teacher

Lucky Year Thirteen

I have never had a job for this long ever in my life.  I knew when I became a teacher it was bound to happen.  I am not the new teacher I see myself as, mainly because now I know too much.  I wish I could get that old new teacher feeling back.

I know how education changes with the government.  I know that we change the names of strategies and reuse them again years later.  I know that although we are always changing, teachers are stubborn, including me.  We all struggle with these untested strategies, one after another.  One year we care about reading, the next year bullying, the next math facts, and on and on; never focusing on one thing long enough to make any difference.

I do not have the sunny disposition I had when I walked into Room L thirteen years ago and started with only standards in hand and a hundred teenagers.  My college classes and my student teaching didn’t prepare me for the other things teaching involved. It did not prepare me for the politicians and parents and poor administrators and tattletale colleagues.  I never realized the teachers were as cliquey as the students.

I thought teaching was about inspiring the students and making them individuals. My job was to make them love reading and writing as much as I did and to prepare them to go on to high school and even college.  I am sure I did this for some, maybe not at all for others.  I hope I was able to balance all the crap from the really important part of teaching, the students.

Now I have students with spouses and children.  I have Princeton graduates and high school drop outs.  I would love to claim all their success and failures as my own, but I doubt I had that much of an impact.  What do I even remember about my middle school teachers?  I think I know all my teachers, but I know that some are forgotten.  After twelve years of students, I have over a thousand people in the world that know my name or have some memory of me, good or bad.

Of course, I want all the memories to be positive and happy with a rosy finish, but I know that it doesn’t matter.  If I made someone happy, I made someone else cringed.  If I inspired someone to use a little more effort, I made someone else feel trapped enough to cheat.  If I made someone laugh, I made someone cry, and I probably laughed about it later.

As a student, I was that crying girl at school dances.  I wanted everyone to be happy, but I never wanted to apply myself until I was in college.  Now I am teaching those kids like me that cry at the drop of a hat; those kids that want friends and laughs; those kids that struggle to put forth any more effort than to get their parents off their back.  I can’t imagine how hard this task is nowadays.  I only had to deal with the television and telephone as distractions.

Still, twelve years of teaching is a amazing feat.  I find myself reminiscing about the old days, the golden days.  The days when I thought I could make a difference.  When I thought I could change everyone for the better and couldn’t understand why veterans teachers had given in to the routine of education.  I know why teachers give up now.

This has been a thankless job.  It was a great job when I had few responsibilities and hours to hang out at the school.  Now, I feel like just being at school is like being in prison.  This person that I don’t trust is bossy around another person I don’t trust, and somewhere down the ladder they are grading me as a teacher.  Neither said persons having any teaching experience.  When I didn’t realize that politicians and media controlled education, I actually thought I had a chance to inspire people.

In reality, their futures are probably already mapped out for them by the time they are teenagers.  James was already destined after years of continued support from his family and values to go to Princeton.  Poor Lisa was doomed to teenage pregnancy regardless of her new love of reading.  It would only help her if she could find time to read as a fifteen-year-old mother.  Derek never needed English, even though I drove him up the wall for a year about homework.  He tattoos people now, and the protagonist of the Where the Red Fern Grows is no longer needed.

I have to look at teaching from a different perspective.  Government looks at my test scores and improvement.  I am not sure that matters really, expect for my job security.  I wish things were different.  I wish middle school was just that.  Practice for the being an adult in a place where students can make mistakes and learn from them before high school, when everything counts.  Middle school is a time for life skills like making deadlines and managing time.  My students have a difficult with managing family, school, and personal life all at once for the very first time.  All this on top of this ever-changing world of hormones and maturity and testing limits, middle school students have it rough.  It is basically a holding place for all kids.  We are waiting for them to mature enough to tackle high school.

In reality, elementary schools introduce everything over the course of six or seven years.  Then the middle school reinforces the same exact information in two years.  Notice students learn their states and capitals in fifth and eighth grade.  Students learn nouns and verbs starting in kindergarten; this doesn’t mean they know what they are in middle school.  High school is when the real separating begins.  Students are able to branch off into their different interests that obviously have been introduced in grade school.  Some students choose to continue on to college; others make other choices.  We need all the different jobs, so we can’t all end in the same place.  The state testing proves nothing really.  The real proof is the jobs filled.  It has little to do with the hours of summer work I put into my job.  It’s about making positive experiences to make positive independent adults, regardless of whether they become professors or waiters.

I hope that in the grand scheme of things I made a difference.  Yes, James went to Princeton.  He also was sure I hated him.  Perhaps I taught him to deal with difficult people or to stand up for himself.  And Lisa just needed someone to care for her.  Her mother, at only thirty-two, left her for foster care for her next boyfriend. Maybe my support for Lisa will make her a better mother or a high school graduate.  As for Derek, ironically he could tell you all about the Red Fern; it was probably one of his most memorable classroom experiences because his teacher (me) hogtied him to demonstrate what was done in the book.  Derek loved that day at school.  He was happy the rest of that week.  Maybe I gave him at least one fun experience from school.

I could go on and on.  Sure, I don’t remember every single student, but certain ones definitely stick out for me.   That isn’t the point though.  The point is that I have made impacts of all sizes and shines.  I have done something for the world, hopefully more good than evil.  The education system doesn’t reward teachers for all accomplishments.  I didn’t get extra money to challenge James to do more or to give an ear to Lisa’s problems.  Starting this year, lucky year thirteen, I could be graded on the fact that Lisa never read on grade level and never passed English.  I could be graded on James’s top scores preventing him from educational growth, or sadly, I could not even meet someone like James because I don’t have honor students.

Although a lot of things have changed since that first year of students, my philosophy hasn’t changed all that much.  I don’t spend as much time at school, but I am still there longer than most.  The kids, regardless of color, ethnicity, location, are always the same.  Some want attention.  Some want stardom.  Some want to disappear. Some want to just pass the class for once.  Some push themselves; others prefer me to push them.  Some who won’t do anything, others that never leave school.  The nerds, the preps, the jocks, the goth or emo or whatever….kids are the same underneath.  They need love and support and someone who will listen to their needs.  Sometimes those needs do not include memorizing the Gettysburg Address or math facts.

I may not make it in teaching, but I will know that when I taught, I did it with the students in mind.  I taught skills and life lessons over nouns, hyperboles, and foreshadowing.  Year twelve was the worst.  I have positive hopes for thirteen; I plan to go down with the ship, if needed.  I just know that as I go into this year being judge by thirty minute observations and test scores that this could be the end for me.  The teacher that wants to inspire could be killed by the teacher that has to teach test skills.  I will make the best of this year and the students that I meet.  I will continue to inspire until they throw me out of the school or begin to plan my daily lessons.  I won’t conform because although test scores can be important, the students are more important, and I will NEVER forget that.

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.

Patriot or Tory?

In an effort to teach across the curriculum, we are reading historical fiction in class.  The novel we are reading is My Brother Sam is Dead by James Lincoln and Christopher Collier.  It is basically a story of a family torn apart by the Revolutionary War.  It really is an excellent addition to the social studies unit on the same topic.  The book contains a lot of historical facts, death, conflict, debate, and bad words.  The perfect book for any teenager; the girls even enjoy it.

The cross curriculum project is so successful that one day, a student came into class and told me in a whine, “We are talking about the same thing in here as we are in Social Studies.  The Revolutionary War is everywhere.”  Like I acknowledge most obvious comments, I wrinkled my brow and said, “That was the point.”

When students fail a grade, they get to complete the grade again with all new teachers.  One purpose for this is because if the student didn’t learn from one teacher’s style one year, it isn’t going to happen in the second year.  Another reason for this is because if the teacher fought all year to get the student to work and never succeeded, then the teacher deserves a break.

We have been discussing the Revolutionary War for two weeks now.  Even the student repeating 8th grade is reading the novel for the first time because his first 8th grade teacher did not teach the novel.  Although this particular student has not finished the novel, he did “learn” about the Revolutionary War in social studies last year.

I started the class in an activity where the students analyze the two sides of war and decide whether they would like to be a Tory (colonists on the side of the British) or a Patriot (colonists on newly formed Americans).  I have them locate phrases in the novel and quote the book to prove what side they would prefer to be on.   Most students instantly choose to be Patriots for the simple reason that they know that they want to be on the winning side.

The class begins hunting for their proof through the novel, and I hear a few boys in serious debate.  I take note of them; not because I want to stop their discussion, but because I like that they get so passionate about the subject.  I giggle to myself thinking that I have fooled them into thinking learning was fun.  The creative teacher strikes again!

This is when I notice what the argument entails.  The boy, who is now in his second year of 8th grade, is debating with the other boys, insisting he wants to be a Tory.  The boys laugh at him and began to list all the reasons why he should switch sides.  The boy gets angry in the debate, probably because he realizes he doesn’t have any proof to back himself up. (Not because there isn’t any proof, just because he doesn’t know any of it.)  Finally, one of the other boys asks, “Don’t you want to win the war?”  Dead serious, the other boy replies, “I haven’t finished the book YET, how do you know who wins?”

The boys roar with laughter.  I am slightly amused, yet incredibly concerned.  How can someone sit through lesson after lesson and not understand that the Patriots have to win the war in order for us to be sitting here in the United States of America?

I just assumed kids failed the 8th grade from not turning in their work or studying for any test.    Apparently, he hasn’t be listening at all in class, and still isn’t listening as the lessons about our founding fathers repeat themselves in two classes.  Common sense is nowhere to be seen.  No teacher is going to entertain some students enough to reach every single one.

This is the future.  Is this the teachers’ fault for not clarifying that the Americans or Patriots do win the war?  Or is this the fault of the students for being in their own self-centered little world?  Surely, I have said at least a half dozen times that the Patriots, the Rebels, the minutemen are the Americans.

Some kids are so special that they will fight education with every ounce of passion in their body.  Is that passion?  Or stupidity?  The future is near and it isn’t all the bright or motivated.  Teachers can’t do it all.

Back to Busy

Just as I expected, I caught up and then was swamped.  Spending Labor Day grading essays made me neglect all my other responsibilities.  As I tried to catch up with my friends and family (thank gawd I don’t have my own children), I ordered supplies, started both grade levels on major projects, attempted to plan a field trip, made dance plans and continued to stock the concession stand.  I fought with another union member because a three day warning that I needed his initials on some paperwork wasn’t enough for him to check his mailing address.  I met with a parent after school, graded make up work before grades were due, adjusted grades to correct a technology error by the new grading program, submitted reading goals and grades, double checked grades over and over again, and went to a union meeting. All while the newspaper asked us our opinion on the President’s motivational speech.  Something I wanted to hear, but I never did make time for his uplifting words.  I lost a student to an angry parent who cursed the assistant principal for my giving the boy detention for not bringing his book to class for the second time in three weeks.  Still, I spent all day Thursday rushing to get my last twenty-two essays graded.  .  It was four days of non-stop work.

My family is neglected even though I saw them two days in my four day week of school.  Still it is a shock to their systems that I am not as readily available.  It is a shock to my system too.  I have been working without any ME time, too.  And right now, ME time is so far down on the list, it is bound to be pushed farther down the list as Monday peeks his ugly head around the corner.  This weekend alone, I struggled to clean my house, help out various friends with long overdue work, and caught up with friends on a camping trip.  My goal is not to make myself sick from overwork.

The FOURTH week of school and I am not back in my routine YET.  This is a tough start. Next week, I have big plans.  Our advertisements for Grandparent’s Day and the Dance will be put in place.  Our first volleyball game will mark the beginning of the concession session.  Student Council elections will take place on Thursday morning.  And I still get to teach five classes a day.   The 7th graders will be finishing their projects in the computer lab and will read a story.  The 8th graders will finally start their novels and take a poetry quiz.  This week is going to be 50% teaching and 50% odd jobs from hell.  Just when things seem overwhelming, I get five day to complete the work.  It may be breeze.  I am be pulling out my hair by Wednesday.

Nine percent done with the school year; midterm grades are here; and we are now on the downward slide of the first grading period.  It is proving to be so much work; I hardly have time to prove how much work being a teacher involves.  When you live your life in six week increments, time flies.

LET THE PARTY BEGIN…okay the week, but the positive thought can’t hurt.

Just when you catch up, you don’t

Teaching is filled with a million different jobs. I wish it were just teaching class and grading a few quizzes.  On top of these tasks, I have Student Council plans to make which includes a dance, stocking concessions, officer elections, candy gram planning and Grandparent’s Day. This is just the activities for September.

While I do this, I have to think about that one parent I have to call and the reading levels I have to send home.  This week I also sorted through about seventy parent email address.  I had to send an email and record who actually responded.  I also had to sort through the twenty email addresses that returned incorrect.  Are they incorrect?  Was it penmanship or my error in writing it down?  Is it just one of those addresses that gets blocked by the school’s system? Next week, I will have to contact all these people in some way.  If I don’t, I could have angry parents thinking I am ignoring them.

I also had union work that required a quick drive over to pick up materials.  Materials, I might add, that will sit on every union member’s counter for a few weeks before most of us will just pitch the crap.  Still, I got to drive across town and sort through all the members to find my members.   After my drive, I got to then pass at all the unwanted materials,  Next week, I will get to use one of my fifty minute prep period and get everyone’s John Hancock on another seemingly useless form.

I completed my goals also.  This was again proven a waste of time.  Although it took an hour spread out over seven school days to write the goals, it took my boss less than five minutes to read them in front of me and okay them without much more than a grunt. Now, I have three months to anticipate her spontaneous visit to my room.

I have been working on these current tasks for over a week, never finishing anything completely.  Today I actually finished a lot of them.  I felt a weight lift from my shoulders about lunch time.  I thought I was as caught up as I could be.  THEN my sixty plus 8th graders all turned in their 500 word essays.  In fact, almost every single student turned it in on time.  This was partially because of the threat of detentions, emails to counselors, and concerned parents that had to be involved thanks to more of my work.  What a reward!  I can’t wait!  Holiday Weekend, four school days before grades are due.  Lucky me!

Some days I go to school; it is a great time, the best work I have ever had the pleasure of doing.  Other days I go to work; this week with all these various tasks started and completed, I have been at work.  I hope I get to go to school next week. TGIF