Posts Tagged ‘teaching’

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

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.

on teaching & being human (a rant)

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.

rainy days

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.

merry, mary & marry

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?”

thirty four is the new eight

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.