Archive of ‘teaching’ category

11
Jan
2018

hello, again (written in a fury whilst battling pneumonia)

categories: california, me, teaching

So, it’s been nearly two years. Here’s what happened…

I moved across the country and got swept up in excitement and planning–packing and unpacking, organizing and searching and life was hectic for a good long while. I started a new job and moved into a new house. My daughter started at one school. Then moved to another one. We traveled a bit, my back issues returned. I hit some health road blocks and made a bunch of changes in my life. Trump got elected and it drained all hope from my body. I fell into a very real depression and went on medication for the first time in my life–to treat my mental and emotional state. And, then, there were a million other things in-between.

So, here I am. Devastated and still reeling about the state of our country and our political landscape. Losing my mind over having a daughter and feeling so scared for her future every day.

I almost started blogging again but didn’t really know how to address the way I was feeling. I didn’t feel that I could accurately articulate the sorrow and fear and lack of hope. I still don’t feel qualified to discuss the state of our world and the myriad ways in which people are affected by our current leaders. But, needless to say, it is a horrifying time to be anything but a rich, white, Christian, cisgender, heterosexual man.

There are plenty of great websites with links to all of the things you can do to be a part of the revolution. Whether it’s time, money or power you can part with–there are many ways to get involved. I have found that feeling like I’m doing something (whether I am or not is a trickier conversation) has been the only thing to get me out of bed. I have joined and contributed and volunteered and written letters and made calls and marched through streets. It’s never enough. But, it’s something.

I am living in a privileged bubble out here in small town, California. We are not all so lucky. This man is ruining lives, endangering communities, and undoing so much of what has been done to embolden and empower folks who have been disenfranchised, abused and silenced.

So, I go to work. I teach middle school now. And, I talk about race and class and gender and sexuality and politics. I talk about the power of language and what it means to be an ally. I assign books by women and people of color. I discuss the need for windows and mirrors in literature. Books should be a reflection of ourselves, our lives and experiences and realities. They should also be a window into the realities of others–folks who don’t look, live or exist as we do.

I start GSA and Ally clubs, bring LGBTQI training to our staff and push for changes to our handbooks to ensure the safety and security of ALL students. I take my kids to environmental film festivals and put up signs on my door that piss off the Trump-voter parents in my class. I keep my political viewpoints to myself but make it known that I am against bullying of any kind at any level. I tell my students that they are powerful, that they can change the world. I read I am Malala aloud and explain that it is up to them to find and fight against injustice. To speak up and speak out.

My daughter doesn’t know words like, “asshole, racist, imbecile, narcissist, bigot, chauvinist, etc.” What she does know is, “bully and stinker.” Those are the worst words in her vocabulary. But, if you heard her refer to Trump as a, “Stinkin, stinker, bully, potty, poo, pee-pee-head, meanie” you would think she had just uttered the most obscene profanity known to womankind. Her face gets scrunched up and serious and her body tightens, her fists pump in the air and she is mad. She’s actually mad. She hates this man. She hears NPR in the morning and listens to us talk in the evening. She picks up on conversations and nuances and body language. And, we talk to her about him. We tell her in words she’ll understand. He is a bully–to all people, everywhere. He is not smart. He doesn’t care about our planet and he’s not a nice person.

I am not in Trump country. But I’m not not in Trump country. I’m in 50/50 land. So, it’s been a divisive year in an already divided community. And, striking the balance between respecting differing belief systems while still holding folks accountable for what they are ACTUALLY advocating for is difficult…and, incredibly important. Particularly as a teacher and a parent and a woman and…a freaking human. So, I do my best. There are some days when I completely fail. And, others where I am so proud of myself for the thing I said or didn’t say or the conversation I had with my students.

I am out of the denial stage, the intense anger has faded, depression is on the mend and so I’m left with (un)acceptance. I accept that it’s real but refuse to accept the reality.

Short story: I’m back.

03
Dec
2015

on teaching & being human (a rant)

categories: teaching

Teachers are expected to be superhuman.

To not think about themselves, to not have lives outside of their classrooms or be prone to bouts of negativity. To not be the type of people who need to let off steam or have feelings toward other humans–whether they be child or adult.

This disturbs me greatly.

We are not in the business of saving lives–although many of us take our jobs seriously enough that we feel as though we can impact lives in a huge way. But, that’s how we are treated. As though some tiny misstep, one little shred of weakness, one human emotion, and someone could DIE. And, therefore–since we are supposed to act like gods while we’re treated like servants–we should be fired for being human, reprimanded, or at the very least, shamed publicly.

Have you ever had surgery? Have you ever watched surgeons during surgery? They have funky playlists and no qualms about idle chatter. Do we scold them for acknowledging that even though they are saving and risking lives–it’s also just their job? Do we shame them for being so callous as to discuss their weekend plans before cutting you open? No. We pat them on the back and say, Job well done. Bravo. How skilled you are, how precise, how brave and bold.

I’m not trying to rag on doctors. Respect. I’m just trying to point out the insane double-standard we seem to have in this country when it comes to certain professions.

Teachers are consistently berated for simply having human thoughts. I can’t tell you how many books I read in my first year of teaching that describe, in detail, how negative teachers are–and warned against the evil that lurked in the teachers lounge. It is a place of malice, it is a place of hate and darkness. Teachers go there to say ugly things–about each other, about their students, about the administration and the PTA, to bitch incessantly. Don’t go! they warn. Don’t let them drag you down to their underworld, the books preach.

Well, first of all it is a non-issue in New York, because who has space for a teachers lounge? But, we meet in classrooms or in school yards, we congregate in shared spaces and find solace in each other. In the shared experiences and the shared grievances. In the shared joys and successes. We plan field trips, talk through curriculum. We discuss books–educational and non, we talk politics, babies, weekend plans. We collect contributions for baby showers and bridal showers, funereal costs, and birthday presents–we plan Friday happy hour. It’s a safe space for people who understand your particular struggles and your particular triumphs. Yes, there is kvetching–about kids, about disrespectful parents, about run-ins with administrators and teachers who we feel could be doing more.

My question is, what’s the harm? Why the drama?

Why can’t teachers speak honestly about their experiences? Why can’t teachers come together to ask for help from their colleagues? Why can’t teachers congregate and discuss hardships–be they curriculum or human-based? This rhetoric around the evil teacher who sins by being truthful or blunt is so disturbing to me. And it is continually reinforced by these “teaching” books by “educators”. I would like to know who these supposed educators are–writing about the evils of having feelings and discussing them openly. I’m not trying to be a conspiracy theorist here, but…they can’t actually be teachers, can they? This vitriolic dialogue about educators simply serves to reinforce unfair stereotypes. It does nothing to change the conversation or challenge commonly held beliefs–be they true or fabricated.

Let’s talk about the camaraderie of teachers, the necessity of colleagues. Let’s be real about how draining–emotionally and physically–the profession is. Let’s just say out loud that some kids wreak havoc on our lives, treat us disrespectfully, fight, are sneaky, are cruel and dishonest, are generally pains in our asses. Why can’t we acknowledge that? Because it’s not pc to say–because they’re tiny humans and so we attach to them some sort of immunity from being human. And, listen, those kids get a new start every day. They get a smile and the benefit of the doubt; they get endless patience and hours of us trying to figure them out. They get, “let’s find their buy-in” and “let’s complete a functional behavior assessment and see if we can’t figure out the antecedent to the tricky behavior.” They get behavior plans and model-student partnerships, they get one-on-one help and meetings with parents, reading buddies, and after-school tutoring. Sometimes a tricky kid is a product of poor parenting, shitty circumstances, abuse, realities of a cruel and unfair world. And, that’s real and it’s horrifying. And, I spent years surrounded by trauma in my first half decade of teaching. And, it nearly killed me inside. I cried every damn day my first year of teaching. I cried after lockdowns and guns in our school, I cried after cousins got jumped and mothers were murdered, I cried every week when I called ACS and had to report yet another horror story–things I will never erase from my memory, images I can never un-see.

We are on the front lines. It is an impossibly hard job–especially in certain parts of the world/country/city. We are the ones saying, we’re here for you, we aren’t going anywhere, you are safe. You can breathe here and flourish and think and wonder. I will support you, I will love you, I will do everything in my power to help you love yourself and to help you think critically about the world around you. But, I am still allowed to be wrecked by the end of my day. I am allowed to scream about injustice and to rage about inequality and abuse. And, I should be supported in having a glass of wine and talking about my outrageously difficult day–otherwise, I won’t survive it. It will gnaw at my insides and empty me out until there is nothing left but a angry, hostile shell.

Every day we play: therapist, mommy, friend, coach, peace-maker, advocate, evaluator, motivator–and now I sound like a t-shirt slogan, but you get the idea. It’s a big job. It’s a hard job. It’s exhausting if you’re doing it well. And, all I’m asking is for a little understanding from the outside world. A little support for the ways in which I take care of myself and keep from burning out–discussing my feelings and the things/people that/who are stressing me out, dissecting reactions to particular interactions, breaking down my strengths and weaknesses, and yes, some plain old shit-talking with colleagues. Just like everyone else. Because we are teachers and leaders but we are also just humans. Working alongside other humans. Interacting and navigating the same air space.

11
Aug
2015

rainy days

categories: california, me, new york, teaching

I love them. So many people talk about how depressed they get when it rains. But, it just makes me feel content. Quiet, introverted. I want to curl up next to a crackling fireplace and read a book. A real book. With paper pages. Of course, on the East Coast you get rainy days even when it’s warm. Which is very different from how weather works on the West Coast. In California if it’s raining, it’s cold. There is no such thing as a warm, summer deluge. If it’s raining in the summer, El Nino is nigh.

Now, if you’re living in Portland and dealing with rain for 60% of the year I get being bummed seeing yet another gray day. But, I think growing up in a very dry place — where rain is celebrated and welcomed — really set the tone for my relationship with precipitation.

I’m not sure there is a better smell than rain. The scent that emanates from wet pavement after the first shower, it’s indescribable. The way arid, dusty soil soaks up the water, the honeyed steam, like a cloud of sweet smoke rising from the ground. The way the grass intensifies in color and in fragrance. The trees take on that earthy, mustiness. City or country, it’s magnificent.

I love going to the coast on gray days. Perhaps because most days on the Pacific Ocean are gray. We’re the only ones camping on Fire Island in October. Which is great for us. My ideal walk on the beach includes fog in the distance, rich, thick clouds over head and the smidgen of moisture in the air. A hot, sunny walk? Ugh, no thank you. I’m not really a lay-sprawled-on-a-towel to tan kind of gal, I guess. I mean, I think the cluster of freckles and a little bronzing of my face helps to conceal the dark under-eye areas — and the mess of wrinkles I’ve accumulated over the years — but mostly, I am not a tanner or a swimmer. I’m an appreciater. That’s a word, I swear.

I love teaching on rainy days. The kids come in soaked and jittery. We spend a little more time doing independent reading and a little more time on art projects those days. I play music and turn off the lights. We sit silently at the window to listen to the pitter-patter or more likely, the downpour outside. I giggle and make silly faces, I dance and sing and take it upon myself to be the sunshine. They moan and groan about not getting to go outside but then get really excited when they tell me about the movie they’re going to watch with their families when they get home. They sulk over being wet but then I watch them refuse the umbrella their adult has brought and jump into the nearest puddle, splashing and screaming, stomping their muddied boots, heads upward, catching water droplets in their mouths, palms open, stretched skyward, happy.

I think, even if it’s just secretly, everyone actually loves the rain. Or, at least, that’s what I’d like to believe.

07
Aug
2015

social expectations // past & present

categories: me, new york, teaching

I’m out in East Hampton teaching for two weeks. It’s a strange place. I haven’t spent a lot of time in communities like this. Seasonal. Divided. It must be very odd to be a full-time resident here. This insane influx of people and of money for three months out of the year. And then they’re gone. The shops close, the restaurants die down, the traffic (thankfully) subsides.

I went to Montauk once for spring break with a few of my college girlfriends. It was March in New York so, off-season. It was great. Gorgeous beaches that we enjoyed on overcast days in our hoodies. The ground was still covered in a light dusting of snow and there was only one open bar. The Point. I will never forget the morning after our shot-drinking, pool-playing night there. A dark blue Toyota truck rolled by us as we sauntered through the diner parking lot the next morning. “You girls were the hottest thing at The Point last night,” some mustachioed blonde said with what sounded like a southern twang. That was it. No hooting or hollering at us. No whistles or unwanted leering. Just a simple pronouncement and off they went.

The summer school crowd is made up of those who need remedial work in math or reading, students with special needs and English language learners. It’s a pretty wonderful group of kids.

Sitting inside, in an over-air conditioned classroom and looking out at the sunshine is pretty difficult. At lunch, we sit outside on the grass and play tag and hide-and-go-seek. We stare at the sky and pick up stray dandelions. We inspect nearby trees and wipe the oozing sap from craggy bark.

As I sat on our little peach blanket (which we started using at lunch because Kai was so genuinely terrified of bugs she couldn’t even set foot outside without screaming — a city girl if ever there was one) discussing for the third day in a row why a cereal bar is called a cereal bar despite bearing no resemblance to the breakfast food, I felt content. And, at ease. A feeling I rarely experience in the city. A sense of calm that is unattainable in a place like New York.

“Are you having a picnic?” a voice said from above us. It was a small, plump girl who looked to be about eight or nine years old. She had her long, brown hair pulled back into two low-hanging pigtails. She wore an ill-fitting pink, ruffled skirt and a too-tight white polo.

“Hello,” I said as I squinted into the sun to see her.

“Are you having a picnic?” she repeated.

“Carmina, you could say, ‘Hello. How are you?’ and then introduce yourself to them,” said her teacher coming up behind her.

“Hello. How are you? I’m Carmina,”

“Hi Carmina…”

“Are you having a picnic?!” she interrupted before I could introduce myself.

“Sort of. We’re all eating our lunch on this blanket in the grass. So, yeah. That’s pretty much a picnic,” I answered.

“You can ask, ‘Is it alright if I join you?'” her teacher prompted.

“Oh. Can I join you?” Carmina said as she plopped down on the blanket next to Kai.

“Sure. Please do,” I said with a smile. “Would you like some grapes? We’ve got plenty.”

“Yes,” she responded as her hand grabbed for a handful of green grapes which she quickly shoved into her mouth with a wide grin. “Mmmm.”

“Carmina, what grade are you going into next year?” I inquired.

“Um. I don’t know.”

“Fourth grade,” her teacher answered. “Carmina, you’re going into the fourth grade. Remember?”

“Oh yeah, fourth grade,” Carmina replied.

“Carmina, can you say ‘thank you’ for all the grapes? I’m sorry, is this okay? Is it okay that we’re crashing?” her teacher asked nervously.

“Of course!” I offered. “It’s wonderful to meet new people and make new friends.”

“Carmina, you could ask Kai what grade she’s going into next year. Or, what she’s doing this summer,” her teacher suggested.

Carmina obliged. She asked Kai a few questions. I asked Carmina a few about herself. Some of which she was able to answer, some of which confused her. We chatted while sitting in the warm sun, on the soft blanket protecting us from unwanted insect encounters and ate grapes.

It reminded me of so many encounters I’d had with my mom. She would approach groups of people and attempt to join their parties, sit at their tables, interject in their conversations. She had always been a social butterfly. Her habits were guiding her but her mind could not keep up. She would walk into these social situations and I would hold my breath. Never knowing what to expect. Would people see right away that she was a child? Would they be frustrated by her confused and confusing behaviors? Would they scoff? Would they say cruel things to her, or to me?

Mostly, people were absolutely lovely. Bringing me to tears with their empathy and compassion. Other times, I would end up running after my very perturbed and hurt mother because they hadn’t understood (or cared) that she was not functioning on an adult level.

I love working with children with special needs. I love working with older folks. I love babies and kids in general. It’s all the people in between who I find to be the most difficult.

31
Jul
2015

just a friendly conversation

categories: brooklyn, new york, teaching

“Aren’t you at all concerned with the way in which they handle behavioral issues? They’re quite strict. And, they believe in…consequences!” my mom-friend whispered to me in hushed tones. As though they were listening. As though she’d just divulged some terrible crime. She was fuming over an incident at the YMCA — where she paid a whole $87/month and had access to endless classes, lessons, activities and events for her and her family of four. The ballet instructor had reprimanded her daughter when she told another girl her twirl was wrong and her tutu was ugly.

“I’m…no. I’m not overly concerned with it,” I said, carefully weighing my words. Think. Think before you speak, I reminded myself. Your words have consequences. Your approach to teaching and learning are not the mainstream ideology of Park Slope-ians.

“I’m really sorry you had a bad experience there,” I said. That’s right, turn it around, I thought. “It’s really upsetting when things don’t go the way you expect them to,” I continued. Yes, this is good, I thought. Keep going in this direction. “You should raise your kid in whatever way feels right for you. However…I mean, well, she can’t be getting paid much,” I said. No. No, don’t do it, don’t go there. But it was too late. “We can’t exactly expect her to be up on all the latest parenting or behavioral management techniques. I mean, she’s a dancer. She’s not really a teacher by trade. She works at the Y, for god’s sake.”

“This is my daughter’s first experience with a teacher. I want it to be a positive one,” she said sharply. “This will lay the groundwork for how she views teachers for the rest of her life. If she doesn’t have a good experience now, she may never want to go to school.” She was mad. I could see it. She had expected me to get on board with her indignation. She had hoped for my support. She’s a teacher, I’m sure she’d thought. She’ll understand.

This was a regular occurrence in my profession. Parents expecting me to agree with their views on education. And, to agree with their parenting choices around education.

No, I do not think that one less-than-perfect experience when a kid is 4 will create lasting and irreversible trauma around schools and teachers. If you lose your temper once is your family doomed? That’s it, I’ve been fired as a mother because Zoe did not appreciate that I yelled at her.

No, I do not think that holding a child accountable for her actions and for how those actions effect those around her, is unjust and cruel. I think it’s going to make your kid a more empathetic and thoughtful human.

No, I don’t think that the first time she interacts with a “teacher” has to be perfect or else she will forever hate and distrust teachers. Was her first trip to the doctor perfect? How about the grocery store? Who is this delicate flower who may never want to talk to another teacher because she made her apologize to a kid who’s feelings she hurt? Who is this kid that you are raising who is incapable of resilience, perspective-taking, empathy? Are you not concerned by this?

One single teacher cannot be everything to everyone. Your perfect teacher is not Madison’s mommy’s perfect teacher. Or Elijah’s two dads’ perfect teacher. It’s not Procopio’s family’s version of perfect. It’s just yours. Model who you want your child to be. Let teachers teach and be who they are. They are working hard to meet the needs of all 28 students in their classroom. Don’t make them work even harder to meet your needs too. It’s not part of their job description.

I’m not in the business of judging other parents. We’re all doing our best. We’re all doing what we think is right. I could sure as hell be doing a lot more a lot better.

I will say, though, that I am a huge fan of public schools. And, of letting kids figure shit out. At school, at home, on the playground. School does not make kids smart. Not by itself. School doesn’t fix societies wrongs or teach kids about being compassionate citizens of the world. So much of this stuff is done at home. Modeled by families. Okay, yes, some of it is done in school. Of course. But, you get my point.

Do I want my kid to have a good experience in school? Of course. Do I want her to like her teachers? Yes. Do I want her to be inspired to learn and question and think critically? You see where I’m going with this. But, people take it too far. School is supposed to be everything for a child. Their family, their support system, their counselor, their savior. It starts to feel like no one is holding families accountable for anything. I can say from my experience as a teacher…in many ways you feel helpless and powerless. You can only instill so much. Kids go home at the end of every day and every weekend and all summer. So much of the good that gets done in a day is undone by the time the following morning bell rings.

For that reason and many more, I choose to prioritize my daughter’s life experiences. As a whole. Not just her school experience. You will not find me fighting to get her into the classroom of “the best teacher” at her school. Here’s why: It’s ok for kids to have bad teachers. It’s not ideal. But, it’s okay. By “bad” I mean not the teacher YOU have decided is the ideal teacher. For some, that’s a strict, curriculum-focused, data-driven, serious person. For others, it’s an artistic, fun, funny, rule-bending, process-over-product person. There are so many different types of teachers…it’s almost as if they’re just regular humans like you and me.

The occasional crap teacher is good practice. An adult with a different approach to the world than myself? Great. A person who forces my kid to be adaptable and flexible and to modify her behavior to fit different expectations. I’m in. I mean, if a teacher is a bad human and saying hurtful things or teaching inaccurate facts and sitting on his ass all day or bullying kids, well, I’ll kill a fucker. But, a teacher who doesn’t see the world as I do? That’s great for my kid. She won’t be traumatized because someone holds her to different standards than I do.

“We’re just in daycare,” I’d said to a woman on the playground one evening after work.

“Oh, us too,” she responded “What’s up with those crazy parents who are obsessing over pre-k and, like, worrying about where their 2-year-olds are going to school? Jesus, I’m just happy if they’re feeding her and keeping her alive and you know, happy most of the time.”

“Yes!” I said. A bit too loudly and emphatically. This was someone I could be friends with. No one makes new friends in their thirties but this will be my exception. She’s smart, she’s got a kid my daughter’s age, she’s gorgeous and funny. It’s a freakin’ soulmate-friend situation. “It’s insane to be consumed with the education of a 3-year-old. Paint, dirt, water, some books. Social skills. Right? That’s where it’s at. Turn-taking, sharing, reacting without frustration…” I could see my new bestie losing interest. What had I said wrong? It was going so well. “I mean, right?” I sort of half laughed and half stuttered.

“Two-year-olds are one thing. But, we’ve got Mira on the waitlist for a great 3’s program in Tribeca. It’s supposed to be the best in the city. And, anyone who goes there is guaranteed a K spot in their sister school, and an elementary spot in the parent school. Which means, she’ll end up in their cousin school for middle school and get into any college she wants.”

I kid you not. This was a real conversation. Except the sister/cousin/brother business. The schools had real names.

It was so outrageous, I honestly thought she was pulling my leg at first.

This is what I have learned about some people. Not all people but some of them. Some folks have this incredible ability to just believe whole-heartedly and without any doubts in their mind in whatever the latest trendy thing is. Parent trend, celebrity trend, education trend, fashion trend. They are all in. Until they’re out. And, then they are all out. And, they cannot even see that the views they held less than a month ago now completely contradict the ones they are currently holding. “We cannot wait to have a baby and change the world one person at a time.” Turns into, “Population control is real. This planet is overpopulated and we refuse to participate in the chaos.”

That one’s real too.

I wish I could be like that. I wish I could just believe in things. Just blindly and without all the questioning and wondering and the what if’s. How freeing it must be. How clear the world must seem. Everything in black and white all the time. I am always making things far more complicated than they need to be. Over-explaining and overthinking. What if I could just believe that I was right all the time? Those people must feel very powerful.

24
Jul
2015

children’s books

categories: parenting, teaching

I’m gonna go out on a limb here and say I hate Goodnight, Moon. I realize it’s an unpopular stance. I know it’s a classic. It’s gotta be the top-gifted childrens book of all time (we got at least five copies in the first year of our daughter’s life). But, why?! It’s so weird. And creepy. Who is that old lady whispering, “hush” anyhow? This post about the book completely slayed me.

Here are two similar books that I prefer: Buenas Noches, California & Time for Bed

I am always looking for children’s books with a diversity of characters (you know, not just white male leads) both because they better reflect the world we live in and because I have a daughter and I don’t want her reading books where the hero is always a boy.

That said, there are a lot of great books out there (not all of which meet the aforementioned criteria) but that have beautiful illustrations, important social/moral lessons and/or are fun and hilarious:

Don’t Let the Pigeon Drive the Bus & Knuffle Bunny by Mo Willems

Hilarious, great characters, fun pictures. The author lives in our neighborhood so it is particularly fun to walk around and find the various places pictured in the books.

Eloise by Kay Thompson

Excellent voice, wonderful vocabulary, silly. My daughter demands to stand on her head, like Eloise, after every read.

It’s Okay to be Different & The Peace Book by Todd Parr

Important messages about moral and ethical responsibility and acceptance of all people.

Iggy Peck, Architect & Rosie Revere, Engineer by Andrea Beaty

Kids being intelligent and creative in ways that are not typically written about. It’s fun, it’s witty and it rhymes. Iggy Peck has a slightly better story arc but Rosie has better rhymes and a girl lead to boot.

Oh, the Places You’ll Go & The Lorax by Dr. Seuss

There are a ton of Seuss books that my daughter loves to read. The Foot book, Oh, the Thinks you can Think, Hop on Pop, Oh, Say can you Say. But, these two have great messages. One about adventuring and exploration. The other about sustainability and the importance of respecting our environment.

Sheila Rae the Brave & Chrysanthemum by Kevin Henkes

Great female leads. One is about a girl who learns that bravery can mean many things and that fear can find it’s way into one’s life no matter how brave we feel. The other is about a girl dealing with bullying and learning to be proud of who she is regardless of what others think.

Swimmy be Leo Lionni

This one’s all about a fish who doesn’t fit in. He shows that being different is okay, great even.  He also proves that when communities unite they can face any enemy.

The Snowy Day by Ezra Jack Keats

Beautiful, lyrical. It’s got great imagery, fantastic illustrations and Peter, the lead character shows up in a ton of other fabulous books by the same author.

The Very Hungry Caterpillar & Brown Bear, Brown Bear, What do you See by Eric Carle

These ones are for young kids. Although, truthfully, I think we read both aloud when I taught first grade in Harlem. They’re great for pattern recognition and prediction. I love Eric Carle’s illustrations. The books are fun too but the illustrations are the real draw for me.

Thunder Cake & Thank You, Mr. Falker by Patricia Polacco

These are great books. They’re a bit more advanced than any of the other recommendations but they’re really wonderful and worth getting and putting in your library for future use if your kid is still young. Polaco is a truly beautiful writer. And, these books have wonderful lessons about bravery and love and about gratitude.

Wilfred Gordon McDonald Partridge by Mem Fox

Another incredibly beautifully written book. And, one that is also a bit more advanced than the others on the list. It’s a gorgeous story about friendship with some incredible descriptions of memory.

And, many more. But, these are some of my top faves.

22
Jul
2015

Life as a first grade teacher

categories: new york, teaching

“You should really wear makeup, Miss. My mama wears makeup and she’s real pretty. She don’t look like you.”

“Well, Xavier, women don’t actually have to wear makeup. It’s not a law. Not all women want to,” I explain. “It’s okay to make your own choices as a person.”

“But, you look tired. You look prettier if you put makeup on.”

“I appreciate your opinion, sweetie. But, it isn’t very nice to tell someone that they need to put makeup on to be pretty. I don’t tell you that you have to dress a certain way to look handsome. You look like a kind and intelligent human no matter what you’re wearing.”

“I got style, Miss.”

“You certainly do, Xavier. I agree. But, I would be able to notice your charm even if you didn’t have ‘style’ to speak of.”

“Dance skills too. You seen ’em. I can do all Michael Jackson’s moves.”

“Yes, I know you can,” I say.

“And, why you got boy hair? My mama says only boys have short hair,” he continues.

“Well, I can tell you that I do not identify as a boy. And, I have short hair. What do you make of that? We call that a conundrum.”

“I don’t know about no cone drum but you do look like a boy. I mean, you’re nice and all, and I know you a girl but you don’t look like no girl.”

“Hmmm, yes, well I can see why that might feel confusing for you.”

16
Jul
2015

merry, mary & marry

categories: new york, teaching

There was a time in New York City’s history when five-year-olds were not legally required to attend school. We’re not talking about 1950. Kindergarten was not mandatory in New York until 2012. Two thousand twelve! It’s crazy.

As a first grade teacher pre-2012, thems was dark times. Half my kids had gone to Kindergarten and knew the drill. Half were brand new to having a schedule and lining up and, you know, sitting still for extended periods of time.

It was a mad house.

I was teaching up in East Harlem at the time and doing a whole lot of small group, differentiated instruction to meet the myriad needs in my classroom.

Word study was a particularly fun (can you hear the sarcasm?) subject to teach. With a huge array of needs there was absolutely no room for whole-group instruction in this subject area.

Word study is exactly what it sounds like. It includes things like rhyming, word families, pattern recognition, phonetic principles, English language norms (the rules and the rules for breaking those rules), etcetera. It’s considered one of the five necessary components of reading readiness: phonics, phonemic awareness, vocabulary, fluency and comprehension.

I digress.

This was not meant to be a lecture on educational philosophy or a plug for my belief in whole language instruction or a history lesson on New York’s academic realities.

I just wanted to share a funny story.

It’s Saturday morning and I’m home with this giant teacher manual, planning out my groups and marking the pages I need to xerox when I come across what I am absolutely positive is a mistake.

“Honey, come here a sec,” I shout to my boyfriend who is preparing a modest breakfast of coffee and toast. Because we have spent every last bit of our combined income on this glorious one-bedroom in Queens.

“What’s up?” he asks.

“This is so weird. Say these three words for me.”

“Mary, merry and marry. Why?”

“Right,” I counter.

“Huh?”

“I just mean, yeah, you’re right. These words all sound exactly the same. Why would they all be in different categories?”

“What? I have no idea. Maybe it’s a mistake.”

“Must be,” I conclude. And so, I plan accordingly.

Monday rolls around and I’m checking in with my coteacher, explaining the work I’ve done and the curriculum I’ve laid out for my groups.

“Wait?! What is this?” she asks, looking fairly confused.

“Oh, there’s a mistake in the manual,” I explain. “It’s so weird. They put these three words in three different families. Why would they do that? They’re homophones. They should be in the same family.”

Danielle, my coteacher, is roaring with laughter.

“What. Is. So. Funny?” I ask, knowing I’m about to feel like a fool.

Now, Danielle is lovely. She’s an amazing teacher, she’s patient, kind, warm and brilliant. And, from Long Island.

“Those are not homophones, sweetie,” she says. Already I can feel my cheeks turning pink.

She proceeds to say each word aloud to me. I will do my best to convey their phonetic accuracy…

“May-ry, mah-ry, and merry. Subtle. But, totally different words. Like Kerry and Carrie,” she explains.

“What?! Those are different names? No. No!” I shout, exasperated and feeling very aware of my California-ness. “How long has this been going on?” I ask.

“Since forever, love.”

“Hmm. I don’t like it. Not one bit,” I say as I raise one eyebrow. “Just doesn’t feel right, ya know? I mean, this is just wrong. We can’t go around making all these tiny phonetic distinctions. It’s hard enough teaching this shit. Now we gotta convince these kids there are three marys? This is lunacy. I mean, I totally respect regional dialects and all. But, should we really be reinforcing this craziness?”

15
Jul
2015

thirty four is the new eight

categories: new york, teaching

I learn a lot about the world from my students.

Today, I’m taking fashion advice from my third grader. She came in with this backpack. And, I’m pretty sure it’s the coolest backpack ever made and obviously I have to have it.

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She says I can totally pull it off.