Buffy vs. Teaching

I’m afraid I’m an obsessive workaholic. I’m addicted to my job. It comes from doing a job I love and having no kids or a husband (thank god) at home to berate me for working late. Instead, the animals only stare silently as I wander through the door at half past eight on a school night. And where have you been, they ask me with their silent stares. I simply shake my head and dangle parsley before their twitching noses and all is forgiven. Or in the cats’ case, I simply scratch behind their ears and allow them to perch upon my head at night, purring into my ear. How simple and profound is the love of our pets…

And what on earth could you possibly find at the school to keep you busy until 8:30 at night, you might wonder. Well… you must first keep in mind that I, unlike legions of my fellow colleagues, refuse to carry work back and forth between the school and my home. I discovered early on that bringing work home would only ensure that most of it would not be completed by the following school day, which would result in many frantic, stress-filled hours that might have been avoided had I only stayed to complete my work the day before. Better instead to get it all done at school and then enjoy what free time I have left. I am quite simply much more productive in the school environment where I do not have access to my laptop writings, my fully stocked fridge, my favorite detective books through the ages (from Trixie Belden to Stephanie Plum to Eve Dallas), my Harry Potter collections in French, Spanish, Portuguese and Latin (in case I want to learn another language) or my extensive Buffy the Vampire Slayer seasons 1-7 DVD collection. You can see how distracting my house might be under these circumstances. Who wouldn’t want to watch the musical episode of Buffy for the 765th time rather than plan a lesson about polar bears for 2nd graders? Obviously, staying at the school is the best option for all concerned. Certainly, I’ve missed out on many wonderful opportunities to enrich my mind by singing along to Walk Through the Fire (”I touch the fire and it freezes me…”) but these are the sacrifices we make as teachers…

We turn our backs on the fire and we gather our courage and we continue to plan or grade or organize or whatever it is we do to make our days run smoothly in the classroom. And in our hearts, in those tiny moments when we realize this was a job well-done, we whisper our apologies to Joss Whedon and we promise to catch up on our Buffy watching during our summer hiatus when we will be experiencing the full onset of Buffy withdrawal… and of course, we will start and end with the greatest episode of all time… Once More With Feeling.

“Bunnies aren’t just cute like everybody supposes
They got them hoppy legs and twitchy little noses
And what’s with all the carrots?
What do they need such good eyesight for anyway?
Bunnies, bunnies
It must be bunnies”

(reprinted completely without permission, which is really shocking because teachers never break copyright laws, these quoted words are attributed here to Joss Whedon’s genius, may he bring us another amazing show to worship… soon!)

The Madhouse

Here's the thing about teaching. If you don't succumb to the madness, you might actually discover that teaching is one of those jobs that never gets old, never becomes the same day in and day out, never fails to challenge you and never fails to exhaust you to the very depths of your being.

Of course, if you do succumb to the madness, you will probably also discover that teaching is one of those jobs that never gets old blah-blah-blah.

But there's no difference between the two, you exclaim. Oh, but there is, I say, it's a miniscule, tiny, nuance that is easy to overlook, but it's there all the same. Ultimately, if you do not succumb to the madness, I daresay, one day in the not so distant future, you will find yourself racing around the building like a madman, tearing your hair out by its roots and shrieking in acronyms, "The MAP, no the DIBELS, no the DRA, on the PR form, the PR form, why don’t you understand what I’m saying???" On the other hand, if you do succumb to the madness, while you will undoubtedly still be shrieking and bald, you will probably also enjoy the journey into insanity a whole lot more.
So, my friends, welcome to the madhouse. Here's hoping you succumb and embrace the madness within!

Just Call Me a Boy

There seems to be a racial war that begins in elementary schools long before people even recognize that racial tension exists among children.  Often this tension begins with children simply repeating what they have heard adults say and then, over the years, as that tension grows, may end with an internalization of attitudes and belief structures we like to believe were eradicated decades ago.

There is in our country and thus in our schools a dichotomy of what it means to be an American.  We are divided into the privileged and the not:  into those who speak English and those who don’t, those who have parents and those who don’t, those who have money (and thus access to technology) and those who don't, those who have access to a quality education and those who don't, those who have a home and those who don’t.

Some of these issues are the planting of the seed that ultimately develops into a deeply-felt sense of racism and prejudice and injustice. 

There was a fight on the playground amongst the 4th graders the other day.  One child spoke a racial slur and another child retaliated with a punch.  The child who threw the punch was suspended for fighting and the child who spoke a racial slur was lectured.

Their teacher felt the situation had been poorly addressed by the building's administration.  How did suspending the child who had defended his entire race help resolve the situation?  As a result, she had a sit-down session with her entire class and discussed with them the unacceptability of using racial slurs in any circumstance. 

One student raised his hand and said, “yeah, but I don’t like it when they call me African-American either.”

His teacher asked, “Well, what do you want people to call you?”

“I just want them to call me a boy,” the ten-year-old replied.

How utterly and singularly profound.  Just call me a boy.

Skate City

Went skating this evening for the second time in my adulthood.  I think that brings me to perhaps a total of 5 times in my lifetime.  Needless to say, I am not very good at this whole skating thing.  I’m sure it has nothing to do with the fact that my sense of balance is never very good, even when not attempting to travel with wheels attached to my shoes.  Who came up with this bizarre pasttime anyway?

The truth is I had a great time.  Of course, I went skating with my nieces, which pretty much assured me of having a good time.  I adore them both and take great delight in spending time with them.  I should be grateful that neither of my nieces are experts in the skating rink either, and therefore do not leave me in their dust like many of the other munchkins on the rink’s floor.

T.S. in particular likes for me to skate with her.  So, over and over, we maneuvered our way around the rink, with the wall as our prop and savior.  A.J. had a bear in her arms for half the night, after receiving it from an older child who won it in a raffle and wished to pass it on.  Therefore she skated with one arm waving for balance and the other arm clutching that bear, as if the bear was her prop.  If I had had a stuffed bear at the skating rink, I think I would have wanted it strapped to my ass for additional padding (not that there’s not plenty of padding already there), but that’s just me.

At some point during the evening, I had to go to the restroom, so I left the two girls skating together (A.J. made a face at my command, but then appeared to have fun with her sister despite her reluctance — isn’t that the way of siblings everywhere?) and headed for the facilities.  I now believe that Skate City’s bathrooms were designed by some kind of torture enthusiast.  Upon entering the women’s restroom, I was appalled to realize there were no pads on the floor.  Of course, this realization came a little too late as I flew in the doorway, leaving the carpeted hallway behind and hurtling at breakneck speed across the tile floor toward a stall door.  All I could think is “god I hope no one’s in that stall, because I’m going to land in her lap!”

Luckily the stall was empty.  I slammed into the door and managed to catch myself on the top of the door, which was so short that I gave myself whiplash as my head bounced forward over the top of the stall door and back.  I think those stall doors were designed for midgets.  Did they not consider the fact that adults might also be idiot enough to don roller skates and come flying through their restroom doors?

After entering the stall, I was appalled to realize that the toilet was only about a foot off the ground. On roller skates, I somehow managed to lower myself four feet where I took care of business with my knees in my face (when my feet weren’t flying out from under me of course).  The worst part was trying to extricate myself and stand back up.  It required a sense of balance (see above), inhuman strength (not one of my assets) and wheelchair bars (which were not in evidence at all).  With my feet scrambling for purchase, I used the bottom of the stall to haul myself forward and up.  Thank god the restroom was empty and no one heard my growls and curses as I attempted to lift my carcass from that damn toilet.

Note to self:  NEVER ATTEMPT TO USE THE RESTROOM WHILE ON ROLLER SKATES AGAIN.

Truthfully, despite the crazy bathrooms, we had a great time, A.J., T.S. and I.  I'm looking forward to when my nephew C.S. is in kindergarten and can join us on these school-sponsored events. Yep, lots of fun flying into the walls with less-adventurous parents looking on.

When I asked T.S. whether her parents skated with her when they brought her to these things, she said no.  I asked why I had to skate then and she said, “because you’re a nice aunt.”  I guess I cannot ask for a better reason than that.  The things we do for love.

Playtime's over, folks

Today, for the first time this school year, I had the opportunity to play with my students.  Yes, that’s right.  I actually stopped teaching and we just had fun.  It was even sanctioned fun, so I couldn’t get in trouble for it!

The thing is, we’re an inner-city school, and more than that, we’re a Reading First inner-city school, which means that we got a big grant that requires a lot of hoop-jumping in an attempt to meet the combined requirements of the grant, the government and our school district.  The result this year has been an overscheduled nightmare of a day.

I can honestly say that the only time I see every single one of the 23 students who were assigned to my classroom is during the first 15 minutes of every school day.  From that moment on, small numbers of my students are being pulled from my classroom for reading interventions.
Despite their absence, I am expected to somehow manage to teach every child in my classroom the skills they need to arrive at grade-level outcomes by the end of the school year.  In order to accomplish this, every single moment spent in my classroom is accounted for.  There are no spare moments anywhere for frivolous activities that are not in some fashion attached to the achievement of a specific benchmark skill.

Remember those long-ago school days when a student came to school with cupcakes because it was their birthday?  Remember the building excitement as long-anticipated holiday celebrations approached?  Remember wearing costumes on Halloween?

Maybe celebrations still happen in more affluent neighborhoods.  I don’t know.  What I do know is that any children planning to bring a special birthday treat to my classroom had better plan on passing it out exactly one minute before the bells rings signaling the end of the day, because that’s the only minute I can give them.

We have standards to meet, people, benchmarks to teach, and children who must not be left behind. 
YOUR CHILD’S CUPCAKE COULD RESULT IN AN ENTIRE GENERATION’S FAILURE TO LEARN TO READ!!!!

Oh yeah, and remember those days when we had a morning recess and an afternoon recess?  My god, we had no idea how lucky we were.  TWO recesses in ONE day?  UNHEARD OF!
In my world, students get 15 minutes to eat, during which time, they are encouraged NOT to talk.  They then get their one recess of the day.  It’s an awesome opportunity for them to relax and talk and run and play (unless it’s bad weather of course, then they have to sit still and watch a cartoon in a tiny resource room, but let’s not talk about that).

Anyway, they get this recess every single day (aren’t they lucky) and it’s lasts an ENTIRE fifteen minutes.  (In case you’re wondering, they really are lucky because last year they only got ten minutes.)

During these fifteen minutes, my students get their only real opportunity to play, to relax, to take a desperately needed brain break.  I should add they do get “special” time each day — 50 minutes of art, library, music, P.E. or technology.  I suppose these times might be considered a break, but I have serious doubts, given there are benchmarks to meet in each of these areas as well.

In any case, I was asked to cover recess duty today, and as a result, had the opportunity to play and interact with my students in a completely stress-free and relaxing fashion for the first time since school began back in August.

As I watched the children running and playing and laughing, I had to wonder:  by the time these first and second graders reach middle school, will they even remember how to do any of this, how to play, how to kick balls, how to chase and play tag and jump rope and laugh with abandon?
Or instead, by that time, will we have smothered the laughter right out of them in our crazed obsession with benchmarks and indicators?  Will we have leeched their joy away in our reckless zeal to achieve the desired outcomes within an acceptable time frame, no matter the child’s background, learning style or life circumstances that brought him or her to our classroom’s doorstep?

The Nameless

I once wrote an essay I called “The Nameless”.  I wrote this essay as a senior attending The American University in Washington, D.C.  It was my answer to what I saw as a loss of my own humanity when facing the homeless on a daily basis.

In my essay, I wrote about some children I had seen on the streets panhandling with their mother in Washington, D.C.  I also wrote about a child I saw in Lisbon, Portugal, who was also homeless.  In my mind at the time, homelessness was a characteristic owned by adults.  These children I had seen were certainly extremely rare, particularly within the United States.

Today I know this is only a fantasy, one shared by most of the complacent population.  In fact, the fastest growing segment of homeless individuals in the United States today is that of families with children.  Approximately 1.3 million children are homeless today, and of those, approximately 500,000 are under the age of 5.  How is this possible?  How could we not know of such a severe problem?

Because we are lulled into believing that those who are homeless are the men and woman we see wandering the streets without a home.  We console ourselves with the thought that they are adults, in charge of their own fate and future.  If they wanted a home, surely they could manage it, we tell ourselves.  Most of them are probably alcoholics and drug addicts, we whisper in our mind, without ever admitting the darkness of our thoughts.

Is someone only considered homeless in our eyes when they are visibly living on the streets?  What of the millions in temporary shelters, sleeping on a neighbor’s or family member’s couch, rotating from home to home every few days to keep from becoming a burden to those they rely upon for a temporary roof over their head?

This issue is extremely important to me, as I have been working with the homeless children in my school district for the past year.  On Tuesday and Thursday evenings, from 5:00 to 7:30, we meet at a local elementary school and do all that we can to provide a small amount of stability in the most unstable of lives.  Our main focus is to provide academic support in the hopes that these children will stay in school, that they will be among the few who actually make it to graduation day.
Each and every one of the children I have met through this program breaks my heart; from the victims of domestic abuse to the African refugees who have memories of escaping into the brush to avoid guerilla warfare; from the victims of severe poverty to those of circumstance like fire or loss of a job.

These are the heroes in my world:  these children who somehow manage to bring me hope and joy, merely through their presence in my life and the demonstration of their will to survive.

The Eloquent Words of a Child

Every Friday afternoon, my students write a letter to a specific student in our class.  As far as my students are concerned, this special child of the week is chosen based on behavior and academic success.  Little do they know that every child on my list will eventually be chosen.

In any case, every Monday morning, before school begins, I collect these letters and staple them into a book for the child.  While arranging these letters, I often find myself amused by the things my students feel are especially important to share with their classmates.  Usually they are utterly random comments (”I like baseball.”) or questions (”Do you like macaroni and cheese?”)  Occasionally however, they are nothing short of unique.

This morning was a prime example.  I happened to notice one letter had not been signed.  As this letter was written in extremely precise handwriting that meandered down the page in an increasingly narrow triangle, it was not difficult to ascertain the author.  Shaking my head, I set it aside to remind the student to sign the letter, realizing I would have to wait until this had happened before stapling the pages together.  It was at this moment, as I was setting aside the letter, that a word upon this unsigned page caught my eye.  It was the word “squize.”

What on earth was a squize?  So of course I had to read what followed.  What followed was “your balls”.  Squize your balls?  This could not be good.

My eyes immediately jumped backward to the beginning of the sentence where I read:  “Be nice to me or I will squize your balls.”  Further down the page, the author continued to write “If you are nice to me, I will not squize your balls.”  I am sensing a theme here.

Did I happen to mention these were second graders?

Of course, at that point, I had to read the entire letter, which began with an eloquent statement of the recipient’s cuteness (”so cute, so cute”) and then a denial of being liked by that person (”I no you don like me, but I like you, so I don kare”) followed by the infamous “squizing”.

All I can say is THANK GOD I caught this BEFORE stapling the letter into a book and sending it home with my student to share with his parents and siblings and heaven knows who else.  

Is it winter break yet?