"And it is all for just one kid."
I heard slightly different versions of that sentiment expressed for several weeks, and each time it made me pause. I never responded, though, mostly because I wasn't sure what I thought about the whole situation myself. I just knew that the implied frustration that we would go out of our way for "just one kid" had triggered some kind of visceral reaction and it wouldn't let me go.
In a way, our entire community, what we held to be true about our school, had been challenged. While the world was reading about and speculating about the transition of Bruce Jenner to Caitlyn Jenner, we had our own gender identity drama going on. Most of us were unaware of what was happening until our principal called us into his office, a grade level at a time, to inform us that a first-grader was adamant about wearing dresses to school. Then, we were handed a copy of board policy regarding discrimination and told that we would be alerted to when the student would be coming to school dressed in traditionally female attire.
I walked away from that meeting with more questions than answers. Board policy? How was that going to help this first grader deal with the questions and teasing that were bound to arise? How would that help my third graders to understand what was happening and help them to be supportive instead of cruel? It seemed unreal that this was occurring at our school. This was just something you read about, right? Even though we were later given some information from the Gender Spectrum website, we seemed so ill-equipped to handle what lay before us.
I'm not going to try to pretend that I understand gender dysphoria. I'm not sure anyone who hasn't experienced it possibly could. I did try. I tried to imagine what feelings you would have to lead you to the conclusion that you were living life as the wrong gender. How would you know? It was something that I just couldn't wrap my head around.
Ultimately, I decided I really didn't need to in order to understand and empathize with the situation that was unfolding at my school. Even though gender identity itself was something I had never had to deal with, there were some elements with which I could definitely identify. I began to consider the situation from this young boy's mother's point of view and thought about how difficult it must be to think of sending her child to school to face the inevitable teasing, ostracizing, and worse. As a mother, I know that you worry about your child even under the best of circumstances. My own child has had problems at times resulting from an overly sensitive disposition, and I live in fear of him suffering the consequences of openly displaying his feelings in public. The day he told me that he had no one to play with at school broke my heart. More than anything, mothers want their children to be happy and to be spared any pain, even though we know that isn't really possible. Every child will need to learn to deal with heartache and disappointment. But how much greater must it be for someone who stands out so far from the norm? My heart ached for his mom knowing what they all were up against and how cruel people can be. I also thought what a brave and supportive mother she must be to seek answers to her questions and to be willing to do what was best for her child.
I thought, too, of this young boy willing to risk so much in order to be who he believes in his heart he is. I know many have criticized those who have called Caitlyn Jenner brave for her transition, but really, how many of us would be willing to risk everything to show our true selves to the world? Do we not construct facades to protect that true, vulnerable self from the masses? How much of ourselves do we hide on a daily basis, saving those pieces of ourselves for only the chosen few? How much do we refuse to acknowledge even to ourselves? And yet here was a child believing so strongly in something, he was willing to take an enormous risk. That sounds pretty brave to me.
Finally, I came back to the sentiment of "just one kid." Yes, we were spending valuable time, time which we have way too little of, to focus on just this one kid. But that is what makes teaching such a difficult, and ultimately rewarding, job. That is our purpose. To be there for just one kid. For every "one kid" that walks through our door. We get lucky sometimes, and the things we do meet the needs of many of those kids at once. But each child needs and deserves something special from us. The bonus of this situation is, if we do it right, we really haven't spent all that time and energy for "just one kid." We will be teaching all our students about acceptance and kindness and diversity and the importance of judging people not by what they see on the outside but by what resides in the heart of each individual. We will be teaching them to not act out in fear of that which they do not understand but to seek understanding and compassion instead. If we do it right, we will be one step closer to making our world a much better place.
Tuesday, June 23, 2015
Monday, May 25, 2015
Let Them Read
Saturday afternoons you can often find me and my two sons at the public library. This past Saturday was no exception. After dropping our books and videos in the return slot outside, we headed through the doors to once again fill our bag to overflowing. Jared immediately took off on his own, heading to the teen section, while Jack and I moved in silent synchronicity to the new books section. Jack scanned the shelves quickly, deposited Food Trucks! in the bag, and, as I continued to browse at a decidedly slower pace, promptly disappeared. I wasn't worried. I had a fairly good idea of where he had gone. Sure enough, he reappeared moments later, accompanied by Captain Underpants, which he proudly held out for my inspection.
"Is this one that you haven't read before?" I asked.
"No, I've read it. But not for a long time." And with that, he was gone again, seeking out a quiet corner with a comfortable chair in which he could get lost in the comic misadventures of George and Harold.
I know there are some parents who turn up their noses when they hear the name Captain Underpants. They probably would be equally appalled at the Babymouse books that also found their way into our bag on the way to the check-out counter. Personally, I think they're missing the point of children's books.
Not too long ago I was sitting in a meeting with some parents regarding their son's behavior when the step-dad suddenly asked what books their son shouldn't read. Yes, you read that correctly. He wasn't interested in knowing what books I would recommend next for their Percy Jackson-reading son, but which books I would ban. I was stunned. In 20 years, no one had ever asked me that particular question before. He went on to give SpongeBob SquarePants as an example of the type of material he felt was inappropriate. I didn't mention that we have a few SpongeBob books floating around our house. Fortunately, I was saved from having to respond by the mother who stated that they were perfectly capable of making those types of decisions themselves. It wasn't too long after this that I saw a tweet from John Schumacher (@mrschureads) in which he shared witnessing a parent at a bookstore telling their child to get a "real" book when they selected a graphic novel. And while incidents such as these make my heart hurt, I get it. I was almost one of those parents myself.
My book snobbery actually predates my becoming a parent. I remember as a new teacher declaring my distaste for Goosebumps books. I found the plots simplistic and the writing even more so. The excessive use of one sentence paragraphs drove me crazy. This was not the quality of writing I wanted my students experiencing. Of course, it was exactly what my students wanted to read. In my defense, I was new to the profession, knew very little of actual children, and had spent four years in college reading and analyzing classic literature. It didn't occur to me that simple plots and short, simple paragraphs might have been just what my students, many of whom were ELL, needed. Sadly, I was still years away from understanding the importance of interest and motivation in the development of readers.
Some years later I was forced to confront my book snobbery with my firstborn son. Somewhere along the way he developed a love of anime. When he discovered manga at the library (I'll confess right now that he was the one to teach me the difference between anime and manga), there was no stopping him. Okay, I guess I could have stopped him. I honestly couldn't see the appeal. For one thing, they begin at the back of the book. I have to admit, too, that I was never one to read comic books as a kid, and the format is one of visual overload for me. Give me words and I will create my own visuals, thank you. So, like I said, I could have told my son he couldn't read those, that he needed to check out "real" books. But something stopped me. Now I am so glad I didn't deny him his choice of book.
Since those days of manga, graphic novels have become increasingly popular. Being a third grade teacher, I realized that I should at least familiarize myself with them. The first graphic novel I read was Giants Beware by Jorge Aguirre and Rafael Rosado. Much to my surprise, I really enjoyed it. It had a story I could follow and understand, and the illustrations enhanced the plot rather than overtook it. In fact, it had all the elements of a "real" book! Next, I read Lunch Lady and the Cyborg Substitute by Jarrett Krosoczka. I loved it! Even more importantly, I immediately thought of a student in my class at the time. He loved superheroes, but he was a struggling reader who would do whatever he could to avoid reading. I brought the book in to school and handed it to him, telling him I thought he might enjoy it. I can't tell you how many times he read that book. The only way I could get him to give it up was to bring in more books in the series. I even convinced our school librarian to order them. It was the perfect fit for him. It had the superheroes he loved and illustrations to support his comprehension when he struggled to decode the words. I realized what was visual overload for me was visual support for my struggling readers. It occurred to me, as well, that while I may form pictures in my head as I read, not all students do. Graphic novels fill that gap and perhaps provide a model for creating visuals to go along with text.
Undeniably, we live in a time of standards, of pushing kids to read more "rigorous" text, to analyze those texts, and dissect them to examine their most basic parts. There is definitely a time and a place for that. However, we run the risk of turning kids off even more to reading if our emphasis is solely on rigor and analysis. We must first show our students the inherent pleasure in reading. Analysis can be interesting, but only to someone who has already discovered the magic of reading. Otherwise, it is simply more drudgery to be endured and makes reading just another unpleasant task that is foisted on our students. I have been a reader all my life, which is why I decided on majoring in English when I went to college. I have to say, though, four years of being told what to read and what to think about those books, was a turn-off even for me. There was a time after I graduated that I didn't read much. Books simply had lost their appeal.
Perhaps that is why I am so passionate about letting students have choice in what they read. Yes, some books are silly and don't require any deep thinking, but so what? If a child enjoys them, he should be able to read them. Those books teach children that reading is a pleasurable endeavor. He is also still developing fluency, vocabulary, and comprehension skills along the way. (You don't have to tell him that, though.) After all, no one ever said that you can't laugh and learn at the same time.
I think one of my biggest fears when my older son was younger was that he would always read the same type of books. I realize now, of course, that that was utter nonsense. I have since watched Jared devour series after series of books, moving naturally along an invisible continuum as his tastes have changed and matured. Sure, he still occasionally reads manga, but it is only a part of a well-rounded reading diet. A diet that he has developed for himself. I can see Jack following in his footsteps, trying out different genres and formats, finding the ones that he enjoys most and devouring them. Both of my sons love to read and can often be found with book in hand when we are in the car or waiting for some event to start. They are fluent readers, have a rich vocabulary, and do well in school. I can't help but view this as evidence that allowing children to read what interests them rather than restricting them to what we perceive to be "real" books provides a long-lasting benefit. Just the other night, Jack asked for some paper so he could write a comic book. What? My son voluntarily writing? He then informed me that he had been writing comics in his writing journal at school. When I thought about what he had been reading, a steady stream of Babymouse and Captain Underpants, it all made sense. Those books had made it possible for him to see himself as being able to create his own comics, envisioning himself and his friends as superheroes who save the day. Not only had they fed his imagination, they had bolstered his confidence. Now, not only is he reading, but he is writing, too. That seems like a real win to me.
So, parents and teachers, let them read. Let them choose the books they want to read. Let them feed their imaginations. Let them laugh and be silly. Let them discover the joy and magic of reading.
"Is this one that you haven't read before?" I asked.
"No, I've read it. But not for a long time." And with that, he was gone again, seeking out a quiet corner with a comfortable chair in which he could get lost in the comic misadventures of George and Harold.
I know there are some parents who turn up their noses when they hear the name Captain Underpants. They probably would be equally appalled at the Babymouse books that also found their way into our bag on the way to the check-out counter. Personally, I think they're missing the point of children's books.
Not too long ago I was sitting in a meeting with some parents regarding their son's behavior when the step-dad suddenly asked what books their son shouldn't read. Yes, you read that correctly. He wasn't interested in knowing what books I would recommend next for their Percy Jackson-reading son, but which books I would ban. I was stunned. In 20 years, no one had ever asked me that particular question before. He went on to give SpongeBob SquarePants as an example of the type of material he felt was inappropriate. I didn't mention that we have a few SpongeBob books floating around our house. Fortunately, I was saved from having to respond by the mother who stated that they were perfectly capable of making those types of decisions themselves. It wasn't too long after this that I saw a tweet from John Schumacher (@mrschureads) in which he shared witnessing a parent at a bookstore telling their child to get a "real" book when they selected a graphic novel. And while incidents such as these make my heart hurt, I get it. I was almost one of those parents myself.
My book snobbery actually predates my becoming a parent. I remember as a new teacher declaring my distaste for Goosebumps books. I found the plots simplistic and the writing even more so. The excessive use of one sentence paragraphs drove me crazy. This was not the quality of writing I wanted my students experiencing. Of course, it was exactly what my students wanted to read. In my defense, I was new to the profession, knew very little of actual children, and had spent four years in college reading and analyzing classic literature. It didn't occur to me that simple plots and short, simple paragraphs might have been just what my students, many of whom were ELL, needed. Sadly, I was still years away from understanding the importance of interest and motivation in the development of readers.
Some years later I was forced to confront my book snobbery with my firstborn son. Somewhere along the way he developed a love of anime. When he discovered manga at the library (I'll confess right now that he was the one to teach me the difference between anime and manga), there was no stopping him. Okay, I guess I could have stopped him. I honestly couldn't see the appeal. For one thing, they begin at the back of the book. I have to admit, too, that I was never one to read comic books as a kid, and the format is one of visual overload for me. Give me words and I will create my own visuals, thank you. So, like I said, I could have told my son he couldn't read those, that he needed to check out "real" books. But something stopped me. Now I am so glad I didn't deny him his choice of book.
Since those days of manga, graphic novels have become increasingly popular. Being a third grade teacher, I realized that I should at least familiarize myself with them. The first graphic novel I read was Giants Beware by Jorge Aguirre and Rafael Rosado. Much to my surprise, I really enjoyed it. It had a story I could follow and understand, and the illustrations enhanced the plot rather than overtook it. In fact, it had all the elements of a "real" book! Next, I read Lunch Lady and the Cyborg Substitute by Jarrett Krosoczka. I loved it! Even more importantly, I immediately thought of a student in my class at the time. He loved superheroes, but he was a struggling reader who would do whatever he could to avoid reading. I brought the book in to school and handed it to him, telling him I thought he might enjoy it. I can't tell you how many times he read that book. The only way I could get him to give it up was to bring in more books in the series. I even convinced our school librarian to order them. It was the perfect fit for him. It had the superheroes he loved and illustrations to support his comprehension when he struggled to decode the words. I realized what was visual overload for me was visual support for my struggling readers. It occurred to me, as well, that while I may form pictures in my head as I read, not all students do. Graphic novels fill that gap and perhaps provide a model for creating visuals to go along with text.
Undeniably, we live in a time of standards, of pushing kids to read more "rigorous" text, to analyze those texts, and dissect them to examine their most basic parts. There is definitely a time and a place for that. However, we run the risk of turning kids off even more to reading if our emphasis is solely on rigor and analysis. We must first show our students the inherent pleasure in reading. Analysis can be interesting, but only to someone who has already discovered the magic of reading. Otherwise, it is simply more drudgery to be endured and makes reading just another unpleasant task that is foisted on our students. I have been a reader all my life, which is why I decided on majoring in English when I went to college. I have to say, though, four years of being told what to read and what to think about those books, was a turn-off even for me. There was a time after I graduated that I didn't read much. Books simply had lost their appeal.
Perhaps that is why I am so passionate about letting students have choice in what they read. Yes, some books are silly and don't require any deep thinking, but so what? If a child enjoys them, he should be able to read them. Those books teach children that reading is a pleasurable endeavor. He is also still developing fluency, vocabulary, and comprehension skills along the way. (You don't have to tell him that, though.) After all, no one ever said that you can't laugh and learn at the same time.
I think one of my biggest fears when my older son was younger was that he would always read the same type of books. I realize now, of course, that that was utter nonsense. I have since watched Jared devour series after series of books, moving naturally along an invisible continuum as his tastes have changed and matured. Sure, he still occasionally reads manga, but it is only a part of a well-rounded reading diet. A diet that he has developed for himself. I can see Jack following in his footsteps, trying out different genres and formats, finding the ones that he enjoys most and devouring them. Both of my sons love to read and can often be found with book in hand when we are in the car or waiting for some event to start. They are fluent readers, have a rich vocabulary, and do well in school. I can't help but view this as evidence that allowing children to read what interests them rather than restricting them to what we perceive to be "real" books provides a long-lasting benefit. Just the other night, Jack asked for some paper so he could write a comic book. What? My son voluntarily writing? He then informed me that he had been writing comics in his writing journal at school. When I thought about what he had been reading, a steady stream of Babymouse and Captain Underpants, it all made sense. Those books had made it possible for him to see himself as being able to create his own comics, envisioning himself and his friends as superheroes who save the day. Not only had they fed his imagination, they had bolstered his confidence. Now, not only is he reading, but he is writing, too. That seems like a real win to me.
So, parents and teachers, let them read. Let them choose the books they want to read. Let them feed their imaginations. Let them laugh and be silly. Let them discover the joy and magic of reading.
Tuesday, April 28, 2015
Island of Grief
April 20th marked 88 years since my father was born. It also marked the first time that he was not here to celebrate the occasion. I thought I was doing pretty okay that day, getting ready for work, driving kids to school, and doing all the normal things I do without feeling weighed down with sadness and a sense of loss. I was doing okay, until halfway to work the image floated through my mind of my mom waking up in the morning without him. On his birthday. And that struck me as impossibly sad. Tears filled my eyes and spilled over as I continued on my way to work, all the while willing myself to get it together. I hastily wiped at my eyes before exiting the car, thankful for the dark glasses that would hide the tell-tale trail of mascara.I wasn't prepared for the fact that grief is so unpredictable. It wasn't just sadness, and it wasn't linear. Somehow I'd thought that the first days would be the worst and then it would get steadily better - like getting over the flu. That's not how it was.
Meghan O'Rourke
The quote by Meghan O'Rourke seems to fit so perfectly what I have experienced over the last nine months. No, grief is certainly not linear. It may move in a generally forward direction, but only because that's where time is going and time drags everything and everyone along for the ride. Instead, grief performs an erratic dance; it swirls and leaps and just when you think you've made it to someplace smooth and steady, it suddenly loops back to where it was in the beginning. Unpredictable indeed.
People talk about the stages of grief, and there probably are identifiable stages, I am sure I have experienced them all, but they don't neatly line up and usher you from one to the next until you arrive --ta da!-- at the finish line all completely healed and whole again. One day--one minute--you're fine and the next you are wiping tears from your eyes because some song or some object or just some random thought mercilessly punched you in the gut once again.
Unless you've been through it, it's hard to understand. And even if you have, there is a hesitation to acknowledge grief past a certain point. Beyond the initial expressions of condolences, no one really wants to talk about it. Maybe it's part superstition. Maybe it's truly a desire to not want to bring up the hurt in the one who is grieving. (As if we had forgotten all about it.) Maybe it's just a matter of not knowing what to say. The end result, though, is that you become isolated on a deserted island of grief. You don't dare say anything either, even writing about it is risky, because you figure everyone expects you to be done grieving. You've had enough time; get over it and move on. But that's not how it is.
After my brief meltdown in the car, I made it through the rest of my day just fine, no more morose thoughts to lead me astray. I taught my lessons, talked to my students and fellow teachers, and did everything as I normally do. When I came home I did something else I always do; I grabbed my iPad and hopped on social media to see what exciting things had been going on in other people's worlds. Scattered throughout my Facebook feed I found a few posts that could best be described as heartwarming. They were from members of my family. To my dad. Wishing him a happy birthday.
Now, I know there are people who think that sort of thing is weird if not just plain crazy. A few months ago I was listening to the radio when a couple of radio talk-show hosts went on and on about how stupid it was when people posted as if the person was still alive. I naturally would have to disagree. It wasn't crazy. It was beautiful. The messages we all left said virtually the same thing. We love him and think of him everyday. Although separated by miles, there on my dad's Facebook timeline, we gathered together to share our grief and our love and our gratitude for all that he meant to each and every one of us. We left messages to honor a man who deserves to be remembered.
And in so doing, I was reminded that the island of grief I sometimes inhabit isn't really deserted at all.
Saturday, April 18, 2015
Thoughts on Becoming a Mother (to a Teenager)
I'm pretty sure I became the mother of a teenager last night.
No, it wasn't my son's birthday. We still have a few months before the title of teenager will officially be his. So there was no cake, no blowing out of candles, no off-key singing to mark the occasion. Instead, the realization quietly crept up and made itself at home as I was driving Jared and two of this friends to a comic store to attend their first Magic the Gathering tournament.
There they were, three boys who have known each other since they could barely walk, crammed into the back seat of my Prius. Their low, almost-man voices, punctuated by bursts of young-boy exuberance, filled the car, drowning out the CD playing. Excitement bubbled over and carried us to our destination.
Only it wasn't our destination. It was their destination. As soon as I had parked the car, the three boys tumbled out of the back and headed immediately for the store, leaving me, already forgotten, in their dust. I followed them in to find them patiently waiting their turn at the counter.
"Can I sign up for the Magic tournament?" I heard Jared ask confidently, as though he had done it a million times before, when the girl behind the counter turned to him. Here in this place, a world completely foreign to me, he was right at home.
I hung around until they had all paid their $5 and had their decks checked to make sure they were tournament legal. (Yeah, I didn't know there was such a thing before either. Fortunately, you don't get arrested if they find an illegal card in your deck.)
"What do you do now?" I asked.
"I don't know," Jared responded.
I would have been filled with anxiety not knowing what I was supposed to do. The tone of his voice and the shrug of his shoulders made it clear that he was not bothered by it, but rather secure in the knowledge that he would figure it all out in due time.
As the boys turned from the counter, they discovered that a friend from school was also there. They greeted Tad, who has a reputation for being a really good player, with enthusiasm. I have a tendency to imagine all the kids I don't know at my son's middle school as resembling the punks they are portrayed to be in movies. I was pleasantly surprised that he just appeared to be a normal kid with the added bonus of being capable of polite conversation. Tad was clearly an experienced tournament player, the girl at the counter even had a nickname for him, and he led the boys to the tables where they would be playing. Led them away from me. Except for one last plea for some money for the vending machine, my son no longer needed me. With a final "good luck" and "goodbye," I walked back to my car and headed for home.
It was a strange feeling to leave my baby in a room full of men in their 20s and 30s, who were at worst child molesters and at best socially-awkward males who had never quite figured out the whole male-female dynamic. (I know I'm stereotyping, but these are the crazy thoughts that go through your mind in situations such as these.) The rational part of my brain recognized that the people gathered to play cards were probably none of those things. Even if they were, chances were pretty slim that one would suddenly leap across the table during the middle of the tournament to molest my son, who, now merely months away from earning his black belt, could protect himself better than I could anyway. And of course, I wasn't leaving my baby. I was leaving the confident, independent, smart, funny, semi-responsible young man that my baby had grown to be. I knew he would be all right.
And so would I.
No, it wasn't my son's birthday. We still have a few months before the title of teenager will officially be his. So there was no cake, no blowing out of candles, no off-key singing to mark the occasion. Instead, the realization quietly crept up and made itself at home as I was driving Jared and two of this friends to a comic store to attend their first Magic the Gathering tournament.
There they were, three boys who have known each other since they could barely walk, crammed into the back seat of my Prius. Their low, almost-man voices, punctuated by bursts of young-boy exuberance, filled the car, drowning out the CD playing. Excitement bubbled over and carried us to our destination.
Only it wasn't our destination. It was their destination. As soon as I had parked the car, the three boys tumbled out of the back and headed immediately for the store, leaving me, already forgotten, in their dust. I followed them in to find them patiently waiting their turn at the counter.
"Can I sign up for the Magic tournament?" I heard Jared ask confidently, as though he had done it a million times before, when the girl behind the counter turned to him. Here in this place, a world completely foreign to me, he was right at home.
I hung around until they had all paid their $5 and had their decks checked to make sure they were tournament legal. (Yeah, I didn't know there was such a thing before either. Fortunately, you don't get arrested if they find an illegal card in your deck.)
"What do you do now?" I asked.
"I don't know," Jared responded.
I would have been filled with anxiety not knowing what I was supposed to do. The tone of his voice and the shrug of his shoulders made it clear that he was not bothered by it, but rather secure in the knowledge that he would figure it all out in due time.
As the boys turned from the counter, they discovered that a friend from school was also there. They greeted Tad, who has a reputation for being a really good player, with enthusiasm. I have a tendency to imagine all the kids I don't know at my son's middle school as resembling the punks they are portrayed to be in movies. I was pleasantly surprised that he just appeared to be a normal kid with the added bonus of being capable of polite conversation. Tad was clearly an experienced tournament player, the girl at the counter even had a nickname for him, and he led the boys to the tables where they would be playing. Led them away from me. Except for one last plea for some money for the vending machine, my son no longer needed me. With a final "good luck" and "goodbye," I walked back to my car and headed for home.
It was a strange feeling to leave my baby in a room full of men in their 20s and 30s, who were at worst child molesters and at best socially-awkward males who had never quite figured out the whole male-female dynamic. (I know I'm stereotyping, but these are the crazy thoughts that go through your mind in situations such as these.) The rational part of my brain recognized that the people gathered to play cards were probably none of those things. Even if they were, chances were pretty slim that one would suddenly leap across the table during the middle of the tournament to molest my son, who, now merely months away from earning his black belt, could protect himself better than I could anyway. And of course, I wasn't leaving my baby. I was leaving the confident, independent, smart, funny, semi-responsible young man that my baby had grown to be. I knew he would be all right.
And so would I.
Saturday, April 11, 2015
Journey Unfinished
Just the other day, I remarked to my husband that it has been twenty years since I earned my teaching credential. Twenty. Years. "Wow! That time has gone by fast," he said. No kidding.
Dan and I met at the end of my first year of teaching. Back then I was an English-Only 6th grade teacher at a Spanish bilingual school. Looking back, it was probably an odd placement for me. I was properly certified to teach English Language Learners, but properly certified doesn't necessarily mean properly qualified. Many of my students had been in a bilingual classroom since kindergarten, but the program ended at 5th grade, so they were all unceremoniously dumped in an E-O classroom in 6th grade. With me. A decidedly green teacher who hadn't studied Spanish since her junior year of high school ten years earlier and who figured out pretty quickly that the language arts methods class had done little to prepare her for teaching reading and writing to actual children.
Although I was green, I was young, determined, and enthusiastic. And single. Evenings and weekends were wide open for me to devote myself to figuring out what the heck I was doing. Which was exactly what I did. One day while waiting to get my hair cut, I calculated how much I made an hour by dividing my annual salary by the number of hours I actually worked. I was making less than I had at my last job as a receptionist. I didn't care. I was happy. I was living my dream and was confident that I would soon be a pro at my chosen career.
Now, here I am almost twenty years later and I am still trying to figure it out. I am no longer green nor young and there are way more demands on my time. And yes, while I still remain enthusiastic, I have to admit that the enthusiasm has been dampened a bit by the realities and politics of teaching. What really frustrates me, though, is knowing that I should be better, that I should be further along in this journey than I am. I joined Twitter a couple of years ago and was amazed and inspired by the brilliant ideas I found being shared. Actually, stupefied might be a better word. How was it that I didn't know all these strategies? Why wasn't I doing all these amazing things in my classroom? How had I fallen so far behind?
There were possible answers to these questions, but ultimately they had to be acknowledged for what they truly were. Excuses. At that point, at that proverbial fork in the road, I had a choice: I could give up or I could start moving forward again. I chose to move forward. I may never reach the pinnacle I seek, but I know I sure as hell am never going to get there if I don't journey on.
The truth is, it is easy to get discouraged when you look at that long stretch of road behind you and realize you haven't accomplished all you had planned when your journey began. Even worse is realizing the stretch of road before you is shortening by the minute, and you are left wondering if you're ever going to get to where you thought you were going. You look around you and see all these other people who are so much more accomplished than you and you question if maybe you just don't have what it takes. It would be so much easier to give up and just go through the motions. Easier to just stay right where you are.
The other day I posted about a writing lesson I taught my students. I almost didn't publish it. It seemed so simplistic, so elementary, and I regretted that it wasn't more amazing and inspiring. I felt like it was something that everyone else had been doing forever. But it is where I am at this moment. This is the journey I am on, and if I am going to keep pushing forward, I have to be honest about where I am. I may be standing at the base of the mountain, but rather than be discouraged by all those who are further up the path, I will learn from them and follow their lead, knowing that they too once stood at the base contemplating the steep road ahead.
Over the last few days the words of Kris Allen's song, "Lost," have kept playing in my head: "Maybe I'm lost/But at least I'm looking." I have always loved the raw, honest emotion of the song, but I just recently realized that the reason it speaks to me is because it is about acknowledging shortcomings but refusing to give up. No, I don't have everything all figured out. I don't have all the answers. I don't even have all the questions yet. But at least I'm looking.
And so the journey continues.
Dan and I met at the end of my first year of teaching. Back then I was an English-Only 6th grade teacher at a Spanish bilingual school. Looking back, it was probably an odd placement for me. I was properly certified to teach English Language Learners, but properly certified doesn't necessarily mean properly qualified. Many of my students had been in a bilingual classroom since kindergarten, but the program ended at 5th grade, so they were all unceremoniously dumped in an E-O classroom in 6th grade. With me. A decidedly green teacher who hadn't studied Spanish since her junior year of high school ten years earlier and who figured out pretty quickly that the language arts methods class had done little to prepare her for teaching reading and writing to actual children.
Although I was green, I was young, determined, and enthusiastic. And single. Evenings and weekends were wide open for me to devote myself to figuring out what the heck I was doing. Which was exactly what I did. One day while waiting to get my hair cut, I calculated how much I made an hour by dividing my annual salary by the number of hours I actually worked. I was making less than I had at my last job as a receptionist. I didn't care. I was happy. I was living my dream and was confident that I would soon be a pro at my chosen career.
Now, here I am almost twenty years later and I am still trying to figure it out. I am no longer green nor young and there are way more demands on my time. And yes, while I still remain enthusiastic, I have to admit that the enthusiasm has been dampened a bit by the realities and politics of teaching. What really frustrates me, though, is knowing that I should be better, that I should be further along in this journey than I am. I joined Twitter a couple of years ago and was amazed and inspired by the brilliant ideas I found being shared. Actually, stupefied might be a better word. How was it that I didn't know all these strategies? Why wasn't I doing all these amazing things in my classroom? How had I fallen so far behind?
There were possible answers to these questions, but ultimately they had to be acknowledged for what they truly were. Excuses. At that point, at that proverbial fork in the road, I had a choice: I could give up or I could start moving forward again. I chose to move forward. I may never reach the pinnacle I seek, but I know I sure as hell am never going to get there if I don't journey on.
The truth is, it is easy to get discouraged when you look at that long stretch of road behind you and realize you haven't accomplished all you had planned when your journey began. Even worse is realizing the stretch of road before you is shortening by the minute, and you are left wondering if you're ever going to get to where you thought you were going. You look around you and see all these other people who are so much more accomplished than you and you question if maybe you just don't have what it takes. It would be so much easier to give up and just go through the motions. Easier to just stay right where you are.
The other day I posted about a writing lesson I taught my students. I almost didn't publish it. It seemed so simplistic, so elementary, and I regretted that it wasn't more amazing and inspiring. I felt like it was something that everyone else had been doing forever. But it is where I am at this moment. This is the journey I am on, and if I am going to keep pushing forward, I have to be honest about where I am. I may be standing at the base of the mountain, but rather than be discouraged by all those who are further up the path, I will learn from them and follow their lead, knowing that they too once stood at the base contemplating the steep road ahead.
Over the last few days the words of Kris Allen's song, "Lost," have kept playing in my head: "Maybe I'm lost/But at least I'm looking." I have always loved the raw, honest emotion of the song, but I just recently realized that the reason it speaks to me is because it is about acknowledging shortcomings but refusing to give up. No, I don't have everything all figured out. I don't have all the answers. I don't even have all the questions yet. But at least I'm looking.
And so the journey continues.
Tuesday, April 7, 2015
Following My Own Advice
Today was the first day back after Spring Break. In an ironic twist of events, after an incredibly dry winter, it was pouring down rain when I left for work. Rain is too badly needed around here for me to complain about, so I simply placed the million papers I had brought home to read during the break in plastic bags and dashed from door to car and then, once I arrived at work, from car to door as quickly as I could.
Fortunately, the papers stayed dry. These weren't just any papers, after all. These were the first drafts of the informational books my students had started writing prior to our two-week vacation. I had brought them home to read so I could plan which lessons to teach next. I hadn't realized at the time that I would be learning some lessons of my own.
At the end of the Slice of Life Story Challenge, I wrote about what I had learned from the experience. Learning is one thing; doing is quite another. I was determined to not let that learning go to waste and to apply it to my teaching. Because I had experienced firsthand the power of positive feedback, the first thing I did was compliment each student's writing. I will admit that it was more challenging to do in some cases than it was in others, but when my students received their writing today, the first thing each of them saw was a bright pink, heart-shaped sticky note with a positive observation. To alleviate any anxiety, I told them ahead of time that I had only written notes on what I had really liked about their writing. When it came time to return the papers to their owners, one of my students exclaimed that she was excited to see her note from me. All around the room, I could hear students reading their notes out loud. It was a nice change of pace to see students actually excited to read my feedback on their writing!
Next, I shared with my class some of the things I had learned about myself as a writer over the last month and identified three areas I wanted to improve in. I then asked my students to look at both their work-in-progress as well as an earlier piece that I had assessed using the informational writing rubric from the Units of Study in Writing and choose their own goals to work toward. Each of us wrote our goals on a piece of paper, which was then hung on our writing wall. As we revise our work, I will refer my students back to those self-determined goals and help them find ways to achieve them.
What I didn't tell them was that when I wrote out my compliments to them I also made notes to myself on areas that needed further development. I made a really simple chart with each student's name and the three main categories of the writing assessment: Structure, Development, and Conventions.
I will refer to this chart when I confer with students and use it to help me guide them toward improving their writing.
As we finish up the unit, I plan on constantly revisiting my own learning to help me better direct theirs. My hope is that they will continue to enjoy writing and want to push themselves to make their writing the best it can be. In the meantime, I will relish in the fact that writing time is actually something that both my students and I can look forward to.
Fortunately, the papers stayed dry. These weren't just any papers, after all. These were the first drafts of the informational books my students had started writing prior to our two-week vacation. I had brought them home to read so I could plan which lessons to teach next. I hadn't realized at the time that I would be learning some lessons of my own.
At the end of the Slice of Life Story Challenge, I wrote about what I had learned from the experience. Learning is one thing; doing is quite another. I was determined to not let that learning go to waste and to apply it to my teaching. Because I had experienced firsthand the power of positive feedback, the first thing I did was compliment each student's writing. I will admit that it was more challenging to do in some cases than it was in others, but when my students received their writing today, the first thing each of them saw was a bright pink, heart-shaped sticky note with a positive observation. To alleviate any anxiety, I told them ahead of time that I had only written notes on what I had really liked about their writing. When it came time to return the papers to their owners, one of my students exclaimed that she was excited to see her note from me. All around the room, I could hear students reading their notes out loud. It was a nice change of pace to see students actually excited to read my feedback on their writing!
Next, I shared with my class some of the things I had learned about myself as a writer over the last month and identified three areas I wanted to improve in. I then asked my students to look at both their work-in-progress as well as an earlier piece that I had assessed using the informational writing rubric from the Units of Study in Writing and choose their own goals to work toward. Each of us wrote our goals on a piece of paper, which was then hung on our writing wall. As we revise our work, I will refer my students back to those self-determined goals and help them find ways to achieve them.
I will refer to this chart when I confer with students and use it to help me guide them toward improving their writing.
As we finish up the unit, I plan on constantly revisiting my own learning to help me better direct theirs. My hope is that they will continue to enjoy writing and want to push themselves to make their writing the best it can be. In the meantime, I will relish in the fact that writing time is actually something that both my students and I can look forward to.
Saturday, April 4, 2015
Do It While You Can
Do it while you can
My mother did say.
Been wasting too much time
So starting today--
I will smile
I will laugh
And wear high heels.
I'll cast glances
Take chances
Just to know how it feels.
I will dance
And I'll sing
Though horribly off-key.
I'll do it loud
I'll do it proud
So everyone can see.
Love me
Or hate me
Do as you please.
I'll stand tall
And won't fall
Down to my knees.
I'll jump rope
And play games
Maybe learn to play guitar.
I'll have fun
And I'll run
Though probably not far.
I'll travel
Drink wine
Go out with the girls.
I'll view sunrises
And sunsets
Watch storm clouds whirl.
I'll imagine
And wonder
I'll make a new plan.
I'll dare to dream
And do everything
While I still can.
My mother did say.
Been wasting too much time
So starting today--
I will smile
I will laugh
And wear high heels.
I'll cast glances
Take chances
Just to know how it feels.
I will dance
And I'll sing
Though horribly off-key.
I'll do it loud
I'll do it proud
So everyone can see.
Love me
Or hate me
Do as you please.
I'll stand tall
And won't fall
Down to my knees.
I'll jump rope
And play games
Maybe learn to play guitar.
I'll have fun
And I'll run
Though probably not far.
I'll travel
Drink wine
Go out with the girls.
I'll view sunrises
And sunsets
Watch storm clouds whirl.
I'll imagine
And wonder
I'll make a new plan.
I'll dare to dream
And do everything
While I still can.
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