to help supervise students during the after-school practices for the black history program, and this role quickly evolved into one where I was in charge of both behavior during our ridiculous number of practices and the backstage during the actual production. The multiple layers of irony were never lost on me. I got acquainted with students from all the grades, which was the most rewarding part, and I earned myself some “street cred” on every imaginable front: parents, students, and even other teachers. And when the show started off with a fairly major crisis, I handled the backstage turmoil with calm and success. It was an energizing experience, especially since my co-teacher did her best to make sure everyone knew and sufficiently appreciated my role. I imagine I will be involved in future performances, perhaps even improve them a bit!
On a personal front, I reached an important conclusion in the past couple weeks. First, some background: My roommate had told me about a very close friend she had had while in the Peace Corps, and to whom she never speaks anymore. She was lamenting this situation, especially in light of the intensity of that former relationship. It reminded me of my senior year at AU, when I would spend every night of the spring semester in tears as I contemplated all of the friendships I was about to lose as a result of graduation. I could not accept the prospect of such loss. And then an extremely wise professor told me that friendships will inevitably grow and evolve as our circumstances change. The key to surviving the transition is to recognize that you and your friend will continue to support one another in new ways. Relationships should not require constant contact (as they did in college); friends can acknowledge that despite the distance and the longer lapses of conversation, their friendship can always just pick up where it left off. There is no need for awkwardness or resentment, just security in the friendship. For many of my relationships from college, this has been the most liberating and truthful piece of advice I have ever received. It was a truly helpful way to approach my impending graduation.
Now, I find myself intermittently struggling with the relationships I have created here in the Delta. To me, they are one of the most important aspects of my survival on a daily basis, but they are also priority in the greater scheme of my life and experiences. I find myself wondering how these relationships will fit into the larger picture after TFA. Where I flounder is that I cannot quite comprehend how important my friendship is to them. When this is all over, will we continue to stay in touch? Or even, is this relationship only significant here in the Delta? I have already deliberated on the Delta vacuum, but this discussion requires a return visit. I propose that most of what I have experienced in TFA is a heightened experience, largely because there is a nagging void in my environment. Earlier I said that I function in a protective bubble of sorts. I think this applies to just about everything, including the relationships I create. We have surrounded ourselves with the things and the people that can offer us the support and comfort we need during a truly grueling process. But remove that factor from the equation and put us back in our old lives, and I would argue that the things and the people would fall away. The need is no longer there, and the commonality is lost. The hardships would suddenly be less hard and the void would be filled with all sorts of other distractions.
It is the same thing that happened when I studied abroad; the intensity of the experience gave me three truly remarkable friends, and I grieved the loss of their constant companionship when I returned home. But today, I never talk to them, I never think about them, and I never miss them. I have fond memories, certainly, and I would love the opportunity to see them again, but it is not something for which I yearn or constantly strive.
I imagine my friendships here will go in the same way. For a while, I created the same internal battle that I had when leaving Germany and graduating from AU. I was always devastated by the upcoming change in my friendships, and all I wanted was to keep these people predominantly in my life. I have already felt the same way here in the Delta. A part of me did not want to let go of what I had managed to create, and that same part of me resisted any attempt to change those relationships. But now, I understand the necessity of pre-empting that inevitable hardship by re-framing my outlook. I already know that such a course will be difficult, but it must be done: I have decided to approach my friendships the same way I have approached everything else in TFA—temporary. Even though I might care deeply about the people I have met, I must accept the fact that I will only be important to them for the duration of my TFA commitment. After that, we will go our separate ways, and inevitably the new demands of the next stage will overcome any lingering closeness from the previous experiences.
I struggle with this realization almost as much as I did with the actual feeling of loss at other times, but I am hoping that being realistic now will help to save me some heartache in the long run. Moral of the story: enjoy it while it lasts, but do not be too devastated when it is gone. I am going to be too busy embracing the next step. And none of this means that I can’t look back on the memories fondly. And in ten years, there is no reason why we won’t be able to just pick up where we left off.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Adding Pieces of Understanding
Last Saturday, I attended a birthday party for one of my students, which was a wonderful way to experience my students in a non-academic setting. I had spent hours frantically searching store after store for the birthday gifts my co-teacher had recommended: “Something pretty and girly, like a necklace, hair bows, or a purse. Make sure it is princessy.” At first, I thought I could handle it; I knew the student and I knew the local store offerings. How difficult could it be to select some cute hair bows? But as I roamed about Clarksdale, I realized just how much I never was a girly-girl growing up, and how much I just wanted to buy her a chapter book, so I could encourage her already advanced reading level and school performance. After all, that is what I would have wanted at her age (I know, think what you must), and that is a gift I would expect from her school teacher. But my co-teacher’s suggestions won out, and we ended up being quite successful in our present, regardless of the minor panic attack I had shopping so far outside my comfort zone.
I realized at the party that I thoroughly enjoyed getting to see and interact with my students outside of school. They treated me like a celebrity—which was new to me and certainly helpful to the self-esteem—but I also experienced the strongest desire to continue such informal interactions and to help develop the entire child rather than simply his or her academics. I spent the rest of the weekend excitedly turning over different proposals for after-school clubs and social gatherings that would both enhance my students’ academics and provide them with an opportunity to socialize outside our school roles. I went into the new week with outlined ideas that I wanted to present to my principal at the earliest possible opportunity.
That energy quickly waned, however, as the intensity of a difficult week immediately emerged. My students were terrible this week, beginning to finish, and I could not muster the enthusiasm to spend any more time with these rascals than I was already required. They would not listen when I presented my new material, so they failed their independent practice. Their social roles between each other are growing more pronounced, and they are getting in the way of our classroom environment. The part of me interested in psychology and anthropology deeply yearns to sit back and observe these developing group dynamics, but my first loyalty—motivated by a healthy amount of doubt and fear—is to the state tests in May, so I continue to battle as best I can.
Come to think of it, perhaps this is the element of my week which is the most interesting to contemplate. I get the powerful impression that my students are starting to consciously realize that they are sexual beings, capable of a wider degree of emotions than they ever thought possible. The interactions between the boys and girls are taking on a different tone, one that certainly terrifies me, given their young age. They are starting to pair off, or at least recognize that status as a possibility. I have even caught snippets of conversation about what my students term “business” and witnessed my most aggressive and confident boy invite two girls to search his body for a hidden dollar. I will give you one guess where he hid that dollar. And yes, the girls did manage to find it…
On Wednesday, I had to break up my first, full-fledged fist fight between two of my boys (obnoxious alliteration completely unintentional), which actually unnerved me more than many of my other experiences. Perhaps it was the physicality of stepping in and restraining these two students, or perhaps it was having to confront the intense anger felt and so prominently displayed on both sides, or perhaps it was the sneaking suspicion that I could have prevented it altogether had I reacted a little quicker. Regardless, the episode changed the tenor of my week from one of desperately trying to reclaim the fun and control I usually get to use, to one of complete submission to my perpetual bad mood and ineffective governance of an unruly class. I gave up trying to redeem the negative experiences and instead fully accepted the upcoming weekend as the only refuge from five days of unexpected challenges.
So heading into a new week, I am already disappointed in how quickly the weekend has come and gone, and dreading the next four weeks before spring break. I question my ability to neutralize the growing tension in my room, and even my desire to continue pushing back against the rising tide. I will wake up tomorrow with lower but perhaps more realistic expectations. I have learned so far that one day really has no bearing upon the next, so it is anyone’s guess what the next week will bring. I find a little bit of consolation in that.
On Friday, a prominent member of Oakhurst Baptist (our landlord) invited my roommates and me to his home for a celebration of the Chinese New Year. Sarah and I went largely for the well known quality of the food and for the sake of having Friday night plans, so we were thrilled at the glimpse we received into the other side of Delta culture. Those in attendance were all Chinese Americans and rather successful members of their community—professors at Ole Miss, owners of local businesses, and high-ranking officials in their given occupations. They had money and education, two qualities most, if not all, my students’ parents lack. As a result, their perspectives on the current events in Clarksdale and our role as public school teachers were entirely different. They were informed and intelligent problem-solvers, and yet their tones were still tinged with that underlying racism I experience everywhere. Many of the problems in Clarksdale are black problems. Blacks cause the situation, so naturally they must also bear the fruits of public education’s downward spiral. Similar to Sarah and me, these community members were able to more accurately pinpoint the underlying issues at work, but unlike us, they refused any role in changing the situation. And why should they take any greater interest? They can sit in their prosperous corners of the Clarksdale community and function without any detriment reaching them from the slums. I finally experienced more concretely the isolation these people must enjoy. It was perhaps the most interesting bubble I have encountered in quite a while, and the closest comparison I can find is the sheltered bubble of white South Africa. I finally understood how completely possible and even comfortable it would be to live and work in the white community and only distantly observe the challenges facing the black community. How completely different would my experiences be!
I had glimpsed the possibility and the appeal, but ultimately I could not accept it. Such willful ignorance in the face of so much education and prosperity is distasteful and disappointing. While I thoroughly enjoyed the company at this party for so many reasons, I could never make their world my world. I want to merge the different communities into one comprehensive picture and to indulge in the best of all these elements, but it is like forcing magnets together. It just does not work, and so it does not happen. On the other hand, I suppose I am a random piece of plastic, and so I fit in nowhere. This reality is always present and unfailingly discouraging.
Unbidden, my co-teacher has actively played the matchmaker, insisting on acquainting me with Clarksdale’s young and successful men. She has a vision of helping me settle permanently in the area and into a lifestyle both happy and comfortable. While it started in good fun, I wonder if she has ever realized an underlying consequence: in finding this suitable partner, she would be pushing me from the small hold I have on her community, and thoroughly relegating me to that white Clarksdale bubble.
I realized at the party that I thoroughly enjoyed getting to see and interact with my students outside of school. They treated me like a celebrity—which was new to me and certainly helpful to the self-esteem—but I also experienced the strongest desire to continue such informal interactions and to help develop the entire child rather than simply his or her academics. I spent the rest of the weekend excitedly turning over different proposals for after-school clubs and social gatherings that would both enhance my students’ academics and provide them with an opportunity to socialize outside our school roles. I went into the new week with outlined ideas that I wanted to present to my principal at the earliest possible opportunity.
That energy quickly waned, however, as the intensity of a difficult week immediately emerged. My students were terrible this week, beginning to finish, and I could not muster the enthusiasm to spend any more time with these rascals than I was already required. They would not listen when I presented my new material, so they failed their independent practice. Their social roles between each other are growing more pronounced, and they are getting in the way of our classroom environment. The part of me interested in psychology and anthropology deeply yearns to sit back and observe these developing group dynamics, but my first loyalty—motivated by a healthy amount of doubt and fear—is to the state tests in May, so I continue to battle as best I can.
Come to think of it, perhaps this is the element of my week which is the most interesting to contemplate. I get the powerful impression that my students are starting to consciously realize that they are sexual beings, capable of a wider degree of emotions than they ever thought possible. The interactions between the boys and girls are taking on a different tone, one that certainly terrifies me, given their young age. They are starting to pair off, or at least recognize that status as a possibility. I have even caught snippets of conversation about what my students term “business” and witnessed my most aggressive and confident boy invite two girls to search his body for a hidden dollar. I will give you one guess where he hid that dollar. And yes, the girls did manage to find it…
On Wednesday, I had to break up my first, full-fledged fist fight between two of my boys (obnoxious alliteration completely unintentional), which actually unnerved me more than many of my other experiences. Perhaps it was the physicality of stepping in and restraining these two students, or perhaps it was having to confront the intense anger felt and so prominently displayed on both sides, or perhaps it was the sneaking suspicion that I could have prevented it altogether had I reacted a little quicker. Regardless, the episode changed the tenor of my week from one of desperately trying to reclaim the fun and control I usually get to use, to one of complete submission to my perpetual bad mood and ineffective governance of an unruly class. I gave up trying to redeem the negative experiences and instead fully accepted the upcoming weekend as the only refuge from five days of unexpected challenges.
So heading into a new week, I am already disappointed in how quickly the weekend has come and gone, and dreading the next four weeks before spring break. I question my ability to neutralize the growing tension in my room, and even my desire to continue pushing back against the rising tide. I will wake up tomorrow with lower but perhaps more realistic expectations. I have learned so far that one day really has no bearing upon the next, so it is anyone’s guess what the next week will bring. I find a little bit of consolation in that.
On Friday, a prominent member of Oakhurst Baptist (our landlord) invited my roommates and me to his home for a celebration of the Chinese New Year. Sarah and I went largely for the well known quality of the food and for the sake of having Friday night plans, so we were thrilled at the glimpse we received into the other side of Delta culture. Those in attendance were all Chinese Americans and rather successful members of their community—professors at Ole Miss, owners of local businesses, and high-ranking officials in their given occupations. They had money and education, two qualities most, if not all, my students’ parents lack. As a result, their perspectives on the current events in Clarksdale and our role as public school teachers were entirely different. They were informed and intelligent problem-solvers, and yet their tones were still tinged with that underlying racism I experience everywhere. Many of the problems in Clarksdale are black problems. Blacks cause the situation, so naturally they must also bear the fruits of public education’s downward spiral. Similar to Sarah and me, these community members were able to more accurately pinpoint the underlying issues at work, but unlike us, they refused any role in changing the situation. And why should they take any greater interest? They can sit in their prosperous corners of the Clarksdale community and function without any detriment reaching them from the slums. I finally experienced more concretely the isolation these people must enjoy. It was perhaps the most interesting bubble I have encountered in quite a while, and the closest comparison I can find is the sheltered bubble of white South Africa. I finally understood how completely possible and even comfortable it would be to live and work in the white community and only distantly observe the challenges facing the black community. How completely different would my experiences be!
I had glimpsed the possibility and the appeal, but ultimately I could not accept it. Such willful ignorance in the face of so much education and prosperity is distasteful and disappointing. While I thoroughly enjoyed the company at this party for so many reasons, I could never make their world my world. I want to merge the different communities into one comprehensive picture and to indulge in the best of all these elements, but it is like forcing magnets together. It just does not work, and so it does not happen. On the other hand, I suppose I am a random piece of plastic, and so I fit in nowhere. This reality is always present and unfailingly discouraging.
Unbidden, my co-teacher has actively played the matchmaker, insisting on acquainting me with Clarksdale’s young and successful men. She has a vision of helping me settle permanently in the area and into a lifestyle both happy and comfortable. While it started in good fun, I wonder if she has ever realized an underlying consequence: in finding this suitable partner, she would be pushing me from the small hold I have on her community, and thoroughly relegating me to that white Clarksdale bubble.
Friday, February 5, 2010
February Musings
Usually by Thursday night or Friday morning, I am caught in a pointless quandary: did this week go by fast? Or slow? I really wish I could stop this habit, because after a while the asking is no longer interesting, and I am no closer to solving this mystery than I was the first week of the school year. I will note, however, that I am shocked we are over halfway through the third nine weeks. Already… But then again, it feels like ages since I was in Ohio for Christmas…
See how easy that is? :)
I thought I would switch up my routine and see if my update has a different tone at the beginning of the weekend rather than the end. At this point, I am still recovering from the pros and cons of the week, and I do not have much of that re-energized optimism going for me. But we shall see.
Upon reflection, not much stands out from this week. Even now, I am searching fruitlessly for some highlights with which to regale my eager audience, but to no avail. This is particularly frustrating, since I seem to remember at the beginning of the week thinking, “This will be a great story for my update.” Well, if I ever recall what it was that captured this musing, I will be sure to pass it along. As it is, I will go more for general impressions.
I have found to my halfheartedly surprised chagrin that there are certain students in my class whom I cannot tolerate with any measure of patience. In particular, I have one who is strikingly small for her age, and she has a habit of using her “cuteness” to get by with just about anything. I will correct her for singing in the middle of my lesson, and she will just look at me with a smile that hopes to say, “How can you be upset at my disruption, Ms. Cook? I am so adorable and cuddly!” When she is in my after-school tutoring, she resorts to a baby voice, and often she will come to me to whine or pout about one thing or another, so much so that I can rarely understand what she is even saying.
I think what gets me the most is that the assistant inclusion teacher is the exact opposite of me: she favors the cute-and-cuddlies, and this child loves to take advantage of that fact. Today, the student goes up to the inclusion teacher, holding her eye, and complaining that it hurt. You all know how much I shudder at these attention-grabbers, and my response, for my whole life, has always been, “Get over it.” But instead, this woman pulls her out of my class for the rest of the morning, doctoring this atrocious eye-hurt. She sends the student back in just long enough to ask for a copy of the reading test she was supposed to be taking with her classmates. I have already graded it. She improved by three letter grades over her usual test score. Coincidence? I do not believe in the word, and especially not when these two leave a perfect trail for me to follow.
I struggle to stand up to this teacher, particularly because she is a vicious presence in the school, and I hesitate to be on the wrong side of her. And because I doubt that any comment from me would change her behavior. My co-teacher is a much stronger and more experienced woman than me, and she too flounders when coming up with a helpful solution. More on this relationship in the future, I suppose.
In any case, all of the above should be read casually; I am still in the venting stage of my weekend! ;) The point is that I have noticed an emerging pattern in my relationships with certain students: because I sense a personality clash, I find it difficult to treat them with the fairness they deserve. I have always had a little too much pride, so I think part of it is my third-grade self trying to unleash a little revenge on the children who once made my early years full of needless drama and self-consciousness. The other part is that I refuse to give in to the characteristics I resent and do not admire in others. But I try to keep in mind that I was once a child like these, and given some of the social situations presented to my students, I am not entirely sure I did act or would have acted any differently. I also try to remember that not all of them are blessed with a healthy or even stable home life. And, above all else, they are still children. I cannot impose on them the hurts, fears, angers, humiliations, successes, and failures of my own life. I say all of this and even truly believe it, but I still struggle to live out these values on a daily basis. More than the TFA busy-work, this is where I know I need to improve.
Since the start of the new year, I have realized that there is a bit too much freedom for mental rambling during my days and weekends. As always, I have a malfunctioning on/off switch that keeps me over-thinking and over-analyzing during all hours of consciousness. And while I often enjoy this aspect of my being (it makes for some intriguing dreams), it is also exhausting and inconvenient a fair portion of the time. I feel the need to keep constantly busy and to find distractions even more than I ever did in college, and I have only been partially successful at this. I am still severely limited in friendships and social pastimes and surrounding areas for escape. Anyone who has experienced the Delta can perhaps commiserate with the huge vacuum that seems to exist in many of these areas. I have yet to find non-TFA people my age or avenues for my energy that are conducive to my interests and my teaching schedule. I have asked my mentor about ways to get involved in the community, but so far I have turned up few leads.
So for now, I set aside time each day for reading, which has contained a lovely mixture of genres, topics, and interests. For the first time in…well…ever, I pursue the titles that offer a free-spirited education in popular fiction, history, politics, literary classics, social science, and philosophy—whatever the whims desire. I just finished Nelson Mandela’s Long Walk to Freedom, which is the first South African book I have managed to pick up since I defended my thesis last April. This situation is actually one that continues to mystify me: the single greatest achievement of my life was that thesis, and my topic has lodged itself solidly into a special corner in my heart and mind. Yet every time before this that I had attempted a South African book, I just could not do it. I had to let ample time pass. It is a circumstance that has never made sense, so naturally I cannot fully articulate it. But regardless of this stretch of time, I now find myself happily settled in the history, culture, and persona of Africa, and I imagine I will put a sizeable dent in the African section of my personal library before I stop.
Side note: in my classroom, I put up an 8x10 photograph of the children we met in Vrygrond township (attached). It hangs on my back wall so that I can look on their sweet faces whenever I need a moment of strength. They look much like my children, and like my children, they remind me why I am here and why I keep trying. If it were for personal gain, I would have failed long ago, like so many elitists I have met along the way. My heart is in the right place, even though it might not always seem that way, and sometimes even I forget.
See how easy that is? :)
I thought I would switch up my routine and see if my update has a different tone at the beginning of the weekend rather than the end. At this point, I am still recovering from the pros and cons of the week, and I do not have much of that re-energized optimism going for me. But we shall see.
Upon reflection, not much stands out from this week. Even now, I am searching fruitlessly for some highlights with which to regale my eager audience, but to no avail. This is particularly frustrating, since I seem to remember at the beginning of the week thinking, “This will be a great story for my update.” Well, if I ever recall what it was that captured this musing, I will be sure to pass it along. As it is, I will go more for general impressions.
I have found to my halfheartedly surprised chagrin that there are certain students in my class whom I cannot tolerate with any measure of patience. In particular, I have one who is strikingly small for her age, and she has a habit of using her “cuteness” to get by with just about anything. I will correct her for singing in the middle of my lesson, and she will just look at me with a smile that hopes to say, “How can you be upset at my disruption, Ms. Cook? I am so adorable and cuddly!” When she is in my after-school tutoring, she resorts to a baby voice, and often she will come to me to whine or pout about one thing or another, so much so that I can rarely understand what she is even saying.
I think what gets me the most is that the assistant inclusion teacher is the exact opposite of me: she favors the cute-and-cuddlies, and this child loves to take advantage of that fact. Today, the student goes up to the inclusion teacher, holding her eye, and complaining that it hurt. You all know how much I shudder at these attention-grabbers, and my response, for my whole life, has always been, “Get over it.” But instead, this woman pulls her out of my class for the rest of the morning, doctoring this atrocious eye-hurt. She sends the student back in just long enough to ask for a copy of the reading test she was supposed to be taking with her classmates. I have already graded it. She improved by three letter grades over her usual test score. Coincidence? I do not believe in the word, and especially not when these two leave a perfect trail for me to follow.
I struggle to stand up to this teacher, particularly because she is a vicious presence in the school, and I hesitate to be on the wrong side of her. And because I doubt that any comment from me would change her behavior. My co-teacher is a much stronger and more experienced woman than me, and she too flounders when coming up with a helpful solution. More on this relationship in the future, I suppose.
In any case, all of the above should be read casually; I am still in the venting stage of my weekend! ;) The point is that I have noticed an emerging pattern in my relationships with certain students: because I sense a personality clash, I find it difficult to treat them with the fairness they deserve. I have always had a little too much pride, so I think part of it is my third-grade self trying to unleash a little revenge on the children who once made my early years full of needless drama and self-consciousness. The other part is that I refuse to give in to the characteristics I resent and do not admire in others. But I try to keep in mind that I was once a child like these, and given some of the social situations presented to my students, I am not entirely sure I did act or would have acted any differently. I also try to remember that not all of them are blessed with a healthy or even stable home life. And, above all else, they are still children. I cannot impose on them the hurts, fears, angers, humiliations, successes, and failures of my own life. I say all of this and even truly believe it, but I still struggle to live out these values on a daily basis. More than the TFA busy-work, this is where I know I need to improve.
Since the start of the new year, I have realized that there is a bit too much freedom for mental rambling during my days and weekends. As always, I have a malfunctioning on/off switch that keeps me over-thinking and over-analyzing during all hours of consciousness. And while I often enjoy this aspect of my being (it makes for some intriguing dreams), it is also exhausting and inconvenient a fair portion of the time. I feel the need to keep constantly busy and to find distractions even more than I ever did in college, and I have only been partially successful at this. I am still severely limited in friendships and social pastimes and surrounding areas for escape. Anyone who has experienced the Delta can perhaps commiserate with the huge vacuum that seems to exist in many of these areas. I have yet to find non-TFA people my age or avenues for my energy that are conducive to my interests and my teaching schedule. I have asked my mentor about ways to get involved in the community, but so far I have turned up few leads.
So for now, I set aside time each day for reading, which has contained a lovely mixture of genres, topics, and interests. For the first time in…well…ever, I pursue the titles that offer a free-spirited education in popular fiction, history, politics, literary classics, social science, and philosophy—whatever the whims desire. I just finished Nelson Mandela’s Long Walk to Freedom, which is the first South African book I have managed to pick up since I defended my thesis last April. This situation is actually one that continues to mystify me: the single greatest achievement of my life was that thesis, and my topic has lodged itself solidly into a special corner in my heart and mind. Yet every time before this that I had attempted a South African book, I just could not do it. I had to let ample time pass. It is a circumstance that has never made sense, so naturally I cannot fully articulate it. But regardless of this stretch of time, I now find myself happily settled in the history, culture, and persona of Africa, and I imagine I will put a sizeable dent in the African section of my personal library before I stop.
Side note: in my classroom, I put up an 8x10 photograph of the children we met in Vrygrond township (attached). It hangs on my back wall so that I can look on their sweet faces whenever I need a moment of strength. They look much like my children, and like my children, they remind me why I am here and why I keep trying. If it were for personal gain, I would have failed long ago, like so many elitists I have met along the way. My heart is in the right place, even though it might not always seem that way, and sometimes even I forget.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Bring. It. On!
In many ways, this week was unexpected, though by now I should be expecting that. Haha. …. Ok, bad joke…
Warning: long update below. Unusually eventful week… (also a bad joke)
On Monday, I had two observations, one from my principal and another from my Program Director for TFA. The first was unexpected, and the second was a source of significant anticipation. The last time he had come to observe my class was at the very beginning of the year, when I was completely frazzled over classroom management. I have always been a little too critical of my PD; I sincerely believe that he is a subpar teacher who is a little too sold on the TFA model and treats teaching like an unnatural science rather than an instinctual art. You all know me well enough to know that this is a personality with which I am bound to clash, especially when that personality is put in a position of authority over me. Regardless, however, I took his scheduled visit very seriously, and lost a great deal of sleep in the process. I dreaded the thought of being judged by someone who did not entirely leave me in wonder of his capabilities, and who has always been just as critical of me as I have been of him. I also feared the perceived moment when he would inevitably confirm my innermost trepidation: that I am indeed a terrible teacher myself.
During the visit from my principal, we were working on visualization using our poem of the week, and it was an amazing lesson. The students were engaged and excited, so we had a great time. I felt pretty good about what was going on in my classroom, and my principal made a point later in the day to share her own excitement with me about what she had observed. It was a wonderful feeling to experience some measurement of success.
When my PD came, we were working on Shurley English, particularly the Question and Answer Flow that accompanies most lessons. My students were a little rusty on the process, so the observation was a little rocky, but at no point did I feel like I had failed miserably in representing myself well as a teacher and as a TFA teacher at that. I walked away from the day feeling satisfied.
But in my debrief the next evening, my PD once again succeeded in making me feel like an inadequate, slacker teacher of whom TFA would be ashamed. My lesson lacked focus and precise objectives, so my students had proceeded without purpose. If only I would spend more time completing the TFA model for lesson planning, I would be more effective with my time, and my students would finally start to achieve. At the end of a very long day that wasn’t even close to being over yet, this PD made me plan out two lessons, which were complete with objective, key points, opening, intro to new material, guided practice, independent practice, and closing. It was tedious and degrading, to say the least.
And yet I walked away with important revelations: I could finally articulate the heart of my frustrations with my PD. It wasn’t so much that I hate the “TFA way” of doing things—in fact, I was surprisingly excited about the lesson plans I made during our session—but rather his way of presenting the TFA way. It is more than a little creepy that the people in TFA talk in the same way; both my PD and my advisor in Houston used the same phrasing and approach to meetings with me. “Angie, I am going to push you on that,” or “Now I want you to summarize for me what you have learned from this meeting,” or “How are you going to implement this in your class tomorrow?” It is exceedingly patronizing and overly professional. If anything, it makes me defensive and even belligerent. I do not respond well to this kind of relationship (is it any surprise that I came to loathe both these individuals?), which no doubt gives these TFA figures a somewhat negative impression of me. It’s ok, though. I am more than fine with that.
So the point is this: I am finally starting to practice the TFA lesson planning strategy of my own free will. I can see its benefits, and I finally feel like I am comfortable and adapted enough to try it of my own volition. For the longest time, I struggled to conceptualize how to use this model given my discomfort in teaching in general, my obstacles with classroom management, and my stuck-ness in survival mode. I have started to flow effortlessly in my teaching role, I have my kids under control as much as any other teacher can boast, and I am enjoying myself enough to finally seek out ways to push myself even further. Things are finally starting to feel manageable and even exciting. The possibilities really open up after I make it to that stage.
What I DON’T appreciate is a person trying to persistently shove me into their definition of success. From the beginning, my PD has tried and tried and tried to mold me into the TFA way, which is a cookie-cutter approach that I have rejected from the beginning. What my PD fails to realize is that we all start at different levels in this process: some come into TFA ready to embrace the organization’s model and can immediately begin practicing the TFA strategies. Some of us, like me, come in without any conception of how to be a teacher at all, let alone the kind of teacher TFA wants us to be. And others come in who are anti-TFA from beginning to finish. We all start out differently, so the PD’s approach to each of us must necessarily take into account these different positions. I would have loved to have a PD who said, you know what? I can tell you are not ready to follow our approach to the smallest detail, so let’s focus on how we can troubleshoot your most immediate concerns, and then we can build you up to where we want you to be. When I think of this strategy, I think of the words subtle, flexible, and downright sneaky. Would this approach be more effective? I have no idea without testing it. But a part of me thinks that I would have responded much better to this kind of covert manipulation than the TFA heavy-handedness.
And I will admit that to an extent, my PD has been successful in molding me. I just wish he had treated me with more respect and a more personal touch while he did it.
On Thursday, I had an unexpectedly defensive start to the day: a parent had emailed the superintendent with a complaint about me. It will not surprise you that this parent is the same parent whose mother (my student’s grandmother) who had threatened me with bodily harm before Thanksgiving. In this case, early in the week, I had made the student in question touch his toes for a couple of minutes as a consequence for playing in the middle of my class. He had gotten into some sort of disagreement with the student who sat next to him, and they had proceeded to push a book between them, to the disruption of the entire class. It was a ridiculous waste of our learning time, and I was going to make sure they both knew it.
Thursday morning, my principal alerts me that she wants to meet with me, as soon as she can send an assistant to watch my class. In the interim, the student arrives with a note from his mother, accusing me of practicing “unethical disciplinary actions” on a child who is “functionally autistic” (he’s not) and who is incapable of paying attention (he is). She implied that she had taken action against me, since “teacher-parent rapport with you cannot be established.” As if I am the problem? Really? Who threatened whom?
I will admit that I immediately feared reprimand and further conflict with this parent, so much so that I walked to the office with every intention of back downing and giving in to the mother. But when I reached the principal, and found her office entirely empty of the disgruntled parent, I realized that I was not in the wrong. The mother did not even hang around long enough to confront me personally! She sends a note via her child, and emails the superintendent without even contacting my principal! This was not a legitimate complaint, so how could I ignore it?
My principal read me the initial email from the mother to the superintendent, and then the superintendent’s response to the complaint, which was actually impressive in its mediating tone. When it was my turn to speak, I shocked even myself in the hard line I took; I refused to back down, refuted some of the allegations, asserted the complaint was personal rather than legitimate, and pointed out that my co-teacher makes this student touch his toes all the time, but no email had gone to the superintendent over that. I stood by my disciplinary approach, and promised that I would continue to practice it in the future… until my principal had an office busting at the door hinges with angry parents. When that happened, I would consider changing my ways, but for now, I had nothing for which I need to apologize. I knew that I was putting my principal in a difficult position, but I felt liberated having done that much for myself.
Later that morning, the director in charge of special education stopped by to let me know the latest from the Central Office. She had met with my inclusion teacher, who has always been supremely complimentary of my teaching practices, and she wanted to personally reassure me that I was not at all liable for the complaint. She even rolled her eyes in reference to this parent.
Needless to say, my skin is considerably tougher after five months of teaching in the Delta. I hate confrontation, which has always been an area of weakness, but I was thrilled that I had faced the threat head-on and triumphed. I finally had the explicit support of not only my fellow teachers, but also my superintendent. Now that is something to write home about.
The best part? When I returned to my room after meeting with my principal, the assistant teacher had three of my students at the front of the room, all of them touching their toes! (None of them was the student in question, though). Exonerated? I damn well better be!
Warning: long update below. Unusually eventful week… (also a bad joke)
On Monday, I had two observations, one from my principal and another from my Program Director for TFA. The first was unexpected, and the second was a source of significant anticipation. The last time he had come to observe my class was at the very beginning of the year, when I was completely frazzled over classroom management. I have always been a little too critical of my PD; I sincerely believe that he is a subpar teacher who is a little too sold on the TFA model and treats teaching like an unnatural science rather than an instinctual art. You all know me well enough to know that this is a personality with which I am bound to clash, especially when that personality is put in a position of authority over me. Regardless, however, I took his scheduled visit very seriously, and lost a great deal of sleep in the process. I dreaded the thought of being judged by someone who did not entirely leave me in wonder of his capabilities, and who has always been just as critical of me as I have been of him. I also feared the perceived moment when he would inevitably confirm my innermost trepidation: that I am indeed a terrible teacher myself.
During the visit from my principal, we were working on visualization using our poem of the week, and it was an amazing lesson. The students were engaged and excited, so we had a great time. I felt pretty good about what was going on in my classroom, and my principal made a point later in the day to share her own excitement with me about what she had observed. It was a wonderful feeling to experience some measurement of success.
When my PD came, we were working on Shurley English, particularly the Question and Answer Flow that accompanies most lessons. My students were a little rusty on the process, so the observation was a little rocky, but at no point did I feel like I had failed miserably in representing myself well as a teacher and as a TFA teacher at that. I walked away from the day feeling satisfied.
But in my debrief the next evening, my PD once again succeeded in making me feel like an inadequate, slacker teacher of whom TFA would be ashamed. My lesson lacked focus and precise objectives, so my students had proceeded without purpose. If only I would spend more time completing the TFA model for lesson planning, I would be more effective with my time, and my students would finally start to achieve. At the end of a very long day that wasn’t even close to being over yet, this PD made me plan out two lessons, which were complete with objective, key points, opening, intro to new material, guided practice, independent practice, and closing. It was tedious and degrading, to say the least.
And yet I walked away with important revelations: I could finally articulate the heart of my frustrations with my PD. It wasn’t so much that I hate the “TFA way” of doing things—in fact, I was surprisingly excited about the lesson plans I made during our session—but rather his way of presenting the TFA way. It is more than a little creepy that the people in TFA talk in the same way; both my PD and my advisor in Houston used the same phrasing and approach to meetings with me. “Angie, I am going to push you on that,” or “Now I want you to summarize for me what you have learned from this meeting,” or “How are you going to implement this in your class tomorrow?” It is exceedingly patronizing and overly professional. If anything, it makes me defensive and even belligerent. I do not respond well to this kind of relationship (is it any surprise that I came to loathe both these individuals?), which no doubt gives these TFA figures a somewhat negative impression of me. It’s ok, though. I am more than fine with that.
So the point is this: I am finally starting to practice the TFA lesson planning strategy of my own free will. I can see its benefits, and I finally feel like I am comfortable and adapted enough to try it of my own volition. For the longest time, I struggled to conceptualize how to use this model given my discomfort in teaching in general, my obstacles with classroom management, and my stuck-ness in survival mode. I have started to flow effortlessly in my teaching role, I have my kids under control as much as any other teacher can boast, and I am enjoying myself enough to finally seek out ways to push myself even further. Things are finally starting to feel manageable and even exciting. The possibilities really open up after I make it to that stage.
What I DON’T appreciate is a person trying to persistently shove me into their definition of success. From the beginning, my PD has tried and tried and tried to mold me into the TFA way, which is a cookie-cutter approach that I have rejected from the beginning. What my PD fails to realize is that we all start at different levels in this process: some come into TFA ready to embrace the organization’s model and can immediately begin practicing the TFA strategies. Some of us, like me, come in without any conception of how to be a teacher at all, let alone the kind of teacher TFA wants us to be. And others come in who are anti-TFA from beginning to finish. We all start out differently, so the PD’s approach to each of us must necessarily take into account these different positions. I would have loved to have a PD who said, you know what? I can tell you are not ready to follow our approach to the smallest detail, so let’s focus on how we can troubleshoot your most immediate concerns, and then we can build you up to where we want you to be. When I think of this strategy, I think of the words subtle, flexible, and downright sneaky. Would this approach be more effective? I have no idea without testing it. But a part of me thinks that I would have responded much better to this kind of covert manipulation than the TFA heavy-handedness.
And I will admit that to an extent, my PD has been successful in molding me. I just wish he had treated me with more respect and a more personal touch while he did it.
On Thursday, I had an unexpectedly defensive start to the day: a parent had emailed the superintendent with a complaint about me. It will not surprise you that this parent is the same parent whose mother (my student’s grandmother) who had threatened me with bodily harm before Thanksgiving. In this case, early in the week, I had made the student in question touch his toes for a couple of minutes as a consequence for playing in the middle of my class. He had gotten into some sort of disagreement with the student who sat next to him, and they had proceeded to push a book between them, to the disruption of the entire class. It was a ridiculous waste of our learning time, and I was going to make sure they both knew it.
Thursday morning, my principal alerts me that she wants to meet with me, as soon as she can send an assistant to watch my class. In the interim, the student arrives with a note from his mother, accusing me of practicing “unethical disciplinary actions” on a child who is “functionally autistic” (he’s not) and who is incapable of paying attention (he is). She implied that she had taken action against me, since “teacher-parent rapport with you cannot be established.” As if I am the problem? Really? Who threatened whom?
I will admit that I immediately feared reprimand and further conflict with this parent, so much so that I walked to the office with every intention of back downing and giving in to the mother. But when I reached the principal, and found her office entirely empty of the disgruntled parent, I realized that I was not in the wrong. The mother did not even hang around long enough to confront me personally! She sends a note via her child, and emails the superintendent without even contacting my principal! This was not a legitimate complaint, so how could I ignore it?
My principal read me the initial email from the mother to the superintendent, and then the superintendent’s response to the complaint, which was actually impressive in its mediating tone. When it was my turn to speak, I shocked even myself in the hard line I took; I refused to back down, refuted some of the allegations, asserted the complaint was personal rather than legitimate, and pointed out that my co-teacher makes this student touch his toes all the time, but no email had gone to the superintendent over that. I stood by my disciplinary approach, and promised that I would continue to practice it in the future… until my principal had an office busting at the door hinges with angry parents. When that happened, I would consider changing my ways, but for now, I had nothing for which I need to apologize. I knew that I was putting my principal in a difficult position, but I felt liberated having done that much for myself.
Later that morning, the director in charge of special education stopped by to let me know the latest from the Central Office. She had met with my inclusion teacher, who has always been supremely complimentary of my teaching practices, and she wanted to personally reassure me that I was not at all liable for the complaint. She even rolled her eyes in reference to this parent.
Needless to say, my skin is considerably tougher after five months of teaching in the Delta. I hate confrontation, which has always been an area of weakness, but I was thrilled that I had faced the threat head-on and triumphed. I finally had the explicit support of not only my fellow teachers, but also my superintendent. Now that is something to write home about.
The best part? When I returned to my room after meeting with my principal, the assistant teacher had three of my students at the front of the room, all of them touching their toes! (None of them was the student in question, though). Exonerated? I damn well better be!
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Martin Luther King, Revisited
My attempts last week to create passion and meaning from the Martin Luther King holiday had fallen flat. I was flummoxed from dealing with teenage attitude in an 8-year-old. I was devastated by my student’s shockingly low test scores. The successes of the parent-teacher conference quickly receded to the background in light of new failures and challenges. Needless to say, I wasn’t thrilled to head into the new week.
But I took the time over the long weekend to complete some projects both for myself and for my classroom, and the lapsed time, as usual, did a great job to heal the hurts of the previous week. I have always told my students, “Tomorrow is a new day,” not really comprehending the meaning, but using a well-worn phrase as a motivation to improve. Now, I use it because I truly believe it—without it, I fear I would have been hindered by all the setbacks and perhaps relished the successes too much (odd, I know). Leaving the day before crossed off the calendar gives me the survival boost I need, and hopefully inspires my students to keep on trying. And this week, they tried.
I have finally figured out the secret to conducting after-school tutoring in a way that saves my sanity and proves a valuable use of an hour for the students. As soon as 2:45 hits, all pandemonium overwhelms George H. Oliver Elementary, and the students become impossible. Having to deal with these little monsters after that final bell has been one of the greatest trials, especially when my after-school kids tend to be my behavior challenges. But this week, I started using centers as a way to diversify what we cover and to hit more student needs while taking some of the pressure off me. We have started a new computer program called Kid’s College, which has turned out to be revolutionary in motivating even my lowest performers. I make sure to give each student some time on the computer while also giving them practice in math, fluency, and language arts. As the students jump eagerly from station to station, I sit back, keep the timer, and work individually as needed. All of a sudden, the worst part of my week has become my favorite. I love brainstorming new activities and lessons that I cannot feasibly pursue in a group of 27, but is perfect for working with 10, and I love the pressure-free environment to cover what interests us, not just what is tested at the end of the year. Several students had gotten into the habit of preferring another after-school teacher, but this week created such a buzz that I have to turn students away. And even better, the behavior expectations for getting to stay in my room are now extremely high. I had been planning on dropping the after-school tutoring next year, but now I think I will keep it!
The tutoring has also helped to pinpoint the discomforts I have with my teaching in general. I have never been quite satisfied or happy in the profession, but I had not managed to effectively articulate the causes. Now, I understand that I enjoy working with students less formally and in smaller groups. I want to have time to interact with the whole person, since the brain is not the only thing that desperately needs nurtured in these kids. I want their heads and their hearts in return for my own. In after-school, we get to do activities that are fun and engaging, which means I get to more directly trick my students into learning without them realizing it. I can do more when there are fewer students, and without the usual behavior conflicts, I get to relax and be myself a little bit more. Whenever I let my guard down during school, it usually backfires.
On Friday, my non-homeroom class was behind, and so I was using my Social Studies time to teach text features, a topic the other class had already covered. However, one of the first reading selections in our workbook was about Amelia Earhart, which was a perfect opportunity for me to mention phonetic spelling when trying to decipher the correct pronunciation of Earhart. Then a student had a question about the difficulty of pronouncing names, which led to a truly incredible tangent on a wide variety of topics (you know me, I LOVE tangents!). My students were thrilled that I indulged their curiosity about my own ancestry, illegal immigration, and even the rights of criminals. I got to talk about 9/11, Martin Luther King, the types of governments in other countries, why immigrants come to the United States, and the fundamental principles for which America stands. I became so passionate and so caught up in my explanations that one of my students stopped me in order to comment, “Ms. Cook, they should make you the next Martin Luther King.” The other students enthusiastically agreed. I was being unusually articulate, so I appreciated the compliment, but what energized me the most was getting to talk about all of the topics that are important to me, AND getting to say it to a truly enthralled audience of third graders. I rejoiced at their rapt expressions, and thanked the teaching gods for giving me one of those prized teaching moments that had eluded me the previous Friday. It turns out we cannot always ask for inspiration on our own schedule, but must celebrate them when they come, and then hold on to them for dear life during hard times.
The lesson paused when the front office announced, “Teachers, the principal needs your grade distributions immediately. Please stop teaching and send yours right now.” I had already submitted mine, so I excitedly sent a student to the office to convey that fact while I continued my best tangent ever. My parting comment to her was, “And tell them to leave me alone, because I am TEACHING!!” My students were in an uproar over my enthusiasm. Not two minutes later, they announced again, “We know you already sent it. You need to send it again!” I asked my students to wait patiently as I quickly completed this entirely stupid task, but the moment of true beauty had passed; my students had caught too much of my happiness and were out of control. Such moments, apparently, must always have their price. But I honestly would not trade it for anything, even if that means we are still behind heading into the new week.
But I took the time over the long weekend to complete some projects both for myself and for my classroom, and the lapsed time, as usual, did a great job to heal the hurts of the previous week. I have always told my students, “Tomorrow is a new day,” not really comprehending the meaning, but using a well-worn phrase as a motivation to improve. Now, I use it because I truly believe it—without it, I fear I would have been hindered by all the setbacks and perhaps relished the successes too much (odd, I know). Leaving the day before crossed off the calendar gives me the survival boost I need, and hopefully inspires my students to keep on trying. And this week, they tried.
I have finally figured out the secret to conducting after-school tutoring in a way that saves my sanity and proves a valuable use of an hour for the students. As soon as 2:45 hits, all pandemonium overwhelms George H. Oliver Elementary, and the students become impossible. Having to deal with these little monsters after that final bell has been one of the greatest trials, especially when my after-school kids tend to be my behavior challenges. But this week, I started using centers as a way to diversify what we cover and to hit more student needs while taking some of the pressure off me. We have started a new computer program called Kid’s College, which has turned out to be revolutionary in motivating even my lowest performers. I make sure to give each student some time on the computer while also giving them practice in math, fluency, and language arts. As the students jump eagerly from station to station, I sit back, keep the timer, and work individually as needed. All of a sudden, the worst part of my week has become my favorite. I love brainstorming new activities and lessons that I cannot feasibly pursue in a group of 27, but is perfect for working with 10, and I love the pressure-free environment to cover what interests us, not just what is tested at the end of the year. Several students had gotten into the habit of preferring another after-school teacher, but this week created such a buzz that I have to turn students away. And even better, the behavior expectations for getting to stay in my room are now extremely high. I had been planning on dropping the after-school tutoring next year, but now I think I will keep it!
The tutoring has also helped to pinpoint the discomforts I have with my teaching in general. I have never been quite satisfied or happy in the profession, but I had not managed to effectively articulate the causes. Now, I understand that I enjoy working with students less formally and in smaller groups. I want to have time to interact with the whole person, since the brain is not the only thing that desperately needs nurtured in these kids. I want their heads and their hearts in return for my own. In after-school, we get to do activities that are fun and engaging, which means I get to more directly trick my students into learning without them realizing it. I can do more when there are fewer students, and without the usual behavior conflicts, I get to relax and be myself a little bit more. Whenever I let my guard down during school, it usually backfires.
On Friday, my non-homeroom class was behind, and so I was using my Social Studies time to teach text features, a topic the other class had already covered. However, one of the first reading selections in our workbook was about Amelia Earhart, which was a perfect opportunity for me to mention phonetic spelling when trying to decipher the correct pronunciation of Earhart. Then a student had a question about the difficulty of pronouncing names, which led to a truly incredible tangent on a wide variety of topics (you know me, I LOVE tangents!). My students were thrilled that I indulged their curiosity about my own ancestry, illegal immigration, and even the rights of criminals. I got to talk about 9/11, Martin Luther King, the types of governments in other countries, why immigrants come to the United States, and the fundamental principles for which America stands. I became so passionate and so caught up in my explanations that one of my students stopped me in order to comment, “Ms. Cook, they should make you the next Martin Luther King.” The other students enthusiastically agreed. I was being unusually articulate, so I appreciated the compliment, but what energized me the most was getting to talk about all of the topics that are important to me, AND getting to say it to a truly enthralled audience of third graders. I rejoiced at their rapt expressions, and thanked the teaching gods for giving me one of those prized teaching moments that had eluded me the previous Friday. It turns out we cannot always ask for inspiration on our own schedule, but must celebrate them when they come, and then hold on to them for dear life during hard times.
The lesson paused when the front office announced, “Teachers, the principal needs your grade distributions immediately. Please stop teaching and send yours right now.” I had already submitted mine, so I excitedly sent a student to the office to convey that fact while I continued my best tangent ever. My parting comment to her was, “And tell them to leave me alone, because I am TEACHING!!” My students were in an uproar over my enthusiasm. Not two minutes later, they announced again, “We know you already sent it. You need to send it again!” I asked my students to wait patiently as I quickly completed this entirely stupid task, but the moment of true beauty had passed; my students had caught too much of my happiness and were out of control. Such moments, apparently, must always have their price. But I honestly would not trade it for anything, even if that means we are still behind heading into the new week.
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