Last year was not a great year, I am not even sure I could count last year as a good year. The public school teacher in me feels shame, heartache, a need to hide the fact that for one year I was not the best teacher I could be. But the public servant in me feels the need to open a dialogue about it.
The excuse list is long and the more frustrated I got with myself the longer the list of external reasons became. But somehow in the dawning light of this school year, this year that somehow just feels right already, I can see that the long list of external reasons for my problems last year all rest on the foundation of what was internally not working.
I can see it, and I feel compelled in the seeing to share. I wanted so badly for there to be an external fix, last year. I was giving all I had, or so I thought. What I was really giving was all I could because I was waiting for someone else to swoop in and fix it. I had more to give, but I did not believe that what I was able to offer was enough or the "right" thing, so I did not offer it. I wanted to offer super heroic fixes to make all the problems resolve. I wanted to offer stimulating lessons that would reach all my students. I wanted every kid to walk away smarter, more confident, more engaged in their own existence. But it doesn't work that way. You can't just want, you have to strive and you have to accept, and you have to believe in your own capabilities. To do that you have to understand your own culpabilities, too.
The great downer, culpability. Literally: one's own responsibility, fault, or blame for a wrong.
Heavy stuff, culpability. Even heavier is capability. Because with capability comes responsibility for a right, even if that right is different than the right being assigned from another: be it an administrator, a teaching partner, a curriculum, or an inner sense of super-heroic responsibility to solve all the problems presented to one's attention.
I'm not Superman, I don't even want to be Superman. I mean, I want to be a super hero: I want to be able to anticipate all the problems there will ever be; and have at my ready the answers, and the solutions, and the magic fix, and and and. . .
But I also want to be realistic. I want to be me. I am capable of what I am capable of and to do that to my best ability is truly amazing--but only if I do it. And last year, I didn't. I did my job, I worked to meet the diverse needs of a 50% brand new staff, and I worked to teach a diverse student population in my classroom. I worked to find connections and harmony. I made it through the curriculum and I made it through the year. But it was not me, I was not happy. It was not my best.
I was not doing what I was capable of because I kept telling myself there would not be problems in the school if what I was capable of worked. You see, for 6 years I had been doing what I had been capable of and there were still problems. Problems so bad they interviewed the whole staff to see who was going to stay and who was going to go. The district then flipped half the staff out of the building, brought in a new administrator and 50% new teachers. I felt culpable. I felt lost. I felt numb.
What I saw at that time was an interview to determine my culpability and I carried that burden all year. But over time that numbness has worn off. After deep (dark, horrible, gut wrenching) reflection I realize now that it was an interview to determine my capability. The interview was designed to determine who stayed, who was capable. And THEY CHOSE ME TO STAY. It's time to trust in that, it's time to act on that. It's time to be the teacher that I know I am, that I have been, and that I will be again.
I was culpable, but not for what I thought I was, I was culpable for losing sight of what I was capable of.
Monday, August 25, 2014
Wednesday, December 4, 2013
Final Paper for ED 585
Where Do We Go From Here
Diana Mitchell
University of Portland
2013
Ian Diamond (2007) put the challenge that we all face in this
light, “Attempts to introduce neuroscience into the classroom have to date been
of mixed quality. Often they have relied too little upon research
evidence and too much on impressive-sounding but scientifically questionable
formulae.” My reflecting on this quote, throughout a period of further
research and evaluation of course readings and discussions, led to the idea to
design better staff development around classroom practices. In simple
terms, the staff development can be considered defend and refine.
This is a model wherein educators meet on a regular basis to use their
professional knowledge, along with the knowledge of their colleagues, to defend
practices they deem effective and refine practices that are ineffective.
Colleagues will be paired with educators from a different background in
order to defend, refine and jettison practices. Some examples of
pairings: more experience in the classroom with more recent university training;
cross-disciplinary pairings; early childhood-intermediate educator; resistant
to change with changes too often; among others.
This practice begins not with changing
immediately what the students do, but rather what our colleagues and ourselves
use to decide what we bring for students to do. School personnel are
reticent to let go of old practices. Worse at times, school leaders bring
in and jettison practices before they have been proven to work or not due to
popular trends in education. By implementing a defend-and-refine program,
school personnel get a chance to put their own collective knowledge into
practice by defending practices they want to add or keep while at the same time
refining practices known to be partially or completely ineffective. Through
this process, personnel can come to better understand and articulate the inner
workings of programs, strategies, instructional design and the student as
learner. Ultimately, they gain confidence and knowledge as educators to make
informed choices about their teaching.
When something works for students, it needs to
be considered as a valuable tool—but it has no value if we do not understand
how it works. This is where the defend part of the innovation around
staff development comes in. This practice would require staff development
to utilize discussion and defense of current practices in order to maintain the
practice. In schools, educators are able to take the long-term knowledge of
experienced staff and combine it with more newly acquired knowledge of younger
staff in order to ensure that practices that are being kept are truly
beneficial. Ideally, combined with the more up to date educational training of
newer educators, older practitioners will be educated through their own defense
and the defense or refute/refining of the younger educators.
Not all known
ineffective practices are truly horrific, and many partially work, but it is
important to understand why they work and don’t work in order to make
strategies the most effective for the learner. Thus, it is important to
not just defend but also be open to the refine part of the practice. When
a practice is ineffective it is important to understand what about the practice
is not working prior to throwing it out. When educators don’t learn from
their prior experience they repeat the same mistakes when utilizing new
resources. Further, the refining part of the practice allows educators to
take what they know in order to make sense and practical application of the
strategies they use.
Hook and Farah (2012) note that educators are vulnerable to
misinformation from curriculum creators. Teachers’ quest for innovative
teaching methods often leads to a susceptibility to unrealistic promises of the
potential of a certain strategy. Rather than letting profit based
business dictate what happens in the schools, educators need to rely on their
professional education and knowledge to determine what they do in their
classrooms. Often administrators, far removed from practice and current
training, are the decision makers. By removing administrators and
curriculum trainers from delivering staff development—and putting this practice
back in the hands of the trained professionals—we utilize what we know works
for learning, the synthesis of known information with unfamiliar information to
form new understanding by the educators themselves. Discussion and
sharing one’s own thinking in ones’ own words with others through defending and
refining one’s practice is what we seek for our own students; this same practice
is the starting point for ownership of best practice and implementation of what
will best help students on their own journey.
Howard-Jones (2007) notes that while many old
ideas regarding the brain in education are at odds with current neuroscience,
they are not in complete disagreement. Rather, if something is working,
the basis for that effect should be researched further to support improved
understanding and practice. Educators don’t have the research
laboratories that scientists do, but they have something even greater—actual
students and each other. The refining part of the staff development comes
from discussing what is working and determining why based in current science
and pedagogy findings. This is where the discussion with a variety of
colleagues is so important. Utilizing the training and knowledge of more
recent education graduates allows the experienced staff to build and refine
their own knowledge while imparting their experience of what works and doesn’t
work to those who have not had the chance to experiment.
Schrag (2013) equates the attempts at bringing
pure neuroscience into the classroom as similar to bringing only knowledge of
the neuromuscular system to athletic training. She argues that educations,
like athletic contests, are the makeup of more than just the physical; there
are cultural norms, equipment, rules, etc that create the whole of education
and athletics. Integrating educator knowledge of students with current
training in neuroscience and education creates a whole picture from which to
base pedagogical decisions.
Educators need to be allowed to make these
decisions through dialogue. Defending one’s practice with the thought on
improving, not arguing, is critical to educators’ own learning—and doing what is
best for their students. An openness to refining as new knowledge
integrates with prior knowledge will be critical. Dialogue needs to
happen between educators and neuroscientists in order to create educational
programs based on sound science. (Howard-Jones 2007)
Critical to sound teaching is the debunking of
neuro-myths and the understanding of what “works” means. Bruno della
Chiesa (2009) cautions that these neuromyths are often founded on
misunderstandings, bad interpretations, and distortions of research results.
Discussion, defense and refinement, by cross curricular and diversely
experienced staff, will open the door to debunking what is myth and finding
what is real only if universities continue to evolve and educate based on
current scientific findings. By requiring practitioners to defend and be
open to refinement of their work in open, neutral collegial dialogue an
atmosphere of questioning and answer seeking is created. This openness to
questioning should lessen the ability for neuromyths to take strong hold before
being refined to fit with true scientifically based methods. della Chiesa
stated that transdisciplinarians would be required to bring neuroscience to the
classroom. But just bringing in newly trained teachers will not be enough;
those teachers need to be able to share their knowledge with the other
educators in the building in a way that integrates their training into the
teaching done by others so that sound neuro-based teaching is incorporated
throughout the schools.
Willingham and Lloyd (2007) were unimpressed by
early attempts at bringing neuroscience into the schools. Their concern
was that while there were 4 distinct ways to connect neuroscientific findings
to cognitive theory, the connection to educational theory wasn’t as
straightforward. Scientists, both neuro and cognitive, need to work with
educators to create and refine best practice. The transdisciplinarians
that della Chiesa spoke of are the bridge between the two worlds. Based on
Willingham and Lloyd’s research, the initial transdisciplinarians should come
from special education departments. Certainly educators trained in
special education should be at the forefront of neuroscience research and
integration within the schools, but they should not be an island and separate
department. Rather, they should be a part of the greater dialogue and
through their defense and refinement practices be a model for others.
The specialty of Special Education within a
neuroeducation lens has great power in the lives of all students. There
are two findings within neuroscience that could have great impact on special
education but can also shed great light on instruction for all learners: first
that learning changes the brain, and second that the brain structure itself influences
learning (Masson 2013). Both these findings impact how we define learning
disabilities and can also impact how educators defend-and-refine practices that
focus on learning abilities.
Masson (2013) cautions that the first step in
any implementation is incorporating a university requirement for all educators
in the area of neuroeducation. In this plan, the same requirement would
be necessary. Without the new scientific knowledge, the dialogue around
educational practices would not be rich. As well, defense of practices
would be stuck in old thinking. The premise of this staff development
idea is that the newfound knowledge would be brought into whole school practice
through dialogue and that new practitioners would gain insight from experienced
practitioners.
Another impediment will be administrator buy in. Many school
principals cling to their power structure by having the answers and knowledge
to hand to their staff—much in the same way they expect teachers to instruct
their students. The defend-and-refine practice requires professional
trust and acceptance of a new model of instruction and learning.
Ultimately, the most difficult buy in will be the teachers who
have been practicing for a long period of time. The idea of being able to
defend one’s teaching requires an openness to disequilibrium, confusion and the
potential of needing to let go of one’s static former thinking in order to
build new dynamic thinking. This is at the heart of learning. This
practice depends on educators’ openness and desire to explore and learn
alongside their students.
Implementing this defend-and-refine practice could be as simple as
allocating staff development time to learning about what “defending” means.
Stressing that it is not a prove your technique works, but rather an open
dialogue about the reasons it works with an eye for clearly defining the
connection between just working and being able to discuss why it works.
As well, openness to refining through dialogue with colleagues who are
different than each other will need time to incorporate itself into school
culture.
In schools, we see grade level, content specialists, and other
biases in which colleagues choose to trust or mistrust. Breaking these cultural
norms will require a bit of a training period. Bolstering the courage of
newer staff to speak up and encouraging experienced staff to be open to
contemplation about their practices in light of the new information.
After this period of disequilibrium, staff will be better able to deeply
self evaluate and analyze their teaching. At this point, school
administrators will need to allot regular time to dialogue about success,
missteps and any new curriculum in order to evaluate its’ potential benefit
from a neuroscience and pedagogical experience lens.
As
universities add neuroeducation programs, and many top research universities
such as Johns Hopkins and Harvard, along with other non-research colleges such
as the University of Portland have, staffing at schools will increasingly have
updated and continued knowledge in the area of neuroeducation. Continuation of universities adding
neuroeducation courses is needed to make this a sustainable innovation in
education that evolves on its own alongside research findings. The success of
the program of defend-and-refine will be evident in not only the willingness of
staff to listen to new educators, but also when staff openly and excitedly
defends the practices they have using the language of neuroscience and the
practiced experience of having implemented the strategy.
Further, in current practice administrators defend with stoic assumption of
authority their programs and teacher practices. When a dialogue that
institutes defend-and-refine practice is fully implemented, it would be expected
that administrators encourage any inquiring mind to talk with an educator in
the building about practices. Educators should be able to defend their
own practice, and because they have constant deep dialogue, their colleagues
should be able to explain others’ practices with clarity as well.
Ultimately, the ability to describe what one does, defend it and
be able to refine as new knowledge comes to light requires truly understanding
it. This innovation requires using science-based knowledge and an openness and
active participation on the part of educators and administrative staff to
making changes. If these changes are made based on this process, it is
proof of success.
Nonlinguistic representation
della Chiesa, B. (2009) Beginning in the brain: Pioneering the
field of educational
research. Harvard Graduate School of Education. Learning and
Development. March 2009.
Diamond, Ian (2007) Neuroscience and Education Issues and
Opportunities.
Teaching and
Learning Research Programme. Economic and Social Research Council.
Hook, C. J. and Farah, M. J. (2012) Neuroscience for educators: What are they
seeking, and what are they finding? Neuroethics. Published online DOI 10.1007/s12152-012-9159-3
Howard-Jones, P. (2007) Neuroscience and Education Issues and Opportunities.
Teaching and
Learning Research Programme. Economic and Social Research Council.
Masson, S. (2013) Neuromyths are a barrier to changing
education. Canadian
Educational Association. http://www.cea-ace.ca/blog/steve-
masson/2013/11/2/neuromyths-are-barrier-changing-education
Schrag, F. (2013) Can this marriage be saved? The future of
‘neuro-education’
Journal of Philosophy of Educaiton. Vol. 47, no. 1.
Willingham, D.T. and Lloyd, J.W. How educational theories can
use
neuroscience findings. Mind, Brain
and Education. 2007. vol 1, no 3. p 140-149.
Preferred Instructional Strategy
Defend:
Refine:
Required Instructional Strategy
Defend:
Refine:
Monday, October 21, 2013
Brain Gym Claims of Academic Improvement: Neuro-myth not Neuroscience
Introduction to Brain Gym
The founders of Brain Gym set forth a plethora of wide reaching aims that their exercise-focused therapy will allow children—and adults—to accomplish once they have used the program. According to the program, Brain Gym is a set of exercises designed to open the awareness channels of the brain allowing the areas of the brain devoted to knowledge attainment to freely focus on academic learning presented after their use (Dennison and Dennison 2010).Misconceptions of teachers
Brain Gym creators Paul and Gail Dennison (2010) state several benefits to using this curriculum bought by educators around the world. It reduces stress and performance anxiety; it develops key sensorimotor abilities or readiness skills to make learning easier and more pleasurable; it encourages flexibility, eye teaming, and hand eye coordination allowing learners to thrive in the classroom, and live happily and creatively. Ultimately the movements, “make all endeavors easier, and are especially effective for academic subjects” (p.xv).Assumptions about the source of language ability
According to Keith Hyatt, a professor of special education and educational researcher from Washington, Brain Gym assumes that the brain develops academic skills only when the sensorimotor is fully developed. Following this school of thought, students who didn’t crawl surely must not fully grasp the walking they do and can’t access grade level academics because of this. “The child would be taught to crawl, with the idea that this would repattern the neurons, leaving the child neurologically intact and ready to acquire academic skills” (p. 118). Further, Brain Gym assumes language skills can be acquired by integrating perceptual motor training into the academic day in order to allow the student to overcome learning problems.Sam Corner: proof positive
Many of these beliefs come from testing on students who exhibit delays based on Western Cognitive Psychology. Because the assessments are based on current educational thinking, the therapies are based on this same bias.Academic claims of Brain Gym and a neuroscience refute
The allure of Brain Gym’s focus on modality instruction as a form of intervention is due to the claims of brain based research they make. However, the reality is that the idea of whole brain learning through Brain Gym exercises—purportedly improving cerebral dominance, neurological repatterning and perceptual motor training—has not been shown to have basis in neuroscience.Bristol University cites lack of evidence in neuroscience research
If these kids are learning, why are they using their teacher's language?
If kids truly "know" something, they will put it into their own language. Mirroring the adult language around them merely points out the lack of true understanding. This teacher's assumption of her students' ability is based on her belief that if they use her language they have language.Brain Gym claims vs. neuroscience research
We should all be weary of using something that we don't understand—or worse that we question in good faith. Blindly following "proven highly effective teaching methods" is not teaching. Using our own knowledge of learning combined with the tools presented to us leads to thoughtful, effective teaching and ultimately true learning on our students' part.Friday, October 4, 2013
It was the Cookies that did it
And we are off and running. A much calmer run than the past two years, but the heart rate is up, the endorphins flow and ebb, the end is far and the starting line is beginning to fade into hindsight. The class this year is 10 students smaller and exponentially sweeter, gentler, and kinder than the past class. On day two I realized they may become one of my favorite classes ever, the one that I remember in the future as being a time of joy of being together and loving learning together, and standing up against the bad times together.
It all seems sappy, I know. But it was the cookies that did it. I got cookies today--a month into the school year. An entire tube of girl scout peanut butter sandwich cookies. They were on my desk when I returned from the morning rush of high fives and I forgot my homeworks and it's Friday Ms. Mitchell! and, and, and...there were cookies. I asked who gave them to me as we lined up later and no one took credit. Well, one kid did but he was teasing. Then a shy little hand went up and the girl attached to it said it was her. I thanked her and quickly calculated if I could split 10 prepackaged cookies into 29 parts to share as a whole community...still working that calculation out 2 hours later as tears welled up in my eyes.
The cookies, it's the cookies making me cry. The sweetness of the gesture is touching, but the tears are because the cookies mean more than 10 carb laden treats given from an average student to an average teacher. They represent a beyond average little girl. She is a bright, amazingly respectful, caring child who comes from extreme poverty--she takes a school provided food box home with her every weekend. Her family receives help from the community resource office at their low income apartment complex to provide enough staples to nourish them. There are no cookies or sweet treats in those food boxes or community room food pantries. And this child got some cookies from somewhere. And this caring child wanted to share her fortune of sweet treats with me, her teacher, on a sunny Friday after a week of rain.
So, I sit here eating my leftover mac and cheese staring at the cookies and thinking how to share my good fortune with all of my students. So, today's math lesson is going to be how to divide 10 cookies into 29 parts--cause the best fortune (and sweetest treat) I have to share with this class is learning and this little girl and her classmates are going to get their fair share.
It all seems sappy, I know. But it was the cookies that did it. I got cookies today--a month into the school year. An entire tube of girl scout peanut butter sandwich cookies. They were on my desk when I returned from the morning rush of high fives and I forgot my homeworks and it's Friday Ms. Mitchell! and, and, and...there were cookies. I asked who gave them to me as we lined up later and no one took credit. Well, one kid did but he was teasing. Then a shy little hand went up and the girl attached to it said it was her. I thanked her and quickly calculated if I could split 10 prepackaged cookies into 29 parts to share as a whole community...still working that calculation out 2 hours later as tears welled up in my eyes.
The cookies, it's the cookies making me cry. The sweetness of the gesture is touching, but the tears are because the cookies mean more than 10 carb laden treats given from an average student to an average teacher. They represent a beyond average little girl. She is a bright, amazingly respectful, caring child who comes from extreme poverty--she takes a school provided food box home with her every weekend. Her family receives help from the community resource office at their low income apartment complex to provide enough staples to nourish them. There are no cookies or sweet treats in those food boxes or community room food pantries. And this child got some cookies from somewhere. And this caring child wanted to share her fortune of sweet treats with me, her teacher, on a sunny Friday after a week of rain.
So, I sit here eating my leftover mac and cheese staring at the cookies and thinking how to share my good fortune with all of my students. So, today's math lesson is going to be how to divide 10 cookies into 29 parts--cause the best fortune (and sweetest treat) I have to share with this class is learning and this little girl and her classmates are going to get their fair share.
Sunday, February 26, 2012
One of those "just the right moment" moments
I have to go to work tomorrow (most of us do, really there's nothing special about it). But I don't want to. I don't want to commit the energy to getting up and making it a worthwhile day for all involved. I'm still a bit bummed about the general state of education, etc. etc. etc. But I just stumbled upon this article:
Drop Out Has Thanks, Not Blame for Teacher and I am feeling a bit better. Still deflated, but maybe not as weighed down by guilt. I love those moments when what you need finds its' way to you unexpectedly and unsought.
Drop Out Has Thanks, Not Blame for Teacher and I am feeling a bit better. Still deflated, but maybe not as weighed down by guilt. I love those moments when what you need finds its' way to you unexpectedly and unsought.
Thursday, February 23, 2012
Teaching Numb
I'm detached. Nothing that the students do phases me. I'm teflon. It sucks, because while it is fabulous with the "bad" behaviors, I find myself distrusting the "good" behaviors. Children who seek my favor out are just kids who would do that for any teacher. Students who work hard to please me would work hard to please any teacher. 2 students wrote me private notes today and I responded knowing full well that they would have written any teacher a private note, it had nothing to do with anything "me".
I showed up, I taught, I did my job and I left. I didn't feel like I had made an error and I didn't feel like I had made a difference. I felt indifferent--like I had done a job. Teaching is not a "job."
Teaching isn't supposed to feel like that. I know what teaching feels like. It feels like heartache. It feels like elation. It feels exhausting and invigorating. Teaching feels. But I'm numb.
I'm torn. Numb is good. Numb doesn't hurt. It doesn't anger. Numb doesn't. But because it doesn't feel, it doesn't light that fire that gets me out of bed extra early. It doesn't recharge my sense of place in this world.
I hate numb. I prefer defeat to numb. I want victory, but I'd take anger. I might even accept sadness.
I showed up, I taught, I did my job and I left. I didn't feel like I had made an error and I didn't feel like I had made a difference. I felt indifferent--like I had done a job. Teaching is not a "job."
Teaching isn't supposed to feel like that. I know what teaching feels like. It feels like heartache. It feels like elation. It feels exhausting and invigorating. Teaching feels. But I'm numb.
I'm torn. Numb is good. Numb doesn't hurt. It doesn't anger. Numb doesn't. But because it doesn't feel, it doesn't light that fire that gets me out of bed extra early. It doesn't recharge my sense of place in this world.
I hate numb. I prefer defeat to numb. I want victory, but I'd take anger. I might even accept sadness.
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
Loss of a Runner
It is with great sadness that I write this post. I got the news today that I lost one. Truly and completely lost one. Potential gone, hope gone, belief that it's all worth it gone. I want to quit (and frankly lately I want to quit a lot) truly and unequivocally quit, change jobs. Throw in the towel, crawl into a dark hole and recognize that I will never make a difference and even if for some strange shining few years it appears that I did--know that it won't matter, in the end it won't have mattered. Because I am not that great and I can't overcome any struggles the kids have. Life is real--their time with me is fleeting and I am not actually that good. My students' successes are not due to anything special in me, my claiming of any role in my students' successes are mere stealing of another one's actual success.
I'd like to end this with hope, with redemption. But for now I don't feel any. I feel defeated. I feel deflated. I feel like I have to get up again, convince my students that I believe it'll be different for them. That they won't give in to the world's vices around them. But I don't feel it tonight. Because tonight I go to bed knowing that I've been wrong. For the past 5 years, I had a former student I thought of on my hardest days, the student that I remembered whenever I had a moment where I thought I couldn't go on, the student who came in had an amazing growth--went from throwing desks to student body president, the student who made me believe in myself. Well, he was a lie because in the end the lure of drugs, the lure of a different outcome--well, that won. And I lost a runner. I lost THE runner. And for now I've lost myself.
I'd like to end this with hope, with redemption. But for now I don't feel any. I feel defeated. I feel deflated. I feel like I have to get up again, convince my students that I believe it'll be different for them. That they won't give in to the world's vices around them. But I don't feel it tonight. Because tonight I go to bed knowing that I've been wrong. For the past 5 years, I had a former student I thought of on my hardest days, the student that I remembered whenever I had a moment where I thought I couldn't go on, the student who came in had an amazing growth--went from throwing desks to student body president, the student who made me believe in myself. Well, he was a lie because in the end the lure of drugs, the lure of a different outcome--well, that won. And I lost a runner. I lost THE runner. And for now I've lost myself.
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
The Cell Phone
Simple, really. Silver, a flip phone. No bells and whistles, simply designed to "gasp!" make calls and text. It sat in the white tupperware container for 9 days. No student claimed it, we all knew whose it was. She wasn't returning. And we didn't know if she ever would. As each day came.....and went.....it sat there amongst the other students' belongings during the day and alone all night.
Then winter break came and I took it to the office. Cradled it in my hand, knowing deep in my heart that it belonged to someone I would never see again. I handed it over and labeled it with her name--and swallowed as the reply came, "she moved, we got notice yesterday." It hurt, even though I knew it. It hurt because she didn't deserve that. She had already bottomed out--well she hadn't but her mother had. Where was there to go but up?
But there isn't always an up and sometimes at the bottom of that pit is someone with a shovel, digging an even deeper hole. And sometimes that shovel sits in the hands of a person responsible for other lives--lives that have no say. Lives that have yet to be lived and who must remain in limbo, waiting for a ladder instead of a shovel.
But all I had was a cell phone, and a disconnected one at that. So, if you, dear child, are the owner of that simple silver cell phone and you land somewhere you can use it, call me. Because I packed it full of love and hope and best wishes for you and I'd like to know that you received it.
Then winter break came and I took it to the office. Cradled it in my hand, knowing deep in my heart that it belonged to someone I would never see again. I handed it over and labeled it with her name--and swallowed as the reply came, "she moved, we got notice yesterday." It hurt, even though I knew it. It hurt because she didn't deserve that. She had already bottomed out--well she hadn't but her mother had. Where was there to go but up?
But there isn't always an up and sometimes at the bottom of that pit is someone with a shovel, digging an even deeper hole. And sometimes that shovel sits in the hands of a person responsible for other lives--lives that have no say. Lives that have yet to be lived and who must remain in limbo, waiting for a ladder instead of a shovel.
But all I had was a cell phone, and a disconnected one at that. So, if you, dear child, are the owner of that simple silver cell phone and you land somewhere you can use it, call me. Because I packed it full of love and hope and best wishes for you and I'd like to know that you received it.
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
Lessons from the one that leaves first...
It's never easy losing a student. It's not even really easy when it's the hardest student in the class. But it's rarely the most difficult child that leaves.
I have notice that one of my students is moving and tomorrow is his last day. I've known for a couple of weeks, but to have the date of departure looming so close is disheartening.
This child is a great kid. Socially, the kids respect and look up to him and that is a good thing because he is a great role model. Academically, he's right where he needs to be. Asks all the right questions, is not afraid to try and is just an all around great kid.
As much as I want my class size to go down I hate losing students to accomplish that.
I was telling my husband that the student was leaving and he asked who. When I told him the first name, my husband noted that I had never spoken about that child at home. My quick reply was that of course I hadn't because this kid was an easy kid who didn't test my patience. And that stopped me cold.
How terrible is that? To not be able to spend time reflecting and improving my teaching with the kids that are not challenging me. When I come home and talk about my day it's very cathartic and leads to a reflection that improves my teaching. So, with the class size I have this year and the number of students with intense behaviors, I have been so focused on the 15 that are driving me insane that I fear I am not giving enough to the kids who come in and do what they need.
How much better of a teacher would I be if I reflected on my work with the kids that were at grade level. Isn't that where my teaching should be focused--my expectations should be the same for all the kids. If I spend so much time reflecting on students who need more to produce less, am I also lowering my expectations for the others.
How unfair! How biased! How do I fix it?
As this student leaves my classroom this week I have so many hopes for his next school experience: a teacher that focuses on him as well as his peers, a class size that allows him to experience relationship, and high expectations from all the adults in his life so that he can rise to them. And for the students who remain. I have the same hopes--and the challenge is on me to create that experience for them.
I have notice that one of my students is moving and tomorrow is his last day. I've known for a couple of weeks, but to have the date of departure looming so close is disheartening.
This child is a great kid. Socially, the kids respect and look up to him and that is a good thing because he is a great role model. Academically, he's right where he needs to be. Asks all the right questions, is not afraid to try and is just an all around great kid.
As much as I want my class size to go down I hate losing students to accomplish that.
I was telling my husband that the student was leaving and he asked who. When I told him the first name, my husband noted that I had never spoken about that child at home. My quick reply was that of course I hadn't because this kid was an easy kid who didn't test my patience. And that stopped me cold.
How terrible is that? To not be able to spend time reflecting and improving my teaching with the kids that are not challenging me. When I come home and talk about my day it's very cathartic and leads to a reflection that improves my teaching. So, with the class size I have this year and the number of students with intense behaviors, I have been so focused on the 15 that are driving me insane that I fear I am not giving enough to the kids who come in and do what they need.
How much better of a teacher would I be if I reflected on my work with the kids that were at grade level. Isn't that where my teaching should be focused--my expectations should be the same for all the kids. If I spend so much time reflecting on students who need more to produce less, am I also lowering my expectations for the others.
How unfair! How biased! How do I fix it?
As this student leaves my classroom this week I have so many hopes for his next school experience: a teacher that focuses on him as well as his peers, a class size that allows him to experience relationship, and high expectations from all the adults in his life so that he can rise to them. And for the students who remain. I have the same hopes--and the challenge is on me to create that experience for them.
Tea for all and all for tea
It's been an interesting year. Each day brings new learning--and not just for the students. It's a constant balance of ying/yang. When I feel we are settling into routine and I get comfortable, the routine shatters. And I am becoming comfortable in that.
I find myself torn between wanting my students to conform and wanting my students to be themselves. I recently have been focusing my thinking around two thoughts:
"We must not be content to allow children to color outside the lines, we must strive to teach them to."
and
"A society without norms is chaos"
So how can I teach these children that it is both okay to not conform and at the same time there are certain rules to living among a group?
When a student asks me if something is okay to do (and frankly, I am just happy they know to ask!) I am working to stop my immediate answer of yes or no. Rather, I try to step back to think what it is that they are truly asking and whether or not it is my right/responsibility to answer for them.
Out of this flux has come an interesting new "norm" in my classroom: travel mugs. They adorn at least 5 desks now. And hanging out of each mug is a string with a tea label attached.
It started one day when a child asked if they could have something to drink at their desk. Instead of saying yes or no, I simply replied it had to be healthy and in a closed container. A fine balance of societal norms and free will.
I expected water bottles. I even expected Gatorade (kids seem to think that is the "healthiest" drink in the world.
Then the first travel mug showed up. And the next. And then the request for hot water came. Sadly, we found out that the kids are not allowed to partake of the filtered hot water tap that staff use. But the travel mugs remained, and I noticed that the same tea label hangs from the mug each day. I never see the kids drink from them, I assume they are awaiting hot water. Others have been filled with coffee, but these, too, remain untouched.
I find it interesting that the kids are striving to be individuals by drinking that which I drink. And I wonder if there are other things I do subconsciously that the kids are also emulating. I need to be cautious and thoughtful in all I do.
I also need to support their individuality. I need to buy an electric tea kettle so that the kids can partake of their tea--and maybe find out they don't like it at all!
The weather has turned and warm liquids in the classroom seem a good thing. A colleague suggested a crock pot for cider. I am thinking that a new norm we can all agree on might just be having warm tea/cocoa/cider available for all to choose their favorite.
I only really know one thing for sure and that is simply, I will never know if I have taught a child to color outside the lines, but I hope to always know that I taught kids how to live a true life--true to themselves while also being true to the people around them.
I find myself torn between wanting my students to conform and wanting my students to be themselves. I recently have been focusing my thinking around two thoughts:
"We must not be content to allow children to color outside the lines, we must strive to teach them to."
and
"A society without norms is chaos"
So how can I teach these children that it is both okay to not conform and at the same time there are certain rules to living among a group?
When a student asks me if something is okay to do (and frankly, I am just happy they know to ask!) I am working to stop my immediate answer of yes or no. Rather, I try to step back to think what it is that they are truly asking and whether or not it is my right/responsibility to answer for them.
Out of this flux has come an interesting new "norm" in my classroom: travel mugs. They adorn at least 5 desks now. And hanging out of each mug is a string with a tea label attached.
It started one day when a child asked if they could have something to drink at their desk. Instead of saying yes or no, I simply replied it had to be healthy and in a closed container. A fine balance of societal norms and free will.
I expected water bottles. I even expected Gatorade (kids seem to think that is the "healthiest" drink in the world.
Then the first travel mug showed up. And the next. And then the request for hot water came. Sadly, we found out that the kids are not allowed to partake of the filtered hot water tap that staff use. But the travel mugs remained, and I noticed that the same tea label hangs from the mug each day. I never see the kids drink from them, I assume they are awaiting hot water. Others have been filled with coffee, but these, too, remain untouched.
I find it interesting that the kids are striving to be individuals by drinking that which I drink. And I wonder if there are other things I do subconsciously that the kids are also emulating. I need to be cautious and thoughtful in all I do.
I also need to support their individuality. I need to buy an electric tea kettle so that the kids can partake of their tea--and maybe find out they don't like it at all!
The weather has turned and warm liquids in the classroom seem a good thing. A colleague suggested a crock pot for cider. I am thinking that a new norm we can all agree on might just be having warm tea/cocoa/cider available for all to choose their favorite.
I only really know one thing for sure and that is simply, I will never know if I have taught a child to color outside the lines, but I hope to always know that I taught kids how to live a true life--true to themselves while also being true to the people around them.
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
The Unexpected Runner
Ah, Wednesday night. Half way through the week, yet only 1 month into school. I am exhausted. My students are settling in and it has taken way more out of me than in years past. I had my eye on a select few kids, knew they would require more from me and I was prepared to give them my all. And I was blindsided by those deemed (by me) least likely to need me. They, too, want more from me, need more from me, and would like their fair share.
But what is a fair share? What constitutes doing my job and meeting their needs? What is it that really reflects "excellent teaching"? There are 35 kids on my roster. There are 35 unique, wonderful, young, needy, impressionable, eager children that look to me each day and hope that this is the day I notice them. And I try, I seek relationship, I grab every second of "connection" time I can find. But there aren't enough seconds--let alone enough minutes to truly give them what they deserve from me. And there are even less seconds to give to myself that which I deserve from me in order to be what these kids need me to be.
The kids know what I need, I need tea. They offer to get it for me. They shove around each other to be the one to get to me first when I drain the last drop in my mug. They ask me as they enter in the morning, "can I get your tea when you need it today?" And the answer is, "yes", and the answer is, "please stop shoving each other", and the answer is, "I'm sorry, someone already asked me that today--maybe tomorrow." So many kids want to be connected and helpful and noticed.
And, surprisingly, the first kid to step up quietly and seek this connection was a child who seemed to have it all. This child came in the first day well equipped--had every supply, had a new outfit for the first day of school, had a parental request for nightly homework all typed up. This confident young man knew the ways of a school room, knew what a student's job was, and was eager to learn what he could in 5th grade. I wrote him off as "set" and ready to be a student without guidance from me. A kid that I knew could self-manage in a classroom of 35, a kid who I knew I would be asking to mentor other students.
But as we entered the 3rd week of school I began to see I was wrong. This kid did have it "all"--the supplies, the clothes, the right attitude. But he also lacked something big, adults in his life that cared enough. He constantly sought approval from me. He was fastidious and neat in his work and I wrote it off as an amazing ability to be a good student. He was gracious and kind to others and I wrote it off as an amazing ability to socially interact. And then it stopped and I commented that I was surprised at his behavior and less than perfect work. He balked at my "reprimand" told me I hadn't ever seemed to care that he was neat or friendly. And I hadn't commented on it, I hadn't complimented him, I hadn't praised his care in both schoolwork and relationships. And he wanted me to notice and to care.
So much so that he, himself, had written that beautifully typed letter asking for homework, because his parents wouldn't. My student had done it. He wanted so badly to have something to do in the evenings while his high school aged brother did his own homework and his parents played virtual reality games on their laptops. He wanted homework in order to belong. He wanted his teacher to provide something that proved she recognized his worth as a dedicated student and that also provided him with evening entertainment in an isolated house.
And so he got my tea. He got my tea because he offered first. And he still gets my tea, because he is so responsible he gets to train all the others how to get hot water from the filtered dispenser in the office as I need it. This year there won't be a single tea runner, nor even a select few. This year, I want everyone to belong and everyone to feel needed. As for the first kid, to me he's my true "Tea Runner," this year. Because he taught me something new about teaching and loving and giving one's all: never assume you know what a kid brings--you have to seek the answer.
But what is a fair share? What constitutes doing my job and meeting their needs? What is it that really reflects "excellent teaching"? There are 35 kids on my roster. There are 35 unique, wonderful, young, needy, impressionable, eager children that look to me each day and hope that this is the day I notice them. And I try, I seek relationship, I grab every second of "connection" time I can find. But there aren't enough seconds--let alone enough minutes to truly give them what they deserve from me. And there are even less seconds to give to myself that which I deserve from me in order to be what these kids need me to be.
The kids know what I need, I need tea. They offer to get it for me. They shove around each other to be the one to get to me first when I drain the last drop in my mug. They ask me as they enter in the morning, "can I get your tea when you need it today?" And the answer is, "yes", and the answer is, "please stop shoving each other", and the answer is, "I'm sorry, someone already asked me that today--maybe tomorrow." So many kids want to be connected and helpful and noticed.
And, surprisingly, the first kid to step up quietly and seek this connection was a child who seemed to have it all. This child came in the first day well equipped--had every supply, had a new outfit for the first day of school, had a parental request for nightly homework all typed up. This confident young man knew the ways of a school room, knew what a student's job was, and was eager to learn what he could in 5th grade. I wrote him off as "set" and ready to be a student without guidance from me. A kid that I knew could self-manage in a classroom of 35, a kid who I knew I would be asking to mentor other students.
But as we entered the 3rd week of school I began to see I was wrong. This kid did have it "all"--the supplies, the clothes, the right attitude. But he also lacked something big, adults in his life that cared enough. He constantly sought approval from me. He was fastidious and neat in his work and I wrote it off as an amazing ability to be a good student. He was gracious and kind to others and I wrote it off as an amazing ability to socially interact. And then it stopped and I commented that I was surprised at his behavior and less than perfect work. He balked at my "reprimand" told me I hadn't ever seemed to care that he was neat or friendly. And I hadn't commented on it, I hadn't complimented him, I hadn't praised his care in both schoolwork and relationships. And he wanted me to notice and to care.
So much so that he, himself, had written that beautifully typed letter asking for homework, because his parents wouldn't. My student had done it. He wanted so badly to have something to do in the evenings while his high school aged brother did his own homework and his parents played virtual reality games on their laptops. He wanted homework in order to belong. He wanted his teacher to provide something that proved she recognized his worth as a dedicated student and that also provided him with evening entertainment in an isolated house.
And so he got my tea. He got my tea because he offered first. And he still gets my tea, because he is so responsible he gets to train all the others how to get hot water from the filtered dispenser in the office as I need it. This year there won't be a single tea runner, nor even a select few. This year, I want everyone to belong and everyone to feel needed. As for the first kid, to me he's my true "Tea Runner," this year. Because he taught me something new about teaching and loving and giving one's all: never assume you know what a kid brings--you have to seek the answer.
Monday, September 26, 2011
Sometimes there are no words
I have struggled. I have contemplated for the past two weeks whether or not I had what it took. I have reflected on all that was going wrong. Grappled with what to change and what to hold onto. Cried. Screamed. Choked on words. Slept. Got up to fight through the day without any energy. And avoided. Avoided writing this blog. Pushed away accepting that I could be wrong. Ran from self-doubt right into self-defamation. And I avoided the obvious. Forgot the kids needed time. Beat myself up over that which was beyond my control. Cracked down when I should have cracked up. And then, then I cracked. Period.
And then today. Today was great. Today was a dream; and even better, today was a reality. Today my students and I stood up to a test unlike any other this early in the school year. And we all shone. And no one was irreparably hurt in the process.
I haven't written each weekend like I had hoped. I haven't had the ability to be so brutally honest with all of you in the midst of my own personal hell. I couldn't write without being a bitter downer. I couldn't put myself out there as I was failing miserably and falling without a net. Then the net that I thought didn't exist caught me. And I am here to tell about it. The failure, the reflection and the road to recovery. Hopefully by June I will be here to tell about the success. But for today, just the realization that it will be okay is enough.
So, know that I am back. Know that we are all okay. And know that the weather has turned and tea will be brewing. It's gonna take a lot of tea this year.
And then today. Today was great. Today was a dream; and even better, today was a reality. Today my students and I stood up to a test unlike any other this early in the school year. And we all shone. And no one was irreparably hurt in the process.
I haven't written each weekend like I had hoped. I haven't had the ability to be so brutally honest with all of you in the midst of my own personal hell. I couldn't write without being a bitter downer. I couldn't put myself out there as I was failing miserably and falling without a net. Then the net that I thought didn't exist caught me. And I am here to tell about it. The failure, the reflection and the road to recovery. Hopefully by June I will be here to tell about the success. But for today, just the realization that it will be okay is enough.
So, know that I am back. Know that we are all okay. And know that the weather has turned and tea will be brewing. It's gonna take a lot of tea this year.
Monday, September 12, 2011
Phone Calls Home. Part 2--Speaking with the Student
I spoke with 5 students today! 2 days before school starts. They were adorable. So sweet, so honest, so flabbergasted to be speaking to their teacher on the phone. And I was a bit flabbergasted, too. Not just because that's a fun word to write, but because these little children are unknown to me. Even the children I have met before in the hallway don't have a clear connection in my brain to my classroom and being my student. It was like talking to a disembodied voice.
More so, for the student I thought I had a clear picture of. I was proven wrong by this student today. Probably not the last time for the year, either. But I can't be happier to be wrong. I had met this child before, many times in the hallway. I was a bit overwhelmed at having them in my classroom. I had labeled this child to be a "gets-their-own-way-no-matter-what" kind of kid. But wow, we spoke for the longest time. This child is so eager to be back at school, with friends, with a new teacher (me!). After having me read the entire class list (perhaps a little of that get-their-own-way?), this child was excited to have known friends in the class, excited to have new kids in the class to befriend, excited just to have a class. Respectful, helpful, eager, filled with the excitement at returning to a place that they obviously love to be. It's good to be reminded that personality is made up of more than just that one characteristic.
So now I have a picture of this group. It's not a physical picture it's a feeling picture. And the picture I have is of a truly sweet group of kids. Mind you 5/38 is probably not a big enough sample to make a whole class judgment, but if nothing else I know that 5 kids are on my side.
More so, for the student I thought I had a clear picture of. I was proven wrong by this student today. Probably not the last time for the year, either. But I can't be happier to be wrong. I had met this child before, many times in the hallway. I was a bit overwhelmed at having them in my classroom. I had labeled this child to be a "gets-their-own-way-no-matter-what" kind of kid. But wow, we spoke for the longest time. This child is so eager to be back at school, with friends, with a new teacher (me!). After having me read the entire class list (perhaps a little of that get-their-own-way?), this child was excited to have known friends in the class, excited to have new kids in the class to befriend, excited just to have a class. Respectful, helpful, eager, filled with the excitement at returning to a place that they obviously love to be. It's good to be reminded that personality is made up of more than just that one characteristic.
So now I have a picture of this group. It's not a physical picture it's a feeling picture. And the picture I have is of a truly sweet group of kids. Mind you 5/38 is probably not a big enough sample to make a whole class judgment, but if nothing else I know that 5 kids are on my side.
Phone Calls Home. Part 1--Speaking with the Parent
I called all but 5 of my students over the past few days. That's 33 phone calls. And I am buoyant. The best time to call home is definitely before school starts, nothing scary about a pre-school phone call. I was just calling with a welcome to 5th grade and Open House invitation for the day before school. I only got to speak directly to 5 of my students. I left lots of messages via voice mail. I left even more messages via parent. There was a common theme among the parents I spoke with. They were suspicious. Not once I told them who I was, but before I told them, when I first asked to speak with their child. People who just moments before had pleasantly answered the phone, immediately went to mama/papa bear mode when I inquired if their child was available. At first I was off put, thinking maybe I shouldn't call to speak with my students. Then I was intrigued, with each new switch from pleasant to gruff I got a sense that these parents care deeply about their children--protective through and through. And then the best part, after introducing myself they relaxed, they chatted, they were happy to talk to me, surprised and elated that I called.
What a great feeling. Connecting with these parents who are entrusting their child to me. Hearing their protective nature for these children we will be sharing for the next year. And hearing their happiness, surprise, eagerness to connect back with me. And this is why I spoke with so few of my students, I spent so much time connecting with their parent that by the time I would have spoken with their child, the parent had already relayed the open house invite and room number for me.
One dad was so happy I called, he merrily relayed everything I said to his daughter, who must have been sitting next to him, as I said it. And while at first he suggested they had been thinking his wife might bring their daughter to the open house, by the time we were saying goodbye he eagerly told me that not only his wife and their daughter would see me at the open house but he would like to come along, too.
Upon immediate reflection, I was sad to have not spoken directly to more of my students. But now, many hours later I still sit fulfilled at having connected with the parent. I have plenty of time to get to know my students, to make an impression on them over the school day. But today was my chance to connect and impress the parent. And I can rest knowing that it was a success. I can now build upon this initial good impression if necessary should I need to call with less stellar news mid-year.
When I heard I was returning to the classroom I had set a goal to call home on 6 students each week--just a check-in, no bad news. After today, I have taken that goal from "maybe" to "must-do".
What a great feeling. Connecting with these parents who are entrusting their child to me. Hearing their protective nature for these children we will be sharing for the next year. And hearing their happiness, surprise, eagerness to connect back with me. And this is why I spoke with so few of my students, I spent so much time connecting with their parent that by the time I would have spoken with their child, the parent had already relayed the open house invite and room number for me.
One dad was so happy I called, he merrily relayed everything I said to his daughter, who must have been sitting next to him, as I said it. And while at first he suggested they had been thinking his wife might bring their daughter to the open house, by the time we were saying goodbye he eagerly told me that not only his wife and their daughter would see me at the open house but he would like to come along, too.
Upon immediate reflection, I was sad to have not spoken directly to more of my students. But now, many hours later I still sit fulfilled at having connected with the parent. I have plenty of time to get to know my students, to make an impression on them over the school day. But today was my chance to connect and impress the parent. And I can rest knowing that it was a success. I can now build upon this initial good impression if necessary should I need to call with less stellar news mid-year.
When I heard I was returning to the classroom I had set a goal to call home on 6 students each week--just a check-in, no bad news. After today, I have taken that goal from "maybe" to "must-do".
Friday, September 2, 2011
Letters to My Next Year Teacher
I received the best surprise yesterday. It was the first official district work day of the 2011-2012 school year. Well, that wasn't really a surprise, teachers have known that was coming.
The surprise came in my teaching partner's classroom in a yellow folder--discovered on the first official district work day of the 2011-2012 school year.
It's finally real. Official work days. With that comes the stacks and stacks of teaching stuff that somehow always fits away neatly for an entire school year and also somehow always gets spread out across any available space the days before a new school year. Families registering their children in the office. Little feet and big feet dashing to and fro along the hallways in a flurry of hellos and how are yous and how was your summer and are you ready for the year.
The quiet of the hallways as I worked on my classroom prior to official days is gone. And I am glad. Because in the quiet the surprise sat all along in a yellow folder in the classroom across the hall from where I sat and it waited. But in the bustle of the end of the day and the commotion of moving everything from one stack to the next it showed itself.
A simple yellow folder--which in my school often signifies information about a child who may need a little more attention--contained not a heads up but rather sweet letters from some of my soon to be students. From students who, until this moment, sat only in a list of black and white names on my class roster. From students who, until this moment, sat in a blur of anticipation in my brain. Students who now sit with their little souls bared as much as they can stand, or in many cases bared as much as fit into the sentence frames their teacher from last year wrote on the board. Students who now sit with their school picture affixed to the bottom (or top if they didn't follow directions) of the letter smiling at, or shying away, from me as I read their words about themselves.
They are precious little beings. I wonder what they thought as they wrote this letter to a teacher they have never met, a teacher they have hopes about. A teacher who in their head sits as a blur of anticipation and perhaps fear. A teacher who turned out to be me.
It's such a unique relationship in the teaching world. We ask and expect our children to trust their teacher so completely that they are willing to try and fail and try again and perhaps fail again, only to be asked to try one more time to succeed over a period of 9 months day in and day out with that 1 teacher. We then ask and expect our children to build that relationship with a new teacher--every year. What hope these tiny humans bring when they write to that next teacher--please like me, please have faith in my ability to learn, please don't see me only for my shortcomings, please oh please be nice.
I love looking at their penmanship. I love reading their birthday and their likes and what they are good at. Yet, I flinch when I read what they feel they are not good at. They plead in their letters. Among them this year, "I hope you make math something I understand." And I want to. I yearn to make sure they leave in 9 months better at math or what ever it is they ask. And deep in my heart I know they will be just fine at it, if I can build confidence within them along with the skills. And I also know that for the past year their teacher worked to build that confidence. I hope my colleague knows that in the end she succeeded. Because now these little children know not only what they lack in knowledge, more importantly they are secure enough to know they can ask for help. And I thank that colleague silently for that security which she instilled. And I rise to the challenge in my head and in my heart. Thus today I began my lesson plans for these students who ask for so little and yet so much.
I can only work each day to live up to their desires, to fulfill their hopes for a good year, and ultimately work to teach them that which they must understand before the next grade. It will take time. And then, then once I have their trust and they are comfortable enough to learn in my classroom, when they are settled into an academic routine then, well, then I will have them write a letter to their next year teacher.
The surprise came in my teaching partner's classroom in a yellow folder--discovered on the first official district work day of the 2011-2012 school year.
It's finally real. Official work days. With that comes the stacks and stacks of teaching stuff that somehow always fits away neatly for an entire school year and also somehow always gets spread out across any available space the days before a new school year. Families registering their children in the office. Little feet and big feet dashing to and fro along the hallways in a flurry of hellos and how are yous and how was your summer and are you ready for the year.
The quiet of the hallways as I worked on my classroom prior to official days is gone. And I am glad. Because in the quiet the surprise sat all along in a yellow folder in the classroom across the hall from where I sat and it waited. But in the bustle of the end of the day and the commotion of moving everything from one stack to the next it showed itself.
A simple yellow folder--which in my school often signifies information about a child who may need a little more attention--contained not a heads up but rather sweet letters from some of my soon to be students. From students who, until this moment, sat only in a list of black and white names on my class roster. From students who, until this moment, sat in a blur of anticipation in my brain. Students who now sit with their little souls bared as much as they can stand, or in many cases bared as much as fit into the sentence frames their teacher from last year wrote on the board. Students who now sit with their school picture affixed to the bottom (or top if they didn't follow directions) of the letter smiling at, or shying away, from me as I read their words about themselves.
They are precious little beings. I wonder what they thought as they wrote this letter to a teacher they have never met, a teacher they have hopes about. A teacher who in their head sits as a blur of anticipation and perhaps fear. A teacher who turned out to be me.
It's such a unique relationship in the teaching world. We ask and expect our children to trust their teacher so completely that they are willing to try and fail and try again and perhaps fail again, only to be asked to try one more time to succeed over a period of 9 months day in and day out with that 1 teacher. We then ask and expect our children to build that relationship with a new teacher--every year. What hope these tiny humans bring when they write to that next teacher--please like me, please have faith in my ability to learn, please don't see me only for my shortcomings, please oh please be nice.
I love looking at their penmanship. I love reading their birthday and their likes and what they are good at. Yet, I flinch when I read what they feel they are not good at. They plead in their letters. Among them this year, "I hope you make math something I understand." And I want to. I yearn to make sure they leave in 9 months better at math or what ever it is they ask. And deep in my heart I know they will be just fine at it, if I can build confidence within them along with the skills. And I also know that for the past year their teacher worked to build that confidence. I hope my colleague knows that in the end she succeeded. Because now these little children know not only what they lack in knowledge, more importantly they are secure enough to know they can ask for help. And I thank that colleague silently for that security which she instilled. And I rise to the challenge in my head and in my heart. Thus today I began my lesson plans for these students who ask for so little and yet so much.
I can only work each day to live up to their desires, to fulfill their hopes for a good year, and ultimately work to teach them that which they must understand before the next grade. It will take time. And then, then once I have their trust and they are comfortable enough to learn in my classroom, when they are settled into an academic routine then, well, then I will have them write a letter to their next year teacher.
Thursday, August 25, 2011
A Space for Everyone
I spent the day in a meeting and rearranging the room. The meeting was, unexpectedly, quite good. It felt good to have a plan, to have a process and to work closely with such a great group of my colleagues. But the best parts of the day, for me, always happen in my classroom. It felt good to catch up one on one with people I enjoy working with in my own space as they trickled in and out. And it felt equally good to sit in the silence and take the space into consideration.
Sitting in various spots around the room gives one a very different view of the space. The major pieces of furniture are in place in my room, so today was my time to make sure that the little physical space details start to come together. Moving around the room and spending quiet time just sitting and taking in the environment from the various locations gave rise to some major changes from a child's perspective. But minor changes from an actual doing aspect.
For instance, looking towards the back window corner from my desk it appeared I had this great space created at the "carpet" area. For those of you who are not teachers, the carpet area is sacred learning space. A space where the whole class can come together and learn in unity away from their individual spaces. It's a pretty intimate (read tight) space. One that has to be set up to be conducive to a group of people being able to focus on their learning, while also trying not to bump into the person next to them. From my desk, it looked big, it looked possible. It even looked inviting, from my desk. From the carpet, it looked dark; the easel and teaching area were backlit from the windows. Think teacher and chart paper/lessons completely in shadow. From the carpet area it looked cramped and tiny. The room was blocked off from view by a big bookshelf on wheels. There was nothing inviting or big about it at all!
After spending 1 minute sitting at the back of the carpet and realizing the effect from the student's view, I flipped it. I put the teaching space on the opposite side, I got rid of the bookshelf that blocked off part of the room, I lined comfortable chairs around the outer edge. The whole room looks different. It even improved the look and feel from my desk area. I love these moments. The ones that have such an aha! emphasis at the end.
We get so caught up in what our own perspective is that we forget at times to think about how the children experience it.
This is true in many of our interactions with kids. A reality worthy of taking a moment to sit back and reflect on~ from a different spot in the room.
Sitting in various spots around the room gives one a very different view of the space. The major pieces of furniture are in place in my room, so today was my time to make sure that the little physical space details start to come together. Moving around the room and spending quiet time just sitting and taking in the environment from the various locations gave rise to some major changes from a child's perspective. But minor changes from an actual doing aspect.
For instance, looking towards the back window corner from my desk it appeared I had this great space created at the "carpet" area. For those of you who are not teachers, the carpet area is sacred learning space. A space where the whole class can come together and learn in unity away from their individual spaces. It's a pretty intimate (read tight) space. One that has to be set up to be conducive to a group of people being able to focus on their learning, while also trying not to bump into the person next to them. From my desk, it looked big, it looked possible. It even looked inviting, from my desk. From the carpet, it looked dark; the easel and teaching area were backlit from the windows. Think teacher and chart paper/lessons completely in shadow. From the carpet area it looked cramped and tiny. The room was blocked off from view by a big bookshelf on wheels. There was nothing inviting or big about it at all!
After spending 1 minute sitting at the back of the carpet and realizing the effect from the student's view, I flipped it. I put the teaching space on the opposite side, I got rid of the bookshelf that blocked off part of the room, I lined comfortable chairs around the outer edge. The whole room looks different. It even improved the look and feel from my desk area. I love these moments. The ones that have such an aha! emphasis at the end.
We get so caught up in what our own perspective is that we forget at times to think about how the children experience it.
This is true in many of our interactions with kids. A reality worthy of taking a moment to sit back and reflect on~ from a different spot in the room.
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
Tea Running
I certainly never intended to make my hot tea a ritual for the students. It happened organically. I drink a lot of tea during the school year. I have a very specific travel mug for my tea. I keep boxes of my favorite tea in my desk drawer so that it smells delicious even in the summer, long after the boxes have been removed. When I am cold I hold my tea mug as I teach. When it has been a particularly trying day, I hold my tea mug as I teach. Sometimes the tea drinking is secondary to the tea ritual. The smell, the feel of the mug in my hand, the simple ritual of pouring the hot water over the tea, watching the water dance with the bleeding tea. Taking a moment to remember to pick up my tea, relax and then respond rather than hastily react to a particular situation.
Strangely, the kids caught on. "Oh, Ms. Mitchell has her tea, someone is pushing her limits." "See Ms. Mitchell, even you are cold-- you have your tea!" "Uh! Oh! Ms. Mitchell has her tea..."and then one day, "Ms. Mitchell, can I get your hot water?" This from a child who was often the impetus for me latching onto my tea mug in anticipation of its calming effect.
Two things happened in that moment. The first positive effect was the easiest to recognize: a very trying child left my room happily to get me some hot water from the office. No need to follow up and make sure they got where they were going. No need to buzz the office to let them know a child needed to talk with someone. No need to take my lunch and their recess to discuss what to do about their trying behavior. No need to apologize to the neighboring teachers about the angry child making their way down the hallway.
The second positive effect took longer to recognize: a child, trying very hard to find their way, found purpose in my classroom community. I didn't see it immediately because while the first effect was all about my needs, the second effect was all about theirs. It took the kids to teach me that the best lessons in the classroom very rarely center on academics alone.
What started as a student asking to get my tea led to me recognizing that sometimes a student needs to be asked if they'd like to get me some tea. This has certainly led to more than one burnt throat as I chugged my recently brewed tea in order to actually need the child to go get hot water. But if you've ever been in a situation where a child really really needs to get out in order for one of you to not blow, you'd recognize the necessity of a temporary loss of feeling in your mouth and throat.
Teaching those students who most desperately need a break when to ask for it is easier if the purpose of the break leads back to a classroom need. Students who are acting out don't always want to leave, instead they want to know why they should stay. Even more, they yearn to know they are wanted in the room. Sending a disenfranchised child away from you with the express purpose to return is a much better message than to send that same child away with no other purpose than to shape up and then return when they are ready. How many kids being sent out of a classroom knew they "weren't ready to be there" let alone can figure out what it feels like to be "ready to return"?
It has been interesting to note that students who know where they belong, know what they bring to the community and know what they can expect of their teacher and peers rarely ask to get my tea. It's the students on the fringe, the loudly bold, the violently tempestuous, the silently hiding ones that notice when Ms. Mitchell needs her tea and offer to go get it. They trot off with excitement to pour the boiling water from the office pot. Then very carefully, they walk back to the classroom careful not to burn their hands, careful not to spill the water and every so often I notice that they, too, are slowly inhaling the scent of freshly brewing tea and perhaps feeling that much closer to their teacher who relies on that scent to get her through.
Strangely, the kids caught on. "Oh, Ms. Mitchell has her tea, someone is pushing her limits." "See Ms. Mitchell, even you are cold-- you have your tea!" "Uh! Oh! Ms. Mitchell has her tea..."and then one day, "Ms. Mitchell, can I get your hot water?" This from a child who was often the impetus for me latching onto my tea mug in anticipation of its calming effect.
Two things happened in that moment. The first positive effect was the easiest to recognize: a very trying child left my room happily to get me some hot water from the office. No need to follow up and make sure they got where they were going. No need to buzz the office to let them know a child needed to talk with someone. No need to take my lunch and their recess to discuss what to do about their trying behavior. No need to apologize to the neighboring teachers about the angry child making their way down the hallway.
The second positive effect took longer to recognize: a child, trying very hard to find their way, found purpose in my classroom community. I didn't see it immediately because while the first effect was all about my needs, the second effect was all about theirs. It took the kids to teach me that the best lessons in the classroom very rarely center on academics alone.
What started as a student asking to get my tea led to me recognizing that sometimes a student needs to be asked if they'd like to get me some tea. This has certainly led to more than one burnt throat as I chugged my recently brewed tea in order to actually need the child to go get hot water. But if you've ever been in a situation where a child really really needs to get out in order for one of you to not blow, you'd recognize the necessity of a temporary loss of feeling in your mouth and throat.
Teaching those students who most desperately need a break when to ask for it is easier if the purpose of the break leads back to a classroom need. Students who are acting out don't always want to leave, instead they want to know why they should stay. Even more, they yearn to know they are wanted in the room. Sending a disenfranchised child away from you with the express purpose to return is a much better message than to send that same child away with no other purpose than to shape up and then return when they are ready. How many kids being sent out of a classroom knew they "weren't ready to be there" let alone can figure out what it feels like to be "ready to return"?
It has been interesting to note that students who know where they belong, know what they bring to the community and know what they can expect of their teacher and peers rarely ask to get my tea. It's the students on the fringe, the loudly bold, the violently tempestuous, the silently hiding ones that notice when Ms. Mitchell needs her tea and offer to go get it. They trot off with excitement to pour the boiling water from the office pot. Then very carefully, they walk back to the classroom careful not to burn their hands, careful not to spill the water and every so often I notice that they, too, are slowly inhaling the scent of freshly brewing tea and perhaps feeling that much closer to their teacher who relies on that scent to get her through.
Anticipation
It's August and rainy, not actively but the sky is grey and the air hints at a summer storm that blew through last night. The fact is, I like it. My thoughts have returned to work and my first "official" meeting of the school year is just 2 days away. A little cleansing rain and preparation for the changing of the season is good for my psyche.
Change invigorates me. Oh, I like my routines and normalcy, but I thrive on the subtle changes that occur within that realm. Teaching fits me perfectly--I get to continue to do the "same" things each year but each day is completely different from the prior. Children flit into my life in mid-course of their own lives and dance out 9 months later forever changed but still changing. I, too, am forever affected by what they have given and taken from me.
I have been spending much of my time reflecting on the classroom dynamics of years' past in preparation of the class that will meet me in a few weeks. This is both good and bad. The nightmares certainly reflect my biggest fears (strangely-and thankfully-none of the horrors that meet me in my sleep have ever actually happened on my watch, but each year the possibility of them happening is so present in my thoughts...). Nightmares are the norm in a teacher's August. I would rather dwell on my greatest hopes for the coming school year.
Thus, I have recently found a desire to reflect to find what it is that brings my classroom community together. I truly believe there is a key student or small group of students that make each year a defining one, where growth for all involved occurs. It's never the best academic student, nor is it the popular child, and often it's not the student who is quietly making their way through the world of social and academic requirements. No, it's the student who lives their life out loud, in many cases a bit too loud for the community. It's also the student who attempts to hide behind a mask of silence or even absence.
In any classroom these students exist. But in the best classrooms these children EXIST: they are seen, heard and responded to in a way that allows them to find acceptance. I'm not just speaking of acceptance within the classroom community, however important that is. More importantly they find what it is they bring that is unique and accept the greatness within themselves that they can then share with their peers.
This discovery of being needed, of being helpful, of being an integral part of the whole starts in my classroom with the simple act of getting me my tea.
The Tea Runner is my reflection on the trials, the triumphs, and the day-to-day happenings in a community of children just trying to make sense of themselves, their peers and ultimately-the world.
Change invigorates me. Oh, I like my routines and normalcy, but I thrive on the subtle changes that occur within that realm. Teaching fits me perfectly--I get to continue to do the "same" things each year but each day is completely different from the prior. Children flit into my life in mid-course of their own lives and dance out 9 months later forever changed but still changing. I, too, am forever affected by what they have given and taken from me.
I have been spending much of my time reflecting on the classroom dynamics of years' past in preparation of the class that will meet me in a few weeks. This is both good and bad. The nightmares certainly reflect my biggest fears (strangely-and thankfully-none of the horrors that meet me in my sleep have ever actually happened on my watch, but each year the possibility of them happening is so present in my thoughts...). Nightmares are the norm in a teacher's August. I would rather dwell on my greatest hopes for the coming school year.
Thus, I have recently found a desire to reflect to find what it is that brings my classroom community together. I truly believe there is a key student or small group of students that make each year a defining one, where growth for all involved occurs. It's never the best academic student, nor is it the popular child, and often it's not the student who is quietly making their way through the world of social and academic requirements. No, it's the student who lives their life out loud, in many cases a bit too loud for the community. It's also the student who attempts to hide behind a mask of silence or even absence.
In any classroom these students exist. But in the best classrooms these children EXIST: they are seen, heard and responded to in a way that allows them to find acceptance. I'm not just speaking of acceptance within the classroom community, however important that is. More importantly they find what it is they bring that is unique and accept the greatness within themselves that they can then share with their peers.
This discovery of being needed, of being helpful, of being an integral part of the whole starts in my classroom with the simple act of getting me my tea.
The Tea Runner is my reflection on the trials, the triumphs, and the day-to-day happenings in a community of children just trying to make sense of themselves, their peers and ultimately-the world.
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