7 posts tagged “assigned”
[ASSIGNED: SUCCESS STORY]
Why is it so much harder for me to write the success story blog than the failure story?
I can think of small and large things I was successful with in my first year teaching: I can teach the hell out of vocabulary in a way that makes it constructive; and I can break down an essay so that almost anyone can write one that will pass the state test. I am supremely organized. (To look at my home, you wouldn't think so, but my classroom and its documentation are impeccable.) I can write really good chapter study guides for novels and the quizzes that go with them are the perfect mix of comprehension and critical thinking. I did well with group work, and with letting my students teach. I can make grammar make sense.
But can I point to one student and say, "I made a difference in his/her life," and really mean it? "Make a difference." What does that mean anyway? How do we measure that? I didn't send a kid to Phillips Exeter. But did the letter I wrote for KJ get her into that Tougaloo program? Will that change her? Did the gift certificate I gave RW to make up for the day he missed the class reward hot wings party allow him to feel like I cared? Will he remember it? Who knows what each butterfly's wings will do?
Here's what I remember: The day I returned to the school to resign and tell my students personally I would not be back (I'd been out for 6 weeks on medical leave and would not finish the school year there.) I found RK and pulled him out of his Biology class because he'd skipped second period when I usually saw him. He was terrified, of course, thinking he was in trouble again. He and I had gotten off to a rocky start. He was resistant to the work I assigned and challenged my motives. But by [what would become] the end of the year he would knit his brow and listen to my lessons, and pour himself into the worksheets I gave. If he wasn't finished when they were being collected he'd protest that he didn't want to turn it in until he'd gotten it. He wanted to understand. And the look on his face when he did was pure joy.
In early October I was told my job was to get enough documentation to get him into alternative school. In January I had an incident in the class that resulted in five students being suspended. He was sitting in the group and got lumped in with the crowd. I could see he was hurt and felt betrayed. Did I sleep that night?
The next morning I spoke with the assistant principal, who managed discipline referrals. I appealed for RK, explained that he had been the victim of a "sweep" and that I wanted him back in my class. He never thanked me, but that's when things changed.
So when we were standing face to face outside his Biology class in May, I told him he was one of the reasons my decision to leave had been so difficult. I asked him to remember how good it felt to succeed, and to try to keep doing that. I told him I appreciated how hard he worked in my class, and that I knew he was doing it for me as well as for himself. He kicked his foot and looked down.
He was crying
[ASSIGNED: FAILURE STORY]
Are there individual students whom I feel I've failed? Ha-ell yeah! Isn't that what the "one child at a time" jingoism pretty much guarantees? GIve me 120-something students and then let help me feel good about "making a difference" for one. Do the math.
But I have to admit confess that my biggest sense of failure has come from not being able to make a difference stick it out at SDHS. I made a commitment. At this point in my life, commitments are not made lightly. And I said I wanted a small Delta town, knowing these are the toughest assignments. Did I not fully imagine what that meant? Well, yes, be we never do. I didn't fully imagine what being a parent would be like, either, but I stuck with it for whatever it would be. How can I even begin to compare another 3 years in Mississippi to my commitment of the past 25?
I've said before and i'll say again (but now I'm changing the tense): All the reasons I left are the very reasons I should have stayed.
That pretty much says it all.
White Whine: The lack of leadership made my efforts there futile. Teacher Corps is not sending a new group of teachers there this year and I'd be alone further isolated. I can ultimately help more students by being in a school with some degree of leadership and organization. The school I'm going to is still classified as critical needs. There are still hundreds thousands millions plenty of students whom I'm not teaching no matter where I end up.
But then I see NW's curious eyes tracking me. Or I hear DT's soft voice as he asks my approval of every sentence he writes. I see DC's little stack of books she stores on my supply shelf. I reread SB's metaphor poem about her dead mother and compare it to the weight of her armor she wears every day.
And I know Dr. Mullins is right: It's not really about me. But I made it about me when I decided to leave those students.
White Whine: There will be students I love at G-W. I'll probably succeed in educating some of them. But I will not succeed in educating 120-some others to whom I made an implicit and explicit commitment. I told them all that they were not the reason I was leaving. It smacked of the "divorce speech" whereby parents veil the fact that it's the other parent they can't stand. But the kids are still left parentless. Do we I continue to soothe our my conscience by saying they'll feel better because of that fact?
I dunno. But now I know why I'll be sticking with gin.
[REQUIRED BLOG: ADVICE TO FIRST-YEARS OR, WHY ARE THEY UNHAPPY RABBITS?]
... it's gonna be a bumpy year.
You've read the other second-year blogs that tell you to make the most of the summer, enjoy your time now, make friends, build a network, and whatnot. So I won't go there.
Here is my most important advice: Take to heart the advice you get about classroom management and organization.
As my school security guard says whenever I'm at my wits' end: You in the Delta now, darlin' In other words: All bets are off.
During summer school you'll be told to manage your classroom in a way that seems dehumanizing and demeaning. Do it. It won't seem necessary in your summer school class. Ignore that. Your students in your classrooms come from families that are chaotic and tragic beyond your wildest imagination. They see more violence and fear before they come to school some days than you've probably ever seen in your life. What they don't have is structure. They are in free fall in terms of self-regulation. They do not understand nuanced behavior. Many are nearly unable to self-regulate or exhibit impulse control. I know it seems demeaning, but these students need the structure that gives them an anchor.
You'll be tempted to think, "I'll be the one who's different. I'll show them respect and they'll respect me for it. They'll want to please me because I'm the first person who's ever smiled at them and shown I care." You will be fresh meat. It won't happen. Believe us.
I'm going to make an analogy that will probably get me in trouble, but not establishing strict classroom management in a critical needs classroom is a little like having a dog and not training it: Neither of you will be happy, but you'll be the one who gets bitten. You have to immediately establish yourself as the alpha figure. This can be difficult when some of your students are bigger than you, more worldly than you, and maybe only two or three years younger than you. The only way to do it ... THE ONLY WAY TO DO IT in their world is through power. It's what they understand. It's the only coin of the realm here.
Your students interpret politeness and kindness as weakness.
If you hesitate a split second they smell it and will wedge that little crack of insecurity open until you have no control. And believe me: That's a scary place to be. Fifty or 90 minutes of trying to control 25 or 30 teenagers is an eternity even in the best of situations (which this isn't), and it will leave you rattled and not ready for the next 30 who are walking in as the bell rings before you can fight back the tears.
Believe me, in the long run, your students are happier when they are in a controlled, calm environment where the expectations are simple and clear. They'll complain about that, but it's what they want whether they know it or not. You can always loosen up once you've gained their respect, but you can never -- and I mean NEVER -- regain the ground you lose by letting them control you and your class. They are masters at wresting control from you. You are a rookie. You'll hear some of us say "Don't smile until Christmas." It's not so far from the truth. Maybe Thanksgiving.
Once you've earned their respect -- and I've had students tell me they put new teachers through a trial by fire -- you'll be able to quiet the room with a simple glance or stance. But you must earn their respect first, and for the most part, they respect only someone who is in power. What you hope in your heart of hearts is that they will realize that your kindness and fairness is more powerful than the irrationality they encounter elsewhere. But maybe not. You need to be at peace with that.
OK. Next up: Organization.
Touch each piece of paper as few times as possible. Have an absolutely iron-clad, fail safe system of where paper travels. Turned in, waiting to be graded, graded, handed back. What do you do with work you're handing back if the student isn't there? (Remember you have about a 25 - 30 percent daily absence rate.) What about late work? When was that due? Late because he was absent or just didn't do it? Now it's not with the others. Where does it go? Your students are, again, masters of the con.
Streamline all of your systems so that each one involves the fewest steps possible. Eliminate all redundant procedures. Record things once in one place. Establish self-sustaining systems that don't need your constant tracking. There will be a session during summer school about organization. It will be in the afternoon and you will be tired and would rather be swimming or drinking. PAY ATTENTION! You are about to be hit with an avalanche of paper and humanity demanding your soul.
Keep meticulous daily attendance records, and a daily activity log for each period. Your school might or might not require it. I have never turned in an attendance sheet other than for homeroom. It's a joke. I was tempted to let it go.
But when Lajeryl is failing and his formidable grandmother wants to know why, nothing impresses like your showing up in the office with a big-ass binder full of weekly attendance records, a printout of all the assignments he missed, and copies of the tests he cheated on.
When DeKindrick insists he never got that handout or didn't know about that test, nothing shuts him up like your silently opening the binder, calmly flipping to the page for the day you did that work (And you know that day because you've kept a meticulous daily log of what happens in class) and showing him that he was there. Maybe you made a note that he was sleeping or talking. Even better.
When classes are randomly cancelled or held in a four-hour lockdown, it's impossible to keep each of your six periods aligned in what they're doing. Use a notebook to record the daily lesson or activity for your students to see when they've been absent. I suggest also keeping a "teacher calendar" for yourself that has 6 blocks for each day so you can jot quick notes about each period.
The sheer amount of information, the millions of details will overwhelm you. Leave nothing to chance.
Lastly:
You're coming to Mississippi. Somewhere in your essay I'll bet the words, "make a difference" appear. You'll make a difference. But remember the MTC motto, the ever-present "One child at a time." When I got here I thought that meant lots of groovy one-on-one time with kids who needed my help. And there will be. What it refers to, though, is that you might only help one child. You'll get to know maybe 120 or more. They all need your help. But they also reject your efforts, and that hurts. You need to be OK with not fulfilling every aspect of your intention.
You have to know that on your worst day -- and your worst day will suck beyond your worst nightmare -- you are still probably the best thing that will happen for many of your students that day. You have to know it -- really KNOW it -- because they probably won't tell you. Until Christmas. Or maybe Thanksgiving.
Ah men.
UPDATE: This post obviously caused a bit of back and forth here and on other blogs. My response to responses is here. I hope that those who suggest meaningful discussion of the issues as part of the answer will prompt those discussions in the months to come.
[REQUIRED BLOG: EDSE 600 FIRST SEMESTER REFLECTION]
Change was what I wanted (thus the name) and I got it. Pretty much the only aspect of my life I recognize lately is the smell of my shampoo (which I now buy online because no place in the Delta sells it). I wanted a challenge, and I certainly got that, too. But how do my expectations match up to the reality?
I'm not sure at this point I even know what "the reality" is. Using the single article assumes there is, indeed, only one reality. And of course there isn't. When I read over the anticipatory entries, I realize that I had no idea how all-encompassing the experience would be.
It's like drowning every day.
Every day I am completely immersed in the reality of the Delta, the reality of teaching, the reality of what my life (oh, it was so nice just a little while ago) has become. I thought the year without an actual job would be a challenge. It was, and I suppose that by meeting it, and by learning to live with a lot of uncertainty I was preparing myself for the challenge of teaching in the Delta. Surely getting up at 4 a.m. to unload a truck gave me the physical stamina I've needed to get up and teach every day. I had never before appreciated how physically demanding teaching would be.
Professionally, I'm still struggling with whether it was wise to make a move like this, but I do think I'm succeeding as a teacher. What has amazed me most is how quickly I feel like I've been doing it a long time. I remember those days in summer school (remember those lesson plans with every second stage-directed and planned?) thinking I'd never be comfortable and confident in front of a class. How would I remember where I had set things down? How would I know everyone's name? And now, I'm completely at ease. It seems so natural to be there. And I know, it's a cliche, but really love those moments when my students "get it" -- even if it's only a few. In a way, that makes it all the better.
Students have told me, directly and indirectly, that I'm different from other teachers; that I make them work but in a good way that helps them learn. OK, some hate me, but if none did I wouldn't be doing my job.
And once again, I'm drowning in it. Every day. Weeks go by when virtually every conversation I have is about teaching. With one welcome exception, every person I interact with on a regular basis here is a teacher or somehow affiliated with a school. I know, or I hope, that at some point my life will begin to have some balance again. Workin' on that. But it's hard. I'm immersed. I have to force myself to leave school and teaching behind occasionally for a few hours.
Can I extend this metaphor? Can I tell you how the cycle of planning, teaching, adjusting, planning, grading, adjusting is like the waves that simply never let up?
Can I tell you I don't actually know how to swim?
[EDSE 600 REQUIRED BLOG]
Am I following the basic plan I outlined during summer training? Yes. Have I been able to avoid giving essay writing as a consequence? Yes. Do I give math as a consequence? You bet. Write those times tables. To 5, to 10, to 12. Do it again. Problem is, it becomes something else for me to keep track of.
Like many others I am stumped for the meaningful intermediate consequence between the warning and the write-up that doesn't end up taking away instructional time. My school doesn't do detention so I don't have that option. I can't enforce an after-school detention of my own (even though I'm there Tuesdays and Thursdays until 5 and there are late buses) because so many of them work or have childcare responsibilities.
My basic plan of rewards is working well. At first they were too cool for the tickets, but now they work hard to get one for using a vocab word during a discussion, or for asking a challenging question, or for working at the bell, or whatnot. A few have made decorative envelopes to keep them in. They love seeing me reach into my little apron as I head down the aisle in their direction.
Competition between classes has worked, too. I don't have much empty wall space that I can reach without a chair, so the class-on-class competition had to be displayed vertically, and in a place where they couldn't get to it during class changes. So the back of the classroom door is the "Race to Space" where there are six Velcro strips (yes, those of you who know me know how much I detest the sound of Velcro, but that should tell you how much I care about this) with cut-out spaceships numbered for the class periods. They move up or down each day depending on the behavior of the whole class. Peer pressure works.
The progress of the other classes is a huge topic of conversation. And I hear them shushh each other by saying "Hush, y'all. We're gonna move down!" Sometime all I have to do to quiet the hum of chatter is walk silently to the door, slooooowly peel the spaceship off (This is where the vile sound of Velcro comes in handy) and move it down a bit.
The first class to the top of the door gets a full class period break. In the meantime, the first class to the level of the doorknob got to teach me to Crank dat Soulja Boy. I will admit I vetted the competition a bit because there are some classes in which I knew it would be unwise to show vulnerability. First period won. My class of 12 unusually mature sophomores.
I am learning that the front row is not always the best place for the clowns who talk too much. They sit sideways and can catch everyone else's eye. When I put them in the back, no one looks at them. They lose their audience. And it's easy enough for me to stand in the back to be near them.
I am learning that sometimes stopping in the middle of the hall and simply watching them will quiet them in the lunch line.
And I've still got the kitten.
My biggest problem? Not engaging. Not getting sucked into their deal. This is a problem for me in general. I tend to be a responder so it's very difficult not to have a retort when they mouth off. I can get sarcastic. (Who me?) And that's wrong. I've lost it and shamed a student. I lose sleep over that. I've confessed it like a 12-stepper,
[REQUIRED MTC BLOG: TWO QUESTIONS]
What is my favorite time of the day, and why? I think I have to say it's setting my room for the next day. I know, I know, you're thinking it's because it's the end of the day and I'm about to go home ... but that's not it. Yes, it's the end of the day, but it's also the beginning of another.
It's the time between. A threshold. Entre chien et loup: Between the wolf and the dog. The French idiom for twilight, when the light is just dim enough that you can't distinguish between a wolf and a dog. It's also used in a more symbolic sense as a threshold between hope and fear, the familiar and the dangerous. And that's kind of where I am in that time.
At first, I would get my room and the boards all set just out of a sense of responsibility, thinking that I should close the loop between that afternoon and the next morning. The old publishing production habit of eliminating all possible variables because something you haven't thought about yet will surely go awry.
But now I find a wonderful sense of peace in that time. I've written before about Camus' essay on the Myth of Sysiphus -- probably one of my favorite pieces of nonfiction writing --- and I think this hour or so in my classroom is when I feel closely tied to its spirit. There's the obvious metaphor: returning each day to repeat what seems like a futile mind-numbingly difficult task. But Camus was interested not in the struggle to get the rock up the mountain, and not in the tragedy of its repeated descent, but in the moment of Sysiphus' turning, his moment of awareness of his fate.
At each of those moments when he leaves the heights and gradually sinks toward the lairs of the gods, he is superior to his fate. He is stronger than his rock.
I feel that strength each day at this time. I feel stronger than, and ready for, anything that will happen in that room.
The other question: Why should someone apply to Mississippi Teacher Corps? I'll tell you why not to apply: You're not sure what you want to do next, and this seems like a good way to kill two years while you decide. You've never been in the South and are curious about it. That's like saying you're curious about mountains so you're going to climb Everest.
I will tell you that you should really want to do this before you get here. You should be passionate about what you want to do here, and at the same time ready to admit that you will probably not be able to accomplish that goal. But you will find a new goal that you've never dreamed of yet. I've done a few more things in my life than most of my colleagues here, and I will still say, as they do, that this is right up there with the most difficult. (Considering that giving birth did not last 2 years with a one-month break next July)
Please visit first if at all possible. See the Delta. (There's room in most of our homes for you.) Read the blogs and talk to us. Invest in a really good 3-hole punch.
Read Sysiphus.
[ASSIGNED BLOG]
One step. These are the words that should have been tattooed on my arm. Watching LaLee's Kin, an HBO documentary chronicling the generational effects of poverty and the uphill battle of public education in the face of that poverty, I'm struck by these three things:
• Even one step forward will be a huge accomplishment.
• Those who are embroiled in the struggle are real heroes.
• I will always be an outsider in the Delta no matter how long I stay.
Dr. Mullins, Dr. McConnell, and Ben have all warned us that we cannot ride into the Delta on our high horses and change the culture of the schools and the towns where we live ... and I knew that was true. But seeing this family, daily living the legacy of cotton, I realize how very deep the poverty is here. I've read about it, I've photographed it, but I still think I am only just now beginning to comprehend the full reality. Granted, LaLee's family is at an extreme end of the spectrum, and apparently the editing choices made in this film reinforced that image by not showing the well-kept trailers next door, but the fact remains that children raised in poverty and its accompanying chaos, violence, isolation, and emotional upheaval simply cannot overcome those obstacles in a generation. Or two. Or three. As Ben Guest says, if we can just nudge that needle a tiny bit on the dial we will have accomplished great things.
Reggie Barnes, the then-superintendent of the West Tallahatchie schools where the documentary was filmed, drives it home when he points out that these children -- some of whom come to kindergarten not knowing their full names -- are expected to take the same ITBS standardized tests as middle-class children who have benefited from every enrichment program money can buy. As his school is preparing for the tests, with the threat of a state take-over looming if scores don't improve by a tenth of a percent, the students have a pep rally complete with raps and cheers.
Pork chop, pork chop.
Greasy, greasy.
ITBS test:
Easy, easy
Spoiler: The school manages to raise their level from 1.9 to 2.0, meeting the minimum requirement to avoid state takover, and the cheering is wild. But Barnes soberly admits that the improvement from 1.9 to 2.0 is so small ... but you take what improvement you can get, and he is a master at portraying this as a great victory to his administration, faculty, and ultimately to his students.
Can I maintain this kind of positive energy?
After the film the class discussed LaLee and found out about the fates of her many "grands" as though they were specimens in an experiment. (And I suppose in some sense they are the outcome of a grand social and economic experiment gone terribly wrong.) I wonder during our discussion what they must think of us: privileged, by most any standard, and utterly foreign to their realm of experiences. Do they wonder why we leave behind easy lives to provide a service that many of them don't seem to value? Will I forever be a foreigner here, always a "come here" and never a "from here?"
There are so many questions right now. I don't know if I'm really prepared to see the answers.
