15 posts tagged “teaching”
Justify the author's decision to make the revision by selecting the statement below that accurately evaluates the effect of the connotation of the word vow on the author's purpose.
My students accuse me of being racist.
[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.
It sort of started as a spur of the moment little thing. And now I'm pretty much addicted ... don't know how I'd get through a week without it.
Nope, I'm not talking about huffing Sharpies. I'm talking about letting my students teach.
I teach six class periods a day. I tend to do the guided practice grammar worksheets as overheads on the whiteboard. One day, when I was just plumb sick of hearing my own voice during seventh period I announced half-way through that I was tired of it and held up my dry-erase marker, asking for a volunteer.
Well, Katie bar the door! I thought I had invited disaster to do this without any advance planning. But here comes Karebya, who does a spot-on imitation of my teaching style, right down to handing out tickets (her own!) to other students. She makes her way down the worksheet, circling the participles and drawing those great dynamic arrows to the nouns they're modifying, all while calling on other students, even calling them by last name, just as I would.
Meanwhile, I sit on top of a desk at the side of the room -- not standing, but still taller than seated students -- asking leading questions to make sure the right information was delivered, still sort of assuming the role of a student. "Miss Jones, why isn't corndog being modified by slipping through my fingers?"
Bingo. She asked another student to answer that!
It was such a success! Eventually, I got to the point where I was able to do it with all of my classes. It was crucial to choose just the right day, with the right vibe going, to introduce the process, and it still seems to work better as an impromptu moment. I still play it by ear each time as there's just no predicting which day any given class will be able to handle it. Sometimes I ask for volunteers, and sometime I ask a specific student to take over for me.
One of the good outcomes has been that when I do a mini-review as a bellringer later I can say, "Now, remember, when Mr. Kelly did such a great job teaching you this?" and everyone feels good.
It's also served to defuse a few chronic classroom management issues. When a student is teaching and others are talking, or giving her a hard time about a mistake on the board, I can make a joke about it by saying something like, "It's a tough crowd, isn't it Miss Jackson?" When I first started letting them teach, I would interrupt and ask for tissues, or complain about the room temperature. Once was enough: They got the point, and it seems to have helped take a bit of the edge off their resistance to some of my classroom rules they don't understand.
I've done a few lessons in which student-teaching was incorporated into the plan. The last part of our poetry unit, for example, was to have small groups of students each teach a poem to the rest of the class. I supplied the groups with a printed poem, and they completed an explication worksheet that prepared them to annotate their poem at the board using an overhead. Of course, I had modeled that process several times by annotating poems all along, so they knew what I expected.
Whenever my students teach I remind them to check to make sure their students understand -- not just stand there and lecture. I have to listen carefully and manage my input so each class still gets the same lesson. And it's a classroom management minefield. But haven't I always loved working on just that edge, flirting with disaster?
But mostly I really enjoy the moment when I say, "I'm as tired of hearing my voice as you are. Who wants to teach?"
Having recently found myself celebrating the start of spring break here in the Mississippi Delta with the improbable combination of two inches of snow, a roaring fire, mail-order Indian food, watching Lawrence of Arabia with a like-minded soul and a bottle of gin, I'm now contemplating why it seems that a good number of satisfied and successful MTC teachers seem to be those with adult ADD. Starting a 3-hour film at 6:30, and finding that you've stopped it to talk so often that you've only watched 45 minutes of it by midnight will do that.
ADD hadn't been invented yet when I was coming up in school, so I was just the scatterbrained girl who seemed to be able to focus on everything and nothing at once. I eventually learned to use this to my advantage, but it wasn't until my own daughter was diagnosed in high school that the pieces came together. Notice that I say ADD, not ADHD, and that's the distinction that sometimes lets us slip by undiagnosed. We don't cause behavior problems so we generally can make it through school without being drugged into submissive normality. Thank heaven. Because the skills we develop to manage our minds are precious.
How many people with ADD does it take to screw in a light bulb? The punchline (And if you've got it, you get it. The rest of you: Maybe not so much.) has become a shorthand for recognizing those times when it's getting a little out of hand. Like last Friday. Or spending two hours talking about Australia and Norway over a 7-layer burrito after yoga class. But still ...
The best metaphor I've found for managing a classroom of 25-30 is the old act of spinning plates. You either remember it from Ed Sullivan or you've seen the corny videos. But if you've spent one day as a teacher you know what I mean: Where did you set that clipboard? Who's currently out with the hall pass? You just saw Kenyarder pass a note to DeKindrick, should you pick it up? Are you still listening to yourself as you say the same thing for the third time in the sixth class in which you've said it? Four people have their hands up. Who's already answered today and who will just ask if you have toothpick if you call on her? The bell's going to ring in 11 minutes and fourth period is still two days behind fifth period. Maybe the bell will ring early. Touch all four walls without ever turning your back on the class. Whom can you let mumble under his breath, and who will get out of hand?
If you regularly substitute espresso for Ritalin, this is a familiar state of mind. And if you've grown up learning to manage your ADD you're supremely adapted to living in this atmosphere. My theory, and I'm eager to discuss this with my MTC colleagues, is that the ability to constantly shift focus while still keeping the main event on track is one of the keys to a certain style of classroom management. Not the only way to manage a classroom, mind you, but a way to manage one that is flexible and creative, doesn't rely on militaristic adherence to silence, and is able to roll with the daily craziness that is teaching in the Delta. Other teachers with ADD with whom I've spoken about this agree. We consistently get observation comments about the natural ease of our classroom management.
On the "other flip-side of the coin," as an old friend used to say, it often makes us appear to be poor teachers in the eyes of our more linear-minded colleagues because we are continually doing the last-minute lesson plan, turning in nine-week grades a day late (because we knew that the Tuesday deadline was just so they'd get them on Wednesday anyway!), and slogging through piles of unread essays.
But remember, it's that intoxicating adrenaline rush that fuels your creativity. And creativity, whether it's classroom management or lesson planning, is a big part of what will make you a great teacher.
Of course, you know, this blog entry was started at 4:10 a.m on Thursday. Yeah. If you've got it, you get it.
I think I might have solved, partially, one of the issues with handouts, absences, missed work, and so forth.
A bit of background: I really had no idea, based on the summer school experience, how much the chronic absences (my weekly average absentee rate is 25 - 30 percent) and my students' utter inability to organize themselves and keep track of work would disrupt my ability to teach. I know this sort of thing is a perennial issue for every teacher, but like everything else, teaching in the Delta magnifies these sorts of problems. Most of my students' lives are chaotic; most have little or no organizational skill set; many seem unable to make the connection between effort and achievement, let alone attendance and achievement; and quite a few just simply don't care -- until report card day.
With 125 students, when we were about 12 weeks into the school year, I had written over 400 A's -- my symbol for absent, for whatever reason that there is no body in the seat -- in my attendance log.
So ...
I have a weekly vocabulary set of eight words, as most of you know, and a few handouts, study guides, and whatnot each week. These have become more important as we are working on a novel now, and they are completing comprehension and understanding study guides for sets of three or four chapters at a time.
I'm well-organized with tracking paperwork -- a skill brought from my many years managing printing and production of multiple publications. However, also managing 125 little teenage lives as they relate to the mountain of paperwork that an English class generates is another deal altogether. Each has a story about why and how work was missed. She knows she needs to take "that test" or "get that work" but has no idea which test or which work she's talking about. "You remember that was that day I got checked out? That work we did then."
The system that has been working pretty well involves keeping 2 desktop hanging files for each of my 6 periods. Each file box has 6 accordion hanging files, labeled for each period. "Handouts," or the Orange Bin, is where any handouts given out on any day will go, with the missing student's name, and the date on them so no one else can take them and turn them in. "Returned Work," or the Blue Bin, is where any graded homework or classwork is put for students who are not present when the work is returned.
So, in theory, when that Chapter 3-5 study guide is due, and a student says, "But I never got that handout!" I can look at my attendance log, see that she was there that day, and tell her she was given the handout. Sorry. I don't have another one. I don't copy two of everything so you can lose one. "But you remember, I had to leave early to get checked out!" Well, if you weren't here when I handed it out, it's in the Orange Bin with your name on it. Sorry.
Then there is the issue with vocabulary. The weekly words and sample context sentences, which I teach "live" on the board as class notes, are in my daily spiral log -- but that's my Bible, and I don't dare ever let a student take it away from my desk. They can sit in the seat beside my desk to copy any class notes, or a Do Now, but cannot walk away with it. Trouble is, so many are absent so much of the time that they spend way too much time negotiating this copying. So recently I decided to make a few copies of the vocab page and keep them in a file they could get to. Of course, the pages disappear. So I started typing them up on Sunday night so I could put more in the file and print more as needed. You guessed it: I'm constantly printing the list.
Add to this equation the handful of students who are at home suspended for 5 or 10 days at any given time, the student who was in a car accident and will be out for a two months, and so on forever.
EUREKA! Why didn't I think of it before?
8/08 UPDATE: Links to PDFs on the site are no longer active as I do not teach at this school anymore. I left March 28 for medical reasons, and am now teaching at a different school. I have kept the site live as an example of the basic set up. It was very successful (as most things are) for the students who chose to use it.
Lost your handout? No problem. Go print one yourself. Didn't get the vocab words Monday? No problem. They're on the blog. Many students do not have Internet access at home. Many barely have homes. But most have a friend who does, or they can use the school library (when it's open 2 periods a day). I can also send the blog link to the ISS room and the Alternative School building so I don't have to ferry work across campus every day.
I considered doing a daily post with the notes, etc. for each day, but don't want to add to my already bloated workload of carefully documenting each class period and what gets accomplished each day as they each fall behind or move more quickly than others. One step at a time. Maybe I'll add some "helpful links" or something. I'll continue to use the Blue and Orange Bins because they're working for the most part.
I just set it all up tonight, and I'm pretty optimistic about how it will work. I'm keeping it simple, which is key -- not having to create any additional content or do any additional steps, but rather just putting something I'm doing anyway in a convenient and accessible place.
Just another addition to my management toolbox. Heaven knows I need it.
My brother died suddenly in November 2003. We scattered his ashes, combined with those of his pug, Sarge, on Christmas Eve this year. Worked them into the soil of the patch of garden he tended around the corner from his home at Sherwood Gardens in Baltimore.
In many ways he -- his life and his death -- was the start of the path that brought me here to Mississippi to teach.
While I was home with family and friends, I realized how much I think about my students. It was very emotional every time I paged through the photos on my computer.
Reciting their names. I could hear their voices.
I remember wondering if I would ever know them all. And now I feel like I can never forget them. I know a few veteran teachers -- 20, even 30, years. They talk about teaching the children of their students.
The image this calls to mind is looking into parallel mirrors at the endless reflections. Is this what it will be like after I've taught for years? Starting at 52, I surely won't have 30 years, but a dozen perhaps. Enough to touch generations. Enough to see them grow up. Have babies.
I thought that having my own child was the closest I would get to immortality. And I suppose in a strict biological sense it is. But somehow the sheer math alone of 125 or 150 students every year for 10 or 15 years is staggering. If these 122 have affected me this strongly, what will it be like? Will they say my name to their children?
I imagine my last thought will be to see their faces, looking expectantly at me.
