The World Begins in Middle School

The world begins in middle school.
All experiences for the first time,
Making friends and foes, learning to be cool,
Trying anything, waiting for our prime.

Questioning everything, knowing it all,
First kiss, first heartbreak, first taste of defeat
Learning to grow, to cheat, to think, to fall
Testing the limits and setting it straight.

New people, new problems, new perceptions
Temptations, motivations, relations
Unrivaled expectations, deceptions
Successes and joys, filled with frustrations.

Yet earning the grade, striving for success
Practice, practice, practice for our life’s test,
Where there’s nowhere to tattle or confess,
Where drama’s restrained and love is a pest.

Practice for life, obstacles are hurled,
Middle School’s practice for the world

Hold Out or Run Away?

I have wanted to be a teacher since the third grade.  I knew it from the start of Mrs. Coy’s lesson on fractions.  She pulled out a bag of oranges, and we had to divide them up for the class in equal parts.  This may also have been the only time I ever enjoyed math.

I should have seen the signs long before.  My mother told me I was insane to major in English because my only hope was teaching English.  I laughed at her because I had fooled her; I wanted to be an English teacher.

Of course, I wasn’t always sure I wanted to teach English.  When I was young, I wanted to inspire little minds.  It took about two years of practicums in first and second grade, and I knew I couldn’t handle it.  They were so touchy, and I found myself picking up a variety of messes, from wet pants to potting soil.  And the cutting and pasting and PAINT….no, I couldn’t do it.

When I discovered my love for the middle school rascal, I knew I had found my spot.  In middle school, the kids still are still pretty relaxed.  They are not afraid to be odd because they couldn’t help it if they tried.  My students start getting mature and serious about the last couple months of eighth grade.  At this point, they no longer think I am even a little funny or cool.  Regardless, I knew that I had the mind of a middle school student.

During my first years as a teacher, I was surprised, of course, by the multiple levels kids were achieving at in class.  My first assignment, although remote, I taught sixth, seventh, and eighth graders.  This was during my student teaching; it was a trying time for the school I chose.  The principal had recently left and was never replaced while I was there.  In addition, my mentor teacher switched jobs after the third week of school and left me to teach illegally alone.  I persevered and did the only thing that I could manage as a first month teacher; I taught the same thing to every class.  My sixth graders sometimes outperformed my eighth graders, and vice versa.  Still, I never even considered giving up, while the other adults seemed to be doing just that.   I should have accepted their rush to leave as a warning.  I didn’t; I was falling in love with my job choice.

Furthermore, I continued to be disillusioned in my first real position.  My principal was as crazy as I was.  Everyone worked late hours, and we all blended into each other’s social lives.  Because it was truly a neighborhood school, there were no buses.  Everyone walked to school.  Students never left.  Often I would have to beg for them to let me go home at five.  I always had two or three students there that wanted something to do.    I was hopelessly in love for sure.

I wanted to experience all the facets of teaching.  I wanted to teach diverse communities and learn every day. I wanted to save every struggling student.  I don’t know why I chose to return to my Mid-western hometown to teach.  Before I was looking into a classroom of a true blue melting pot, now I was looking into a class full of white kids.  The kids looked different, but it wasn’t really them that made it change my career choice.

I guess I should explain.  I did my student teaching through an exchange program.  Because of this, I spent my student teaching in the desert teaching on a reservation.  Yet, that wasn’t enough for me.  I didn’t want to go home after that experience, so I accepted a job in Los Angeles teaching at a school that was seventy percent Asian.  Between those two schools and seven years of experience, I probably had about twenty-thirty white students.  In the same amount of time in my Mid-western school, I have probably seen twenty-thirty students of any other race.  Surely after fourteen years of experiences, I can honestly say, the color of their skin doesn’t change much about the classroom.  MTV has a bigger affect on the changes in the students than race.  One noticeable difference in the Mid-west is that lower income families struggle more emotionally than the immigrant families of California. Ironically, in the Mid-west I have seen more drug use and unemployment than I ever did in Los Angeles.

The kids haven’t surprised me in my profession on either side of the country.  Even the parents haven’t surprised me really.  Yes, I have had multiple parents curse at me.  I have had parents swear their child would never do anything like that in public.  I have had parents that don’t participate at all and parents that can’t stay away from school.  On a positive note, I have seen more parents at school events  in the Mid-west.  However, I often noticed that Asian parents may be quiet on my side of the experience; they are very present in their child’s life.  In fact, I would say that my California parents were more eager to solve problems and issues on their own.  They did not need me to notice certain behaviors for them or offer solutions to obvious problems.  I don’t know how many times I am asked how parents can possibly get their kids to do homework or study in the Mid-west.  Uh duh, make them sit down and study in front of you.  Participate in your child’s life and school work?  School work in the Mid-west definitely plays second fiddle to sports and outside activities compared to California school. Still I love my job!

These issues have never really bothered me as a teacher.  Sure, I get frustrated or upset at the times, but I know these are just part of the job.  What I don’t understand about this job is the politics!  They put tears in my eyes and keep me on edge every moment of the day.

Why does the government think that they can cut resources and achieve better results?  The state is asking us to put every student on a computer at the exact same in school for a state test.  Sounds great!  We don’t have enough lab space for this.  The internet doesn’t even work well enough with six hundred computers sharing the same internet line.  Our school does get money for technology, but the middle grades are like the little sister in the family.  You get to share the high school’s hand-me-downs.  And you don’t get anything new for yourself.  My school actually gave the teachers laptops a couple years ago.  The teachers’ computers, of course, were handed down to the students.  Two years later, the district has not continued the upkeep of the laptops.  If they don’t work, then teachers are out of luck.  They don’t intend to fix them, and they don’t have an alternative solution at this time for your lack of computer. Our first real possession and they are not going to keep them working for us.

Why would the government want to over reward good school and punish poor school with less money?  The city that the school is located in can be very important.  If my school is in a good neighborhood, the parents are going to be a stronger present in their child’s lives.  The kids do better.  They have better values.  The state gives them more money because they perform better.  The lower income cities don’t have parents as an asset.  Their parents are working two jobs trying to keep it together.  Their parents are suffering from unemployment or drug abuse. The school is punished because their scores are low.  Shouldn’t we be trying to make those kids that have bad parents overcome their parents’ mistakes and be better adults? Sure, we can be selfish.  Let’s make the rich kids smarter.  Or we can make the poor kids be more successful, making cities even greater.  Our best teachers should be working at these poor schools.  At the rich schools, the parents can manage the kids.  In the poor schools, the kids need every ounce of love and attention they can find because when they go home they are just home alone or home with their four siblings.  Some of my students only eat at school; thank goodness we serve breakfast.   How can some of these students even show up for school with what they are dealing with at home?  Let alone take an hour long multiple choice test over the most uninteresting reading material ever to be found in the world.

Why does the government feel like teaching to a multiple choice/short answer test would be beneficial?   Where in life does your boss EVER ask you to sit down and take a multiple choice test?  When in life are you only given your brain to do a job?  When in life are you given a task with only one correct answer?  I can’t imagine training the future to think in this manner is going to help us achieve any fabulous future goals.  Unless of course, they plan to make a Nobel Peace Prize SAT exam version.

Why would anyone with a college degree have a competing salary with high school graduate?  Was my mom lying to me?  I always thought that if I went to college and got a degree, I would then make more money in my more meaningful job.  Meaningful evidently is code for stressful.  The janitor makes ten grand more than me; he doesn’t take his work home, needs no sense of urgency unless someone pukes during passing periods, and isn’t evaluated based on how much trash the kids put into or out of the proper receptacle bins.  I think I got a bad deal.  I work twenty hours at home each week.  I get ten grand less, and the MAN is still telling me I make too much.  How hard could it be to teach kids?  An administrator told me once in response to a student who wouldn’t turn in his homework, “Just make him do it.  You’re the adult.”  WTF?  Yes, my job IS that easy.  I give directions, and kids take notes over the directions, ask for help when they need it, and turn all their work in on time.  If my dumbass administrator in my same Hell doesn’t get it, how could some bald rich dude sixty miles away going to have a clue?  They probably had parents at their house.

Why doesn’t the government hold parents accountable?  This year alone I have had students in my class: lose a parent, catch a parent using drugs, find a parent abusing pain medication, bring a parent’s arrest report in the newspaper for a current event, got a call from a parent telling her to stay at a friend’s because she had a new out-of-town boyfriend, and probably a number of other things that thankfully they have not shared YET.  We have certain alienable rights as Americans.  We take a test to graduate from high school, to get a driver’s license; we have to be eighteen to vote and twenty-one to drink.  There is no test or age requirement for parenthood.  No one is held accountable as a parent.  Good parents are not rewarded.  Poor parents have no consequences.  If your child CANNOT pass state standardized test, you should not been given your tax deduction for your child!!!!  You are CLEARLY not doing what you are supposed to be doing as a parent, so why the fuck should you get a tax break for being a parent? You were NOT a parent that year.   Because that is what they are telling teachers everywhere, they will cut our salaries if our students cannot grow from year to year, no exceptions.  Each student that does not grow takes money away from the schools.  I only have these students one or two years of their lives, yet I am held accountable for their educational growth.  My livelihood is at stake.

Why would the government want to push good teachers out of the profession?  Who wants to be teacher if you can’t support yourself on teaching and still have a life of some kind? Who wants to be a teacher if you are stressed into depression?   I can’t even imagine what people with their own children face each day.  I just come home to me.  Even with my family close, I do not have responsibility to see them daily if I don’t choose to.  The profession continues to stack paperwork on top of paperwork to get and keep a teaching license.  For a forty grand a year job, in order to keep my license, I have to purchase six college credit hours every five years.  Or I can collect more paperwork proving the activities they made me do to earn enough points to then pay more money to continue teaching.  My mom is nurse; she does not have to do any unpaid professional development.  I would think the medical field would change more swiftly than education.  In most cases, they even make more money compared with the hours they work.

My Master’s Degree is a joke.  I would rather clean up vomit than work this hard with this much pressure for little gratitude from adults for an average amount of money.  Or would I?  This extra added pressure from the government has to go away at some point.  I loved loved loved my job a few years ago.  I love the kids now.  The parents are just plain entertaining because there is no use worrying about something you cannot change.  BUT the politics are killing it all.  Do I hold out or run away?

Sick of Being Sick

I haven’t submitted anything for awhile. Not because I haven’t had stories to tell, I always have stories, but because I can’t seem to tell the stories without incriminating myself.   I know I have freedom of speech, and really I am doing very little wrong since I never name names.  I don’t fear for my students.    People recall funny incidents about students all the time.  I always thought I was going to write a book that would highlight all the humorous episodes I have faced in my teaching career.  In fact, my hopes for this blog were just that.  Somehow, unfortunately, my blog has turned into a rant about my principal.  My life has turned my life into a rant about my principal.

The problem is the more I try to avoid this madness the more the infection spreads.  It has spread into my teaching obviously.  I  over analyze every single word and phrase I say in class.  In some ways it is good to always be looking for way to improve; it is just that the motivation is all wrong.  I actually believe I try to improve regularly anyway.  I guess I am self-motivated.

It has spread into my social and family life.  My mind upon returning from work is not able to relax.  My friends, educators and non, are tired of hearing my stories.  Most of them seem too bizarre to even be believable.  Of course, more bad days require me to restrain my anger even more for the other little things that happen in my life.

As this epidemic spreads, I feel reluctant to continue my blog as it is.  I fear that if that I attempt to force these feelings about my boss out of my blog, I have to change my topic…channel my energy in a more positive way.  I feel that it is time to take a new direction in my blog. I don’t want to continue to moan and groan about my boss.  I may still revisit the topic of school.  My students do surprise me still; I think I am just struggling so hard to be what someone, who I don’t respect or trust, wants me to be that I can’t seem to see all the beauty in teaching. She is quite literally strangling my love of teaching.

I have always wanted to be a teacher.  I will always be a teacher.  I want desperately to be a writer.  I can do both without committing emotional suicide.  I am just going to avoid my struggles with my boss for my own well-being. It will make me a better person or in infect me with the disease of all diseases.   Either way I plan to break free of the hold she seems to have over my life.

Bully in the Past

To choose to be a teacher isn’t so unique. Of course, I wanted to make a difference in someone’s life. I have always wanted to help change someone’s life for the better. I thought this was always my goal. Clearly it wasn’t.

To choose to be a teacher isn’t so unique just because I was picked on when I was in middle school and high school either. Upon moving to my uppity community in middle school, I found myself without friends, knowing only my little brother, and thirteen. I was a young teenager trying to fit in. Entering middle school alone is social suicide; the cliques were already full. Girls used to tease me about my “secret” crushes. The boys would taunt me with strange vocabulary words and make me guess their meanings; mostly the words were dirty words, or so they said they were, as they laughed at my stupidity. The stupidity really came from me because I still wanted to impress these people.

In seventh grade, walking down the hallway after school I was stopped by a particular boy. Even twenty years later, I can remember it clearly. He was probably flirting, but I couldn’t allow it. He wanted to flick my bra strap. I dodged his reaching arm and even participated in a small bout with him stumbling around the hall. I ended up kicking the boy in the shin. I loved him. I loved him even after I returned home later that evening as I pleaded with my mom to buy me a bra.

Needless to say, I didn’t win the boy over and I spent most of my middle school and high school career trying to impress boys with anything I could. Because of these “traumatic” teenage experiences, I don’t really remember many people from grade school. I have blocked them out of my mind.

Now with Facebook and an occasional return visit to my hometown, I have been contacted by a variety of old classmates. I wonder why they remember me so well. I wonder why they want to be my Facebook friend now when before they either used me for sexual conquests, or wouldn’t give me the time of day, or sadly, both. Even today, I still want to be their friends a little inside; I accept their friendship requests, and I pretend to recognize them when I cross paths with them. I can fake it for them, for me.

Recently some of my fellow band mates (marching band, not a lame garage rock band) posted some old photos from some band competitions. I flipped through the pictures laughing at my perm and trying to guess each person’s name when I realized that I was tagged as the wrong person. I don’t know why my feelings were hurt. I don’t remember even a quarter of the people I should. Why would it bother me for them to mark me as a color guard member rather than a band member? I decided to retag all my photos, so as to correct the person’s mistakes.

The next day I got a friend request from another person in the photo; obviously he saw my new tags when he explored the photos. It was a boy who grew up next to me, a few blocks down the road in the same neighborhood. I remember him quickly and immediately, and not because I thought he was cute or athletic in school. I remember him because he was someone we picked on in the neighborhood.

Just when I thought that I was the one who was tormented, I recalled my brother and I setting up elaborate haunted scenes in our backyard. See, this boy, in the eighties, was sure he was a Ghostbuster. (This is probably not a suggested practice for any seventh grader.) My brother knew this short little Indian boy liked me, too. My brother knew that the boy trusted me because I was his “friend” at school. With my brother and a few of his friends, we would lure the poor boy in the yard and taunt him with unrealistic ghosts. He was pretty gullible. One time I remember even being tried to a tree by a ghost. The boy always would come to my rescue. Another time we convinced him to search the shed only to lock him into it.

One afternoon he bought me a five pack of lifesavers for me and tried to get me to kiss him. I didn’t. I believe the incident ended with my sister and brother opening and closing the door in his face. Eventually he left, and we split the lifesavers. In retrospect, I don’t remember enjoying them.

I teased the boy in school. I used him for laughs with my girlfriends. Eventually some of the band girls actually influenced his sister against him. He would have given any of us a dollar or a homework assignment just for a little smile or a simple compliment. We made sure everyone treated him the same way.

I was a pretty big loser myself in middle school and high school. I knew and know how it feels to be picked on and used. Why did I do this to this poor boy? Why, of the very few things I remember about being a teenager, do I remember this so clearly?

Actually the adult boy still wanted to talk to me. Oddly, he didn’t remember much about me. He didn’t realize my picture was tagged incorrectly. He didn’t even remember I had a brother. Still, I nearly apologized for my rude immature behavior twice. I didn’t. I probably would feel better right now if I did. Even as he complained about how much he disliked living in that school district, I couldn’t take one for the team and apologize for my actions.

Now, as selfish as it is, I can only think about is what makes so many people remember me so well? The only reason why I remember this poor forsaken Ghostbuster is because I taunted him through school; I helped make middle school and the start of high school miserable for him. I picked on someone else just because people picked on me. Did I really even have this much power?

I have wanted to change someone’s life…make a difference. I could have done that twenty years ago. I could have stepped up and actually been his friend. I guess, in a way, I am a teacher because of this time in my life. I want to make students that were like me stronger, so they will be brave and stick up for others. I would like to make everyone more tolerable of one another. Is this even possible? I might be able to still change one person….

The Hardest Job in Whole World

Parenting has to be the hardest job in the whole world.  When I think I have it rough with my hundred plus teenagers, I thank my lucky stars that I don’t have to go home to more kids.  Call me insensitive, but really I don’t care.  Parenting is a job that keeps going long after a regular day of work is had.  I have the weekend off. I have nieces and nephews…I still get to go home to my quiet house.  It isn’t lonely.  It’s peaceful.  A parent’s job is never really done.  And the better the parent, the longer the sentence they received.  I see my parents multiple times through the week and still encourage my mother to fix dinner weekly.  Truly I believe that mother enjoys her children, but I know for a fact that I have made her cry once or twice for some stupid issues in high school.  I still never made my mother cry because of something I could control; she always cried for things that were impossible for me to take back.  Something I would gladly have done for her on the occasions she did cry.

There was a parent conference at school today.  These meetings are mostly called by the parents at the middle school level.  It would be nearly impossible to meet with every parent in a smaller parent-teacher conference.  This is actually a better solution to middle school problems.  The boy, his mother, his counselor, and his six teachers sit down and discuss what is good about the boy and what he needs to improve.

Personally I think, most general education students can handle middle school classes.  The classes are not that hard to pass, but it is true that some students have to work harder than others.  In the same way that one subject is harder than another.  In most cases, the conferences that I attend involve a student that has two distinct assets: caring parents (at least care enough to call a meeting) and the ability (but not yet the motivation) to fulfill their responsibility.  Vary rarely do I attend a conference where a student in truly incapable of doing the work.  In ten years of teaching, I have only requested tests for three or four students for special education.  It is middle school; hopefully, no one falls through the cracks that long.  It happens but not often.

Every parent makes mistakes.  Most parents care that their children succeed.  I know this to be true as I sit with this mother and her son.  She hears all of the teachers say how great her son is, but still he won’t do his work.  We offer solutions and guidance.  She has grounded him from everything for over a year.  He doesn’t care.  She insists she sees him sit in his room doing absolutely nothing.  The boy just sits in front of us all and stares at the floor.  I might actually believe he could perform an act such as nothing.

The boy leaves for a moment, and the mother tells us that he hasn’t seen his dad in over two years.  In fact, his dad called last week and asked for him to visit his home in Kentucky.  Of course, at the last minute, the father cancels.  The mother begins to weep.  I can only assume that this is something the boy is faced with often.

The boy returns.  We again help give him what his father has taken away from him.  We become after school buddies and promises ourselves to listen to his stories a little more.  The mother spends the rest of the meeting drying her eyes.

I don’t know how any child can sit apathetically as their mother cries.  I want to shake the kid and scream, “Look what you are doing to your mother!” Of course, I have seen worse than this mother.  I have seen other mothers sob or scream or make more excuse.  Can I stop her from crying?  We definitely tried; obviously we all care enough to be there for him.  The boy is offered opportunities to stay after school every day with a teacher, for help with homework and for attention.  We gave him second chances on assignments.  We offered all the help we could.  It won’t make a difference what we do if the student doesn’t do anything for himself.

It may be his father’s fault; he has definitely proved to be a rotten father.  It may be his mother’s fault; she might let the boy off the hook too often.  It may be the teacher’s fault; we don’t help enough, care enough, or reach him with our teaching style enough.  Or it may be the student’s fault; he is still the one passing state tests, reading for fun, and still not turning in his work.

Some parents care; some don’t care enough; others don’t care at all.  There is no winning for some kids.  Still the kids have to overcome odds and make themselves people.  How do I convince a thirteen year old that their lack of interest now will affect them in ten years? I only know the student for a year, maybe two; I can only do so much as a teacher.  Parents are responsible forever.  If the boy never gets motivated, he could be living with his mother when he is thirty or in jail.  The responsibility is too great.  Parenting is the hardest job in the whole world.

In the Swing of Things

My lessons are going incredibly well.  My 7th graders will be wowed tomorrow when I woo them with my summary of the story we read today.  I always get their attention with my performance.  It involves hand puppets and jumping around…pretty much looking silly for them.  Again, teenagers like me to look goofy.  Of course, teaching is a lot like performing.  I have compared it to being a comedian before.  Some days I have been booed figuratively, but so far I have had good reviews.  My 8th graders are extremely attentive for 8th graders.  Our difficult path will begin tomorrow when I make them actually write an essay about themselves.  I am going to let them challenge me to write an essay about anything.  I hope I can do it successfully.

Returning to my previous entry, I am still learning about my students.  My first class in the morning is slow at everything.  They are not stupid.  They just take too much time opening their books and getting out their belongings.  I have found myself asking them multiple times to do simple tasks.

The students that don’t do their homework are surfacing.  In the first week, everyone has high hopes for their grades.  I believe even previously failing students believe they can do the work in the first week. In many cases, this is totally true.  They simply get bored or discouraged so quickly.  I am sure I will have some parent phone calls  to make next week.

In my study hall, I found that one distracted student that prefers to stare into space…sadly staring right  in my direction every time  distracted.  I teased the student about it a bit.  In middle school, students are still learning how to “fake work.”  It takes a talented student to appear to be reading a book without actually reading.  How someone could be this lazy is beyond me, but lucky for me, in middle school, students that are off task look off task.

Teaching and learning about the students is the best part of my job.  The rest of my job really isn’t all that much fun.  The more comfortable I get as a teacher, the more frustrated I get with the other parts of my job.  I practiced my shopping skills today buying donuts, milk, and such for a meeting in the morning.  Obviously I had to prepare to lead the meeting too.  Carrying in all the food was the best part of the experience.  I have attempted to nail down an interview for a PR project I thought of for my committee work.  I am hoping that I will get my three tiny questions answered tomorrow.  I met with the union to discuss “an undiscussable matter.”  They pretended to fix the issues for the moment…hoping we will forget about them soon enough. Good thing we are too busy to put up much of a fight.  It can’t be won with just us; all we really have is to believe them.  Back to School Night came and went.  Shook a million hands and actually met a few babies.  As I continue to hunt down my principal to make plans for a field trip, I trudged on through the week. Faced with more paperwork as I sort through possible goals for the year.  The goals are not so hard; it is finding the right category to claim each of them.

Still the best weeks are when the kids are motivated and learning.  I plan to take full advantage of it.  Next week they could hate the lesson.  For now, I am the star of the room…just not in the halls when I am working on a million tasks at once.