Kids can often be frustrating and hilarious at the same time. Many times, I find myself wanting to both shake and hug a student for something they’ve done. I felt this way today, when Kathleen finished typing her research project. Kathleen was in the publishing stage of a Science research project about Prairie Dogs and was at the computer typing her final draft.
Each student is allowed to print two copies of their finished work, one to take home and one for me to display in the classroom. I have told them over and over again, “TWO COPIES ONLY.” The school provides plenty of printer paper, but the teachers have to buy their own ink cartridges for their classroom printers. Ink cartridges can get expensive, so I ask the kids to print sparingly.
Kathleen danced up to my desk and proudly presented to me an inch thick stack of paper. In her bell- like voice she told me, “I hit the print button so many times, it printed over 200 pages!” Her huge brown eyes sparkled as she added, “I had to put in a whole bunch more paper. Too bad the pictures started to get ugly.” Giggling, she placed 200 copies of her report on Prairie Dogs onto my desk.
Each page had a colorfully printed picture of a prairie dog. She had used up the entire color ink cartridge, which is why some of the pictures looked “ugly”.
I think I stared at the stack of paper for over a minute before I could respond. I pushed away all urges to lecture on following directions and started to laugh. Kathleen laughed with me. In the end, I agreed that she could take as many copies of her report home as she wanted to hand out to all of her relatives and friends.
18- Mother in Denial
I have made several attempts to contact Kramer’s mother. I want her to meet with me for a conference about Kramer’s learning deficiencies. The results of Kramer’s DRA are alarming, and his mother needs to be informed. I have left her four messages in the past two weeks. She has yet to return my calls.
This is not a situation of neglect, but more of an issue of avoidance. Kramer is a well cared for child; he is dressed nicely, fed well, and his mother completes his homework for him every night. Clearly the woman does not want to admit that her son is struggling. Kramer’s old teacher warned me that his mother would rather ignore her son’s teachers than admit that her baby boy has leaning problems.
I feel sorry for Kramer and for his mother, but the kid needs help- and the sooner, the better.
This is not a situation of neglect, but more of an issue of avoidance. Kramer is a well cared for child; he is dressed nicely, fed well, and his mother completes his homework for him every night. Clearly the woman does not want to admit that her son is struggling. Kramer’s old teacher warned me that his mother would rather ignore her son’s teachers than admit that her baby boy has leaning problems.
I feel sorry for Kramer and for his mother, but the kid needs help- and the sooner, the better.
16- Plunger Stick
A few days ago my student, Nelson, came to school with a bruise on his face. He acted very self conscious about the bruise and spent most of the day trying to keep it covered up with a Band-Aid. Sensing how uncomfortable he was, I decided not ask him what had happened. My gut instinct old me that something was wrong, but I ignorantly chose to pretend that Nelson’s injury was innocent. I wanted to assume that he had gotten it while playing ball with his friends or climbing a tree with a classmate.
Today, in the middle of a Guided Reading lesson, Nelson chose to share with me (and the rest of the class) what had happened to his face. He started making comments about being hit by his mother. The other students looked frightened by Nelson’s comments, so I quickly ushered him to the corner of the room where we could talk alone. Nelson was eager to let his secret out.
Nelson is a Mexican boy who lives in a trailer park located a few miles away from our school. He is raised by his mother, who is his only relative living in the United States. His story brought me to tears, which I fought to hold back until he and my other students were out of the classroom.
A few days ago Nelson came home from school in a bad mood. His mother asked him to pick up the mess in his room and he, like a typically cranky kid, told her he didn’t feel like it. In response, his mother became furious.
She went outside and got the plunger stick. The thing that people use for toilets, except my mom uses it to beat our dogs when they do something wrong. I didn’t know what she was doing until she came back in my room a little while later. She made me hold out my arm, straight out. Then she hit me in the elbow many times. So many times I couldn’t feel it any more. See my elbow? Nelson pulled up his sleeve to expose large black and purple bruises all around his elbow. I started crying and she told me that she’d break my other elbow if I didn’t stop being such a baby. Then she told me to get ready to leave, we had to go to the store. When I followed her out of the front door, she still had that plunger stick in her hands. Real fast, she turned around and hit me in the face with the stick. Mean, like she does with the dogs. That’s how I got this bruise. Nelson pointed to the yellowing bruise on his face. She also hit me on the back of my head. It still hurts now. And my elbow hurts so bad, I can’t fall asleep at night.
With his final statement, Nelson fell silent and looked up at me. His brown eyes were pleading for me to reassure him. I felt like I was finally looking at him for who he truly was; a terrified little boy, desperate for help. My heart pounded in my chest and I choked back sobs. I was at a loss for words. I couldn’t tell him that everything would be all right; I didn’t want to lie. Finally, I knelt down and wrapped my arms around him, hugging him as tight as I could.
I ended up calling Mr. Thorpe, who took Nelson into his office and kept him there for the rest of the day.
Today, in the middle of a Guided Reading lesson, Nelson chose to share with me (and the rest of the class) what had happened to his face. He started making comments about being hit by his mother. The other students looked frightened by Nelson’s comments, so I quickly ushered him to the corner of the room where we could talk alone. Nelson was eager to let his secret out.
Nelson is a Mexican boy who lives in a trailer park located a few miles away from our school. He is raised by his mother, who is his only relative living in the United States. His story brought me to tears, which I fought to hold back until he and my other students were out of the classroom.
A few days ago Nelson came home from school in a bad mood. His mother asked him to pick up the mess in his room and he, like a typically cranky kid, told her he didn’t feel like it. In response, his mother became furious.
She went outside and got the plunger stick. The thing that people use for toilets, except my mom uses it to beat our dogs when they do something wrong. I didn’t know what she was doing until she came back in my room a little while later. She made me hold out my arm, straight out. Then she hit me in the elbow many times. So many times I couldn’t feel it any more. See my elbow? Nelson pulled up his sleeve to expose large black and purple bruises all around his elbow. I started crying and she told me that she’d break my other elbow if I didn’t stop being such a baby. Then she told me to get ready to leave, we had to go to the store. When I followed her out of the front door, she still had that plunger stick in her hands. Real fast, she turned around and hit me in the face with the stick. Mean, like she does with the dogs. That’s how I got this bruise. Nelson pointed to the yellowing bruise on his face. She also hit me on the back of my head. It still hurts now. And my elbow hurts so bad, I can’t fall asleep at night.
With his final statement, Nelson fell silent and looked up at me. His brown eyes were pleading for me to reassure him. I felt like I was finally looking at him for who he truly was; a terrified little boy, desperate for help. My heart pounded in my chest and I choked back sobs. I was at a loss for words. I couldn’t tell him that everything would be all right; I didn’t want to lie. Finally, I knelt down and wrapped my arms around him, hugging him as tight as I could.
I ended up calling Mr. Thorpe, who took Nelson into his office and kept him there for the rest of the day.
16- Unibind
To conclude the third Monday of my teaching career, Principal scheduled a mandatory faculty meeting. We have regularly scheduled faculty meetings twice a month, but will sometimes have other meetings and workshops to attend. This particular meeting was a complete waste of my time and left me feeling insulted.
When the meeting first began, I assumed that we were there to learn how to use new machinery purchased for our school by The District. I couldn’t have been more wrong.
Principal had made an appointment with the Unibind Guy to come to our school and give the teachers a sales pitch about his product. Unibind is a machine that creates books by hot gluing pages to a metal spine. The faculty politely sat through 50 minutes of Unibind Guy boring us with his “Presto!” demonstrations. The marvels of his invention were randomly interrupted by Principal, who in her slow southern drawl, would say, “Now, please give these teachers the price of that paper.” The she would slowly nod at us, and Unibind guy would pant like a puppy, wishing we would buy his equipment.
It is a pretty great invention, but the Unibind machine and all of its gadgets are expensive. All teachers were given $250.00 at the start of the year to buy classroom supplies. This is not a lot of money, and teachers always end up spending their own money on materials for their classroom. I can’t help but wonder if Unibind guy is secretly a salesman relative of Principal’s- one who is desperate for a sale.
I feel that requiring us to sit through a sales-pitch, for teacher-toys that we can not afford, is insensitive at best. I foresee myself plotting ways to beg out of attending the next faculty meeting.
When the meeting first began, I assumed that we were there to learn how to use new machinery purchased for our school by The District. I couldn’t have been more wrong.
Principal had made an appointment with the Unibind Guy to come to our school and give the teachers a sales pitch about his product. Unibind is a machine that creates books by hot gluing pages to a metal spine. The faculty politely sat through 50 minutes of Unibind Guy boring us with his “Presto!” demonstrations. The marvels of his invention were randomly interrupted by Principal, who in her slow southern drawl, would say, “Now, please give these teachers the price of that paper.” The she would slowly nod at us, and Unibind guy would pant like a puppy, wishing we would buy his equipment.
It is a pretty great invention, but the Unibind machine and all of its gadgets are expensive. All teachers were given $250.00 at the start of the year to buy classroom supplies. This is not a lot of money, and teachers always end up spending their own money on materials for their classroom. I can’t help but wonder if Unibind guy is secretly a salesman relative of Principal’s- one who is desperate for a sale.
I feel that requiring us to sit through a sales-pitch, for teacher-toys that we can not afford, is insensitive at best. I foresee myself plotting ways to beg out of attending the next faculty meeting.
15- Government of Alaska
I learned today that you do not have to be smart or well educated to be a teacher. Good teachers are smart and educated, but apparently these qualities are not prerequisites for the job.
As a first year teacher, I am required to observe several “master teachers” teach. A master teacher is one with several years of experience who has developed a reputation for being an especially good educator. The purpose is for the new teacher to take notice of the successful qualities of the master teacher, and to adopt these qualities as her own. Rather than select a master teacher to observe, I opted to watch the first teacher who volunteered.
The lucky candidate in this instance is a teacher I refer to as Mrs. Frankenstein. I call her this because she is a giant woman. She is overweight and towers above 6 feet tall. Her fingers look like large sausages and her toes are those of an ogress. Mrs. Frankenstein has black curly hair that she piles on top of her head, and she walks with stiff limbs, stomping from place to place in a very zombie fashion.
I went to Mrs. Frankenstein’s room to observe a Social Studies lesson. I am pretty sure that the subject of the lesson was the different branches of the United States Government. She had a map of the U.S. pulled down and had written on the board the words legislative, executive, and judicial. (She had incorrectly spelled legislative as ledgislative.) The kids were instructed to get out their text books, look up the words, and write the definition of each branch on a piece of paper. Predictably, the kids had trouble finding ledgislative in the dictionary. Once this boring task was complete, Mrs. Frankenstein had several volunteers read their definitions aloud.
I did not see any actual teaching take place in this classroom. As soon as one child read their definition, Mrs. Frankenstein called on another. The teacher never paused to elaborate or explain in detail the purposes of each branch of the United States. She appeared to be in a hurry to finish the lesson. After listening to several bored students recant words from the text, Mrs. Frankenstein paused and said, “Okay, class. Great job. Are there any questions?” I could tell by the tone of her voice that she hoped there were not.
Are there any questions? You haven’t taught them anything!
A cute little Chinese boy immediately raised his hand. Mrs. Frankenstein barely glanced in his direction. “Okay, Nathan?”
“What about Alaska?” the boy asked.
Mrs. Frankenstein looked stumped. “What about Alaska?” she repeated.
Nathan became more specific, “What type of government does Alaska have?”
It looked like Nathan’s question had blown Mrs. Frankenstein away. She appeared to be truly puzzled. At first I thought she just couldn’t believe that Nathan did not understand that Alaska would have the same government as the rest of the United States, but after a few humiliating seconds ticked by I realized that she did not know the answer to his question!
Finally, Mrs. Frankenstein responded, “Don’t worry class, we’ll learn about Alaska and the rest of Canada another day.”
Rest of Canada? I wanted to scream when I heard these words. I wanted to warn all the children, “No! Don’t listen to her. She’s making you stupid!” Instead, I held my tongue. I knew that making a teacher look or feel like an idiot in front of her students would be a big mistake. I collected my things, thanked Mrs. Frankenstein politely, and hurried out of her classroom.
As a first year teacher, I am required to observe several “master teachers” teach. A master teacher is one with several years of experience who has developed a reputation for being an especially good educator. The purpose is for the new teacher to take notice of the successful qualities of the master teacher, and to adopt these qualities as her own. Rather than select a master teacher to observe, I opted to watch the first teacher who volunteered.
The lucky candidate in this instance is a teacher I refer to as Mrs. Frankenstein. I call her this because she is a giant woman. She is overweight and towers above 6 feet tall. Her fingers look like large sausages and her toes are those of an ogress. Mrs. Frankenstein has black curly hair that she piles on top of her head, and she walks with stiff limbs, stomping from place to place in a very zombie fashion.
I went to Mrs. Frankenstein’s room to observe a Social Studies lesson. I am pretty sure that the subject of the lesson was the different branches of the United States Government. She had a map of the U.S. pulled down and had written on the board the words legislative, executive, and judicial. (She had incorrectly spelled legislative as ledgislative.) The kids were instructed to get out their text books, look up the words, and write the definition of each branch on a piece of paper. Predictably, the kids had trouble finding ledgislative in the dictionary. Once this boring task was complete, Mrs. Frankenstein had several volunteers read their definitions aloud.
I did not see any actual teaching take place in this classroom. As soon as one child read their definition, Mrs. Frankenstein called on another. The teacher never paused to elaborate or explain in detail the purposes of each branch of the United States. She appeared to be in a hurry to finish the lesson. After listening to several bored students recant words from the text, Mrs. Frankenstein paused and said, “Okay, class. Great job. Are there any questions?” I could tell by the tone of her voice that she hoped there were not.
Are there any questions? You haven’t taught them anything!
A cute little Chinese boy immediately raised his hand. Mrs. Frankenstein barely glanced in his direction. “Okay, Nathan?”
“What about Alaska?” the boy asked.
Mrs. Frankenstein looked stumped. “What about Alaska?” she repeated.
Nathan became more specific, “What type of government does Alaska have?”
It looked like Nathan’s question had blown Mrs. Frankenstein away. She appeared to be truly puzzled. At first I thought she just couldn’t believe that Nathan did not understand that Alaska would have the same government as the rest of the United States, but after a few humiliating seconds ticked by I realized that she did not know the answer to his question!
Finally, Mrs. Frankenstein responded, “Don’t worry class, we’ll learn about Alaska and the rest of Canada another day.”
Rest of Canada? I wanted to scream when I heard these words. I wanted to warn all the children, “No! Don’t listen to her. She’s making you stupid!” Instead, I held my tongue. I knew that making a teacher look or feel like an idiot in front of her students would be a big mistake. I collected my things, thanked Mrs. Frankenstein politely, and hurried out of her classroom.
14- Parent Conference
Mrs. Greene, Josh’s mother, finally came in for a conference today. I have called her many times on the telephone to discuss Josh’s disruptive behavior. I hoped that she would be able to help come up with a workable solution for her son’s disturbing outbursts. Unfortunately, Mrs. Greene is very defensive when it comes to her beloved baby boy. Mr. Thorpe was only able to convince the busy mother to come in for a conference by threatening to suspend Josh from school if his behavior does not improve.
We were forced to schedule the meeting for 7 o’clock in the evening, due to Mrs. Green’s busy schedule. The three of us sat uncomfortably around the guidance office conference table. Josh’s mother is a high-powered attorney at one of the city’s prestigious law firms. Clad in a charcoal grey power-suit and large pearls, Mrs. Greene looked as if she were attending a funeral. Her black hair was pulled back into a tight bun. When she entered the room, the attorney promptly popped open her leather briefcase, withdrew a legal pad and a fancy pen and poised herself to begin taking notes. I felt extremely intimidated, which may have been her goal.
Mr. Thorpe and I tactfully started out the conference by pointing out all of Josh’s positive attributes. The list was short; Josh was a very bright student with a lot of potential. I expressed my desire to find a way to help Josh reach his fullest potential as a learner while avoiding disrupting the rest of my class. Mrs. Greene frowned a lot while she took notes. I felt like asking if I needed my own attorney present.
Our biggest concerns were Josh’s blatant lack of respect for authority and his tendencies towards violence. Basically, the kid is a huge pain in the ass. He does not follow any of the classroom rules and is a potential danger to himself and others. He uses foul language, makes obscene hand gestures, and throws things. I have not seen him attack another student, but many of the objects (pencils, books, paper) he chooses to throw have come close to harming other students. Josh has also told me to “shut up” on countless occasions. I am unable to teach a lesson without Josh interrupting. His favorite way to attract attention to himself is to pass gas; he farts and burps constantly. The kid is rude and gross.
As delicately as possible, Mr. Thorpe and I relayed our woes to Mrs. Greene. I explained that my current method of dealing with Josh’s behavior is to send him out of the classroom. None of the usual behavior consequences and motivations seem to work on Josh. He spends over half of his time at school sitting in the conference room at the front office.
As much as the kid gets on my nerves, I still believe that he has the right to an education. I worry that he is losing out on valuable instruction time and I want to figure out a way to keep him in the classroom. The current situation is not working, and as long as he continues to jeopardize the safety and education of his classmates, Josh will not be permitted to remain in the classroom.
Mrs. Greene said very little during our conference. She would nod a bit and look as if she were considering saying something, but then change her mind and make a little note on her legal pad. By the time we had finished our speech about Josh’s disruptive behavior, Mrs. Greene looked flat out bored. She pushed her glasses farther up onto her nose and said, “Well, what do you expect? Joshua is just a little boy. Maybe if your lessons were more interesting, he would be more inclined to focus. My son is not being challenged in your classroom.”
Not being challenged? I felt like I had been slapped in the face. That bitch!
Before I had a chance to reply, Mr. Thorpe jumped to my rescue. “Mrs. Greene, Josh is a very intelligent boy and we are working hard to find ways to engage him while he is at school. We will continue to do our part, and would appreciate it if you would talk to him about his behavior.” The rest of the meeting is a blur for me. The audacity of that woman to accuse me of boring her bratty son! Mrs. Greene did finally agree to “talk to Josh.” I got the impression that Mrs. Greene thinks it is our job to handle her wild child while he is at school. I don’t understand how such an educated woman can be so dismissive about the seriousness of her child’s behavior.
We were forced to schedule the meeting for 7 o’clock in the evening, due to Mrs. Green’s busy schedule. The three of us sat uncomfortably around the guidance office conference table. Josh’s mother is a high-powered attorney at one of the city’s prestigious law firms. Clad in a charcoal grey power-suit and large pearls, Mrs. Greene looked as if she were attending a funeral. Her black hair was pulled back into a tight bun. When she entered the room, the attorney promptly popped open her leather briefcase, withdrew a legal pad and a fancy pen and poised herself to begin taking notes. I felt extremely intimidated, which may have been her goal.
Mr. Thorpe and I tactfully started out the conference by pointing out all of Josh’s positive attributes. The list was short; Josh was a very bright student with a lot of potential. I expressed my desire to find a way to help Josh reach his fullest potential as a learner while avoiding disrupting the rest of my class. Mrs. Greene frowned a lot while she took notes. I felt like asking if I needed my own attorney present.
Our biggest concerns were Josh’s blatant lack of respect for authority and his tendencies towards violence. Basically, the kid is a huge pain in the ass. He does not follow any of the classroom rules and is a potential danger to himself and others. He uses foul language, makes obscene hand gestures, and throws things. I have not seen him attack another student, but many of the objects (pencils, books, paper) he chooses to throw have come close to harming other students. Josh has also told me to “shut up” on countless occasions. I am unable to teach a lesson without Josh interrupting. His favorite way to attract attention to himself is to pass gas; he farts and burps constantly. The kid is rude and gross.
As delicately as possible, Mr. Thorpe and I relayed our woes to Mrs. Greene. I explained that my current method of dealing with Josh’s behavior is to send him out of the classroom. None of the usual behavior consequences and motivations seem to work on Josh. He spends over half of his time at school sitting in the conference room at the front office.
As much as the kid gets on my nerves, I still believe that he has the right to an education. I worry that he is losing out on valuable instruction time and I want to figure out a way to keep him in the classroom. The current situation is not working, and as long as he continues to jeopardize the safety and education of his classmates, Josh will not be permitted to remain in the classroom.
Mrs. Greene said very little during our conference. She would nod a bit and look as if she were considering saying something, but then change her mind and make a little note on her legal pad. By the time we had finished our speech about Josh’s disruptive behavior, Mrs. Greene looked flat out bored. She pushed her glasses farther up onto her nose and said, “Well, what do you expect? Joshua is just a little boy. Maybe if your lessons were more interesting, he would be more inclined to focus. My son is not being challenged in your classroom.”
Not being challenged? I felt like I had been slapped in the face. That bitch!
Before I had a chance to reply, Mr. Thorpe jumped to my rescue. “Mrs. Greene, Josh is a very intelligent boy and we are working hard to find ways to engage him while he is at school. We will continue to do our part, and would appreciate it if you would talk to him about his behavior.” The rest of the meeting is a blur for me. The audacity of that woman to accuse me of boring her bratty son! Mrs. Greene did finally agree to “talk to Josh.” I got the impression that Mrs. Greene thinks it is our job to handle her wild child while he is at school. I don’t understand how such an educated woman can be so dismissive about the seriousness of her child’s behavior.
13- Gangs
The demographics of our school are unique. The school is zoned for both wealthy and needy areas, resulting in a nice mixture of socioeconomic statuses. Students are from upper, middle, and lower class homes, but the majority of our students receive free or reduced lunch. Most of the student population comes from the poorer neighborhoods. The wealthier families tend to send their children to local private schools. Many of the more modest homes have been owned by the same family for many years, thus the families living in those neighborhoods have children who are no longer school age.
Despite the economic status of their families, all students are ambitious and have the same great potential. High expectations are the keys to a good education. I have great difficulty viewing my students as anything other than sweet and harmless little darlings who want to learn. Unfortunately, in our faculty meeting this afternoon, we were told otherwise.
The District sent over a man to talk to us about gangs in the school system. He said that there are a growing number of younger gang members in our city. Gang related incidents are popping up in elementary schools all over the United States, and teachers are being warned to be on guard. Older gang members are using their children and siblings to engage in illegal activities, like transporting drugs and weapons. The younger students are beginning to mimic the behaviors of their older peers by wearing gang colors to school and flashing coded hand signals.
This sad cycle is infiltrating our town. In today’s meeting, we learned strategies for preventing gang association in our school. The possibility of school uniforms was brought up. Uniforms would make it more difficult for students to clique themselves with gang colors.
I was surprised to learn that gang symbols were discovered in several places around our school. The District speaker told us that gangs often use their symbols and graffiti as ways to spread cryptic messages. If a faculty member finds a gang symbol on campus, they are supposed to follow four specific steps: read and determine if the graffiti is a forewarning of illegal or dangerous activity, take a photograph of the graffiti, report the gang sign to the police, and then remove the graffiti as thoroughly as possible. Principal pointed out that they had already washed signs off several desks in the school and one off the wall in the boys’ bathroom.
This information was difficult for me to take seriously. It is hard to picture elementary aged children as anything other than loving and innocent. I wanted the guest speaker to tell us that it was all a big joke, but sadly, he was not laughing. Everyday, young children in our schools are peer pressured into joining in gang activities. These activities are small steps towards a future as a gang member. Kids often feel that they will be rejected or ridiculed if they do not comply with their older gang member’s demands. Some children do not have strong family support and do not feel loved. Joining a gang is a way for these kids to feel wanted and gives them a sense of identity and belonging.
I looked around at the cheerful little library and could barely believe that something as serious as gangs could affect our school. With happy murals painted on the hallways and flowers growing by front door, gangs seemed like a foreign issue.
I thought of Josh, who just this morning shouted out, “I got a gun at home, with fifty rounds!” I ignored him at the time, but later realized the severity of the child’s statement.
Today’s faculty meeting opened my eyes to the other worlds our students are coming from. I realize how important it is for me to make a positive impact on my students. I have to teach them that they are smart and worthwhile. If teachers can help their students feel loved and self-confident, they will help break the cycle of illegal gang activity.
Despite the economic status of their families, all students are ambitious and have the same great potential. High expectations are the keys to a good education. I have great difficulty viewing my students as anything other than sweet and harmless little darlings who want to learn. Unfortunately, in our faculty meeting this afternoon, we were told otherwise.
The District sent over a man to talk to us about gangs in the school system. He said that there are a growing number of younger gang members in our city. Gang related incidents are popping up in elementary schools all over the United States, and teachers are being warned to be on guard. Older gang members are using their children and siblings to engage in illegal activities, like transporting drugs and weapons. The younger students are beginning to mimic the behaviors of their older peers by wearing gang colors to school and flashing coded hand signals.
This sad cycle is infiltrating our town. In today’s meeting, we learned strategies for preventing gang association in our school. The possibility of school uniforms was brought up. Uniforms would make it more difficult for students to clique themselves with gang colors.
I was surprised to learn that gang symbols were discovered in several places around our school. The District speaker told us that gangs often use their symbols and graffiti as ways to spread cryptic messages. If a faculty member finds a gang symbol on campus, they are supposed to follow four specific steps: read and determine if the graffiti is a forewarning of illegal or dangerous activity, take a photograph of the graffiti, report the gang sign to the police, and then remove the graffiti as thoroughly as possible. Principal pointed out that they had already washed signs off several desks in the school and one off the wall in the boys’ bathroom.
This information was difficult for me to take seriously. It is hard to picture elementary aged children as anything other than loving and innocent. I wanted the guest speaker to tell us that it was all a big joke, but sadly, he was not laughing. Everyday, young children in our schools are peer pressured into joining in gang activities. These activities are small steps towards a future as a gang member. Kids often feel that they will be rejected or ridiculed if they do not comply with their older gang member’s demands. Some children do not have strong family support and do not feel loved. Joining a gang is a way for these kids to feel wanted and gives them a sense of identity and belonging.
I looked around at the cheerful little library and could barely believe that something as serious as gangs could affect our school. With happy murals painted on the hallways and flowers growing by front door, gangs seemed like a foreign issue.
I thought of Josh, who just this morning shouted out, “I got a gun at home, with fifty rounds!” I ignored him at the time, but later realized the severity of the child’s statement.
Today’s faculty meeting opened my eyes to the other worlds our students are coming from. I realize how important it is for me to make a positive impact on my students. I have to teach them that they are smart and worthwhile. If teachers can help their students feel loved and self-confident, they will help break the cycle of illegal gang activity.
12- Kramer's DRA
The literacy coach returned today to assist me with a Developmental Reading Assessment (DRA). Kramer continues to worry me. He is the lowest reader in my class and has been quickly falling behind with his lessons.
My students are told to pick “Just Right” books for themselves during silent reading times. This means that the students select books that are just right for their personal reading ability. The choices the kids make vary from lengthy chapter books to short picture books. Kramer is the only student in my class who selects picture books with very few words, printed in large font.
People don’t always realize the negative avalanche effect that poor reading skills have on learning. If a child can’t independently read, then he or she can’t follow along in the textbooks studied in class. How can a student pass a written test if they can’t read the questions or write out the answers?
Reading is crucial in every subject area. Illiteracy is the number one downfall of a student’s career. Teachers do the best they can to help improve their students’ reading skills, but they never have the time required for each individual student. A major predictor of a good reader is home literacy. The best readers in class come from homes where there are many books and the parents read for pleasure.
A DRA usually takes anywhere from thirty to forty-five minutes. The assessment involves having the child read several different short books. The teacher picks a book that she thinks is closest to the child’s reading level, and then also selects a slightly harder and a slightly easier book. The three books are presented to the student, and the child is given the opportunity to pick which book he wants to read first. As the student reads aloud, the teacher keeps a running record of his miscues, or reading errors. If the student scores below a certain percentage on the running record, then the teacher will have the child read an easier book. Sometimes, a DRA will be held in several different sessions until the teacher can determine the student’s appropriate reading level.
The literacy coach met with me and Kramer while my other students were at Music. We told Kramer that we needed his assistance and that he had the very special job of helping us learn to be better reading teachers. It is always important to make sure that the student does not feel uncomfortable. We did not want Kramer to feel insecure, like he was being singled out. Luckily, due to his sweet and trusting personality, Kramer never realized that we were testing his reading skills.
We selected a range of books that were on a first grade level for Kramer to read. His eyes lit up when he found a book about a big brother taking care of his baby sister. Kramer went on to tell us all about how he also had a little sister and that he loved to help his mother take care of the baby. He decided to read this book first.
Kramer read the story with great difficulty. It was painful to listen as he struggled over words such as “bottle” and “tickle.” He genuinely wanted to read well for us and it was heartbreaking when he would pause and admit, “I’m sorry, I don’t know that word.” The literacy coach realized by the third page of the story, that Kramer had made enough miscues to fail that level. She began to help him, when he needed it, to hurry the story along.
We concluded that Kramer reads on a high Kindergarten level. He can read common sight words, such as “the” and “and” and “you.” Kramer has not learned any of the basic reading strategies that other children typically utilize. We tried to teach him “chunking”, breaking words into pieces to sound them out bits at a time. We also suggested he use the book’s illustrations as clues as to what the words are and mean. I am going to request that he be sent to the Reading Recovery teacher a few times a week. Reading with Kramer made me feel very sad. It also made me feel hopeful and ambitious. I want to be the teacher that turns his life around. I have decided that, by the end of the school year, Kramer will know how to read. He may not catch up with his classmates this year, but he can learn the tools to set him on the right track.
My students are told to pick “Just Right” books for themselves during silent reading times. This means that the students select books that are just right for their personal reading ability. The choices the kids make vary from lengthy chapter books to short picture books. Kramer is the only student in my class who selects picture books with very few words, printed in large font.
People don’t always realize the negative avalanche effect that poor reading skills have on learning. If a child can’t independently read, then he or she can’t follow along in the textbooks studied in class. How can a student pass a written test if they can’t read the questions or write out the answers?
Reading is crucial in every subject area. Illiteracy is the number one downfall of a student’s career. Teachers do the best they can to help improve their students’ reading skills, but they never have the time required for each individual student. A major predictor of a good reader is home literacy. The best readers in class come from homes where there are many books and the parents read for pleasure.
A DRA usually takes anywhere from thirty to forty-five minutes. The assessment involves having the child read several different short books. The teacher picks a book that she thinks is closest to the child’s reading level, and then also selects a slightly harder and a slightly easier book. The three books are presented to the student, and the child is given the opportunity to pick which book he wants to read first. As the student reads aloud, the teacher keeps a running record of his miscues, or reading errors. If the student scores below a certain percentage on the running record, then the teacher will have the child read an easier book. Sometimes, a DRA will be held in several different sessions until the teacher can determine the student’s appropriate reading level.
The literacy coach met with me and Kramer while my other students were at Music. We told Kramer that we needed his assistance and that he had the very special job of helping us learn to be better reading teachers. It is always important to make sure that the student does not feel uncomfortable. We did not want Kramer to feel insecure, like he was being singled out. Luckily, due to his sweet and trusting personality, Kramer never realized that we were testing his reading skills.
We selected a range of books that were on a first grade level for Kramer to read. His eyes lit up when he found a book about a big brother taking care of his baby sister. Kramer went on to tell us all about how he also had a little sister and that he loved to help his mother take care of the baby. He decided to read this book first.
Kramer read the story with great difficulty. It was painful to listen as he struggled over words such as “bottle” and “tickle.” He genuinely wanted to read well for us and it was heartbreaking when he would pause and admit, “I’m sorry, I don’t know that word.” The literacy coach realized by the third page of the story, that Kramer had made enough miscues to fail that level. She began to help him, when he needed it, to hurry the story along.
We concluded that Kramer reads on a high Kindergarten level. He can read common sight words, such as “the” and “and” and “you.” Kramer has not learned any of the basic reading strategies that other children typically utilize. We tried to teach him “chunking”, breaking words into pieces to sound them out bits at a time. We also suggested he use the book’s illustrations as clues as to what the words are and mean. I am going to request that he be sent to the Reading Recovery teacher a few times a week. Reading with Kramer made me feel very sad. It also made me feel hopeful and ambitious. I want to be the teacher that turns his life around. I have decided that, by the end of the school year, Kramer will know how to read. He may not catch up with his classmates this year, but he can learn the tools to set him on the right track.
11- Losing Voice
I’m losing my voice. No one ever told me how difficult it was going to be to talk all day long. I’m hoarse and my throat hurts. I can’t make it through half the day before pain seeps into my throat. I must have a weak voice. I make an effort to never yell or raise my voice in class, but still find myself in pain.
I spent the second half of today practicing speaking in different tones and pitches. The kids probably think I’m nuts, the way I keep lowering and raising the volume of my voice. I even tried singing part of a lesson. I’m going to look into getting one of those microphones that some teachers use.
During my planning period, I went to the cafeteria in search of a cup of honey tea. My mom always told me that honey soothes a sore throat. While in the cafeteria, I ran into Ms. Viamonte. The girl was wearing the tightest blouse I have ever seen on a school teacher; her boobs were threatening to jump out and smack her in the face. (Back in college, we called girls like Ms. Viamonte “sorostituites”- a term that combines the words sorority and prostitute.)
Casually, I asked the sorostitute if she had fun on Friday night. I resisted the urge to inquire about the magnitude of her hangover on Saturday morning. Ms. Viamonte nodded sweetly and told me she “couldn’t wait to do it again.”
Her friendly response made me feel guilty for thinking of her as a sorostitute. As she walked away, I couldn’t help but admire the young teacher. Despite her secret life of debauchery, Ms. Viamonte held her head high and paraded her students out of the cafeteria, emanating the picture perfect sweetness of an elementary school teacher.
I spent the second half of today practicing speaking in different tones and pitches. The kids probably think I’m nuts, the way I keep lowering and raising the volume of my voice. I even tried singing part of a lesson. I’m going to look into getting one of those microphones that some teachers use.
During my planning period, I went to the cafeteria in search of a cup of honey tea. My mom always told me that honey soothes a sore throat. While in the cafeteria, I ran into Ms. Viamonte. The girl was wearing the tightest blouse I have ever seen on a school teacher; her boobs were threatening to jump out and smack her in the face. (Back in college, we called girls like Ms. Viamonte “sorostituites”- a term that combines the words sorority and prostitute.)
Casually, I asked the sorostitute if she had fun on Friday night. I resisted the urge to inquire about the magnitude of her hangover on Saturday morning. Ms. Viamonte nodded sweetly and told me she “couldn’t wait to do it again.”
Her friendly response made me feel guilty for thinking of her as a sorostitute. As she walked away, I couldn’t help but admire the young teacher. Despite her secret life of debauchery, Ms. Viamonte held her head high and paraded her students out of the cafeteria, emanating the picture perfect sweetness of an elementary school teacher.
10- Teachers' Night Out
I decided to take up the Fun Committee’s invitation to a Teacher’s Night Out. I figured I should treat myself to a little celebration for surviving two full weeks as a classroom teacher. The past ten days have been a whirlwind of excitement, confusion, and frustration. I am so happy to have this job, I really do love it. Each day I feel more and more confident.
Teacher’s Night Out started out exactly as it would seem; a bunch of women and a handful of men grouped together to chit chat about… work. Pretty boring. We were told to bring our significant others, so a few husbands and boyfriends dutifully showed up. I arrived late, with the intention of having a single glass of wine and then returning home. By the time I got there, our party had taken over two large tables on the bar’s back porch.
I learned a lot about personality just by seeing my coworkers in their casual dress. Esther was there in her usual embroidered sweater and matching pants. Several of the younger teachers were dressed in their clubbing outfits- tight tops and short skirts. A few teachers wore their expensive Ann Taylor suits, adorned with manicured fingernails and banker husbands. Caroline and her husband, Mark, were clad, from head to toe, in their favorite college football team’s colors. I remained in my teacher outfit; a pair of black Capri’s, a blue button up shirt, and a color coordinated necklace.
With the absence of Principal and the presence of wine and beer, people quickly began to cut loose. When I had gotten hired the District Personnel strongly suggested that teachers travel across the river, to the other side of town, to have “fun.” I was told that teachers are held to a higher standard and that I needed to dress and act “appropriately” in public. I guess this crowd felt like we were far enough from campus to be safe.
I slowly sipped at my wine and watched the dynamics of the group change. At first, we all politely chatted about people’s children and pets, laughing heartily at stupid jokes and nodding enthusiastically when asked a question. As time passed, the more serious teachers began to leave. One by one, teachers left the bar, until eventually there were only a handful of us left.
I learned that Mr. Thorpe plays in a local rock band. Caroline and her husband, Mark, are college football fanatics and avid drinkers of cheap beer. The Computer Lab teacher and the clubbing teachers can slurp down vodka smoothies at an alarming rate. The only thing we all had in common was that we were under the age of 35.
Our crowd started to feel loose and relaxed, and with these feelings came a slew of uninhibited gossip and slander about other teachers. Secretary is stuck-up, Librarian is stingy with her books, Lunch Lady hates children; the trash talk went on and on. Still sober, I kept my mouth shut.
I noticed that one of the clubbing teachers, a young First Grade teacher named Ms. Viamonte, had started to look a little green. Ms. Viamonte is a twenty-something, southern cheerleader brunette with huge boobs. She acts like she’s president of a college sorority. By the time she was on her third vodka drink, Ms .Viamonte still had not ordered any food. While the others conversed, Ms. Viamonte got louder and louder, swaying in her seat.
Ignoring Ms. Viamonte’s blatant drunkenness, we all laughed and exchanged silly teacher stories. It felt good to feel comfortable around the crowd, I felt like I was forming friendships with my coworkers. It was refreshing to realize that they were human, just like me. Mr. Thorpe invited us all out to see his band play sometime. The Computer Lab teacher tried to convince us all to join her at the clubs later that night. Mark insisted we all go to a football game together one weekend.
As our jovial crowd beamed at the prospect of future endeavors, Ms. Viamonte announced that she was going vomit. The drunken girl leaned her head over a nearby bush and started to cough. Caroline, who must have experience with drunkenness, jumped up and ushered Ms. Viamonte towards the bathroom.
The rest of the table seemed unfazed and one of them explained to me that Ms. Viamonte was notorious for getting drunk at teacher functions and that they had all expected it. A few minutes later, Caroline returned and announced that she was driving Ms. Viamonte home. By this point in the night, I had been nursing my second glass of warm wine for over an hour. I felt tired after the long week, so I also said goodnight and went home.
Teacher’s Night Out started out exactly as it would seem; a bunch of women and a handful of men grouped together to chit chat about… work. Pretty boring. We were told to bring our significant others, so a few husbands and boyfriends dutifully showed up. I arrived late, with the intention of having a single glass of wine and then returning home. By the time I got there, our party had taken over two large tables on the bar’s back porch.
I learned a lot about personality just by seeing my coworkers in their casual dress. Esther was there in her usual embroidered sweater and matching pants. Several of the younger teachers were dressed in their clubbing outfits- tight tops and short skirts. A few teachers wore their expensive Ann Taylor suits, adorned with manicured fingernails and banker husbands. Caroline and her husband, Mark, were clad, from head to toe, in their favorite college football team’s colors. I remained in my teacher outfit; a pair of black Capri’s, a blue button up shirt, and a color coordinated necklace.
With the absence of Principal and the presence of wine and beer, people quickly began to cut loose. When I had gotten hired the District Personnel strongly suggested that teachers travel across the river, to the other side of town, to have “fun.” I was told that teachers are held to a higher standard and that I needed to dress and act “appropriately” in public. I guess this crowd felt like we were far enough from campus to be safe.
I slowly sipped at my wine and watched the dynamics of the group change. At first, we all politely chatted about people’s children and pets, laughing heartily at stupid jokes and nodding enthusiastically when asked a question. As time passed, the more serious teachers began to leave. One by one, teachers left the bar, until eventually there were only a handful of us left.
I learned that Mr. Thorpe plays in a local rock band. Caroline and her husband, Mark, are college football fanatics and avid drinkers of cheap beer. The Computer Lab teacher and the clubbing teachers can slurp down vodka smoothies at an alarming rate. The only thing we all had in common was that we were under the age of 35.
Our crowd started to feel loose and relaxed, and with these feelings came a slew of uninhibited gossip and slander about other teachers. Secretary is stuck-up, Librarian is stingy with her books, Lunch Lady hates children; the trash talk went on and on. Still sober, I kept my mouth shut.
I noticed that one of the clubbing teachers, a young First Grade teacher named Ms. Viamonte, had started to look a little green. Ms. Viamonte is a twenty-something, southern cheerleader brunette with huge boobs. She acts like she’s president of a college sorority. By the time she was on her third vodka drink, Ms .Viamonte still had not ordered any food. While the others conversed, Ms. Viamonte got louder and louder, swaying in her seat.
Ignoring Ms. Viamonte’s blatant drunkenness, we all laughed and exchanged silly teacher stories. It felt good to feel comfortable around the crowd, I felt like I was forming friendships with my coworkers. It was refreshing to realize that they were human, just like me. Mr. Thorpe invited us all out to see his band play sometime. The Computer Lab teacher tried to convince us all to join her at the clubs later that night. Mark insisted we all go to a football game together one weekend.
As our jovial crowd beamed at the prospect of future endeavors, Ms. Viamonte announced that she was going vomit. The drunken girl leaned her head over a nearby bush and started to cough. Caroline, who must have experience with drunkenness, jumped up and ushered Ms. Viamonte towards the bathroom.
The rest of the table seemed unfazed and one of them explained to me that Ms. Viamonte was notorious for getting drunk at teacher functions and that they had all expected it. A few minutes later, Caroline returned and announced that she was driving Ms. Viamonte home. By this point in the night, I had been nursing my second glass of warm wine for over an hour. I felt tired after the long week, so I also said goodnight and went home.
9- Generous Granny
Esther has been interfering with my classroom time. She is a kiss-up, and I’ve noticed that her brown-nosing sometimes affects my job. I overheard her last week telling some teachers that our team (Esther, Caroline, and I) would be happy to make copies for them “anytime they needed.” Two days later, one of those teachers popped into my room and interrupted a math lesson to ask if I could make a few dozen copies for her during my planning period because she had to leave early that day. Being a new teacher, who has not grown all of her backbone, I said yes and did make copies for the woman. I also made a mental note: “Tell Granny Esther not to volunteer me for stuff.”
I gave Esther the benefit of the doubt that it was a harmless gesture that wouldn’t happen often. I was wrong.
Today, during our planning period, I had a scheduled meeting with Caroline, Esther, and the literacy coach from the District. The literacy coach had come to discuss the possibility of doing a Developmental Reading Assessment on Kramer. The DRA would pinpoint his exact reading level, as well as give us insight into what strategies he uses and does not use when reading. As a new teacher, it is extremely important for me to learn as much as I can about a DRA.
In the middle of our meeting, the 4 year old kindergarten teacher stuck her head into the room. “Oh! Are you busy? Esther, you said… Is this a bad time?” She looks at us expectantly.
I nodded my head and started to say, “Yes, this is a bad time,” but was interrupted by Esther.
Jumping out of her chair, the Generous Granny declares, “Of course this is not a bad time, honey. We’re on our way.”
On our way? Where were we going?
The literacy coach looked surprised; she had taken time out of her day to meet with us about Kramer and now we were going to leave the meeting. Graciously, the literacy coach smiled and told us she would wait while we did whatever it was we had to do.
Apparently, Esther had stopped by the 4 year old kindergarten room earlier and volunteered our services, “anytime they needed,” to help walk the 4 year olds out to their busses. I counted six adults present to walk four kids out to the busses. I could barely force a smile onto my face and a “Your Welcome” out of my mouth when thanked for my assistance. I was furious.
We got back to our meeting almost twenty minutes later, and by that time, the literacy coach had to leave. She did schedule to come back the following week to help me do a DRA on Kramer. I waited for everyone else to clear the room before I said anything to Esther.
As politely as I could, I asked her not to volunteer me to do things for people anymore. I told her that I do like to help people when they need it, but that I had to make my own job my priority.
She can’t tell people that we can help them “anytime”, because it is just not true. I told her I was especially upset that we had to interrupt our important meeting with the literacy coach.
Esther’s response was priceless.
She leaned in close, like she was going to tell me a secret and whispered, “I’ll tell you what I’ve learned to do after all these years. In this business, you have to tell people that you’ll do a lot for them. That makes them happy and it makes them like you. I like to volunteer to do stuff for people, and then when they ask later, I just back out politely.” The old lady nodded, “Just say you’ll do a lot of stuff, and then quietly back out. That makes you look good.”
What kind of jerk attitude is that?
I looked the Generous Granny in the eye and said, “I’m not going to be like that. Ever. Don’t volunteer me for stuff anymore.”
This is how I left the day with Esther. She smiled and said something sweet to me, like it was all a joke after all, but I now I know. I know that she’s a fake.
I gave Esther the benefit of the doubt that it was a harmless gesture that wouldn’t happen often. I was wrong.
Today, during our planning period, I had a scheduled meeting with Caroline, Esther, and the literacy coach from the District. The literacy coach had come to discuss the possibility of doing a Developmental Reading Assessment on Kramer. The DRA would pinpoint his exact reading level, as well as give us insight into what strategies he uses and does not use when reading. As a new teacher, it is extremely important for me to learn as much as I can about a DRA.
In the middle of our meeting, the 4 year old kindergarten teacher stuck her head into the room. “Oh! Are you busy? Esther, you said… Is this a bad time?” She looks at us expectantly.
I nodded my head and started to say, “Yes, this is a bad time,” but was interrupted by Esther.
Jumping out of her chair, the Generous Granny declares, “Of course this is not a bad time, honey. We’re on our way.”
On our way? Where were we going?
The literacy coach looked surprised; she had taken time out of her day to meet with us about Kramer and now we were going to leave the meeting. Graciously, the literacy coach smiled and told us she would wait while we did whatever it was we had to do.
Apparently, Esther had stopped by the 4 year old kindergarten room earlier and volunteered our services, “anytime they needed,” to help walk the 4 year olds out to their busses. I counted six adults present to walk four kids out to the busses. I could barely force a smile onto my face and a “Your Welcome” out of my mouth when thanked for my assistance. I was furious.
We got back to our meeting almost twenty minutes later, and by that time, the literacy coach had to leave. She did schedule to come back the following week to help me do a DRA on Kramer. I waited for everyone else to clear the room before I said anything to Esther.
As politely as I could, I asked her not to volunteer me to do things for people anymore. I told her that I do like to help people when they need it, but that I had to make my own job my priority.
She can’t tell people that we can help them “anytime”, because it is just not true. I told her I was especially upset that we had to interrupt our important meeting with the literacy coach.
Esther’s response was priceless.
She leaned in close, like she was going to tell me a secret and whispered, “I’ll tell you what I’ve learned to do after all these years. In this business, you have to tell people that you’ll do a lot for them. That makes them happy and it makes them like you. I like to volunteer to do stuff for people, and then when they ask later, I just back out politely.” The old lady nodded, “Just say you’ll do a lot of stuff, and then quietly back out. That makes you look good.”
What kind of jerk attitude is that?
I looked the Generous Granny in the eye and said, “I’m not going to be like that. Ever. Don’t volunteer me for stuff anymore.”
This is how I left the day with Esther. She smiled and said something sweet to me, like it was all a joke after all, but I now I know. I know that she’s a fake.
8- Gene Pool
People become teachers for many reasons. I like to tell people that I wanted to be a teacher because I wanted the summers off. This might be partially true, but really I like to teach because it makes me feel great about myself. When you see a kid’s eyes light up and start moving around excitedly, when you see that little look of recognition register on their face, that’s when you feel so happy and so good about yourself as a teacher. Student learning makes all the paperwork and nit-picky crap seem worthwhile.
Teachers are expected to put a cheesy spin on practically everything. Administrators preach about high expectations, telling us things like “we need to create life-long learners.” We are never supposed to call children stupid, or give up on their ability to learn. We speak in codes, “challenging” for “bad”, “unique” for “weird”, “assertive” for “bratty.” Good teachers make an effort to use a positive vocabulary when in the presence of students.
I’ll never forget what one teacher told me when I was a student teacher in graduate school. This particular woman had been teaching for over thirty years and was about to retire. She told me, “When you’ve been around kids as long as I have, you come to realize that there’s no substitute for a good gene pool.”
No substitute for a good gene pool?
I remember feeling shocked when she said this. How dare she imply that some kids were smarter than others! She had broken the teacher code of positivism. All kids have the same great potential to learn! Don’t they? All kids are created equal! Aren’t they?
I am now starting to think that the woman had a good point. There is such a thing as an Intelligence Quotient, and all the high expectations and smiles in the world won’t raise your Intelligence Quotient. IQs and gene pools go hand in hand. I do not doubt that all children can learn, but I am starting to figure out that some of them can learn much more, much faster. Society calls these the smart kids.
I fear that Kramer is an extremely dumb boy. The gene pool tried to drown him. I am well prepared to teach the different types of learners; visual, auditory, and kinesthetic. I am also well prepared to differentiate instruction, so that the multiple intelligences of children will all be reached during a single lesson. I am not prepared for Kramer, whose records show that he has an IQ of 58.
Kramer, with the glass eye, is the sweetest student in my class, and the most polite. He comes in every morning with a smile and a wonderful attitude. You can tell by his ironed shirts and clean white socks that someone at home loves him very much. I’ve started to rely on Kramer to do tasks that only responsible children can do, like take a note to the office or ask the teacher next door if we can borrow something. Kramer is always friendly to his classmates and does not participate when others become loud or unruly.
Sadly, Kramer can’t read. He reads at the level of a kindergartener, spotting sight words such as “the”, “and” and “I.” I noticed his poor reading ability on the first day of school, and have been worried about him ever since. I sent him to the nurse to get his eyes checked, as some poor readers just need glasses. His eyes were fine. I called his classroom teacher from the year before and she faxed over his records.
Kramer has an IQ of 58 and used to be in the Learning Disabled Center. His mother worried that the LD Center would not put him on the track to earn a High School Diploma, so she insisted that he be pulled out of the program and put back into an ordinary classroom. Year after year, his teachers have been instructed to give Kramer barely passing grades so he can move on to the next grade level with the other kids his age.
Now Kramer has been “passed along” to my classroom. I don’t know what I am going to do. He can’t read our textbooks. He sits at his desk and does nothing while I teach a lesson. Always well mannered, and with a smile, he complacently sits and stares at his textbook. If asked a question, he makes a genuine effort to answer correctly, but usually fails. His short term memory is terrible. We will have a conversation and three minutes later Kramer will have forgotten everything we’ve talked about. How can you learn if you can’t retain information?
I feel very torn about this situation. I know that Kramer’s mother is trying to do what is best for her son, but I strongly feel that she is doing him a grave disservice by keeping him out of the LD Center. I don’t know if I can “pass him along” as so many other teachers have had to do. The guidance counselor, Mr. Thorpe, is aware of Kramer’s problems, as is Principal. Hopefully, we will all be able to work together to find a solution for this sweet kid.
Teachers are expected to put a cheesy spin on practically everything. Administrators preach about high expectations, telling us things like “we need to create life-long learners.” We are never supposed to call children stupid, or give up on their ability to learn. We speak in codes, “challenging” for “bad”, “unique” for “weird”, “assertive” for “bratty.” Good teachers make an effort to use a positive vocabulary when in the presence of students.
I’ll never forget what one teacher told me when I was a student teacher in graduate school. This particular woman had been teaching for over thirty years and was about to retire. She told me, “When you’ve been around kids as long as I have, you come to realize that there’s no substitute for a good gene pool.”
No substitute for a good gene pool?
I remember feeling shocked when she said this. How dare she imply that some kids were smarter than others! She had broken the teacher code of positivism. All kids have the same great potential to learn! Don’t they? All kids are created equal! Aren’t they?
I am now starting to think that the woman had a good point. There is such a thing as an Intelligence Quotient, and all the high expectations and smiles in the world won’t raise your Intelligence Quotient. IQs and gene pools go hand in hand. I do not doubt that all children can learn, but I am starting to figure out that some of them can learn much more, much faster. Society calls these the smart kids.
I fear that Kramer is an extremely dumb boy. The gene pool tried to drown him. I am well prepared to teach the different types of learners; visual, auditory, and kinesthetic. I am also well prepared to differentiate instruction, so that the multiple intelligences of children will all be reached during a single lesson. I am not prepared for Kramer, whose records show that he has an IQ of 58.
Kramer, with the glass eye, is the sweetest student in my class, and the most polite. He comes in every morning with a smile and a wonderful attitude. You can tell by his ironed shirts and clean white socks that someone at home loves him very much. I’ve started to rely on Kramer to do tasks that only responsible children can do, like take a note to the office or ask the teacher next door if we can borrow something. Kramer is always friendly to his classmates and does not participate when others become loud or unruly.
Sadly, Kramer can’t read. He reads at the level of a kindergartener, spotting sight words such as “the”, “and” and “I.” I noticed his poor reading ability on the first day of school, and have been worried about him ever since. I sent him to the nurse to get his eyes checked, as some poor readers just need glasses. His eyes were fine. I called his classroom teacher from the year before and she faxed over his records.
Kramer has an IQ of 58 and used to be in the Learning Disabled Center. His mother worried that the LD Center would not put him on the track to earn a High School Diploma, so she insisted that he be pulled out of the program and put back into an ordinary classroom. Year after year, his teachers have been instructed to give Kramer barely passing grades so he can move on to the next grade level with the other kids his age.
Now Kramer has been “passed along” to my classroom. I don’t know what I am going to do. He can’t read our textbooks. He sits at his desk and does nothing while I teach a lesson. Always well mannered, and with a smile, he complacently sits and stares at his textbook. If asked a question, he makes a genuine effort to answer correctly, but usually fails. His short term memory is terrible. We will have a conversation and three minutes later Kramer will have forgotten everything we’ve talked about. How can you learn if you can’t retain information?
I feel very torn about this situation. I know that Kramer’s mother is trying to do what is best for her son, but I strongly feel that she is doing him a grave disservice by keeping him out of the LD Center. I don’t know if I can “pass him along” as so many other teachers have had to do. The guidance counselor, Mr. Thorpe, is aware of Kramer’s problems, as is Principal. Hopefully, we will all be able to work together to find a solution for this sweet kid.
7- Hugs
I don’t like it when the kids hug me. I’m afraid they’ll get me sick. Some of them are gross. As mean as it sounds- kids are filthy. Some kids stink and are dirty. They have dried goop on their clothes and crusties on their faces. I have seen the slimy places their fingers have traveled. I’m not just talking about the poor kids. Yesterday, I saw a boy jump out of a Mercedes, fall into a pile of dog crap, and then wipe his hands off on his freshly ironed shirt as he entered the school building.
Despite my distaste for germs and grime, I never reject a hug. If I see one coming, I open my arms and smile and then squeeze the kid as tight as they squeeze me. I’m not evil, I just don’t like germs.
A little blond girl from Caroline’s class keeps coming up to me, hugging me and calling me “Mommy.” The first time she did it, I thought it was sweet and I hugged her back. Now the girl has approached me several times, and it’s started to get on my nerves. She’s cute, but I’m nobody’s “Mommy” and I like it that way. I expressed my annoyance to a fellow teacher at the lunch table, and the teacher gave me a little insight that made me feel guilty. Apparently, the little girl does not have a mother or a father, and lives with her grandparents. For what ever reason, she’s decided to use me as her “Mommy Figure.” Hearing this news made me feel very sad. I’m learning that children do not all come from roses and sunshine homes; I suspect there are some very tragic stories out there, and this is just the beginning.
Despite my distaste for germs and grime, I never reject a hug. If I see one coming, I open my arms and smile and then squeeze the kid as tight as they squeeze me. I’m not evil, I just don’t like germs.
A little blond girl from Caroline’s class keeps coming up to me, hugging me and calling me “Mommy.” The first time she did it, I thought it was sweet and I hugged her back. Now the girl has approached me several times, and it’s started to get on my nerves. She’s cute, but I’m nobody’s “Mommy” and I like it that way. I expressed my annoyance to a fellow teacher at the lunch table, and the teacher gave me a little insight that made me feel guilty. Apparently, the little girl does not have a mother or a father, and lives with her grandparents. For what ever reason, she’s decided to use me as her “Mommy Figure.” Hearing this news made me feel very sad. I’m learning that children do not all come from roses and sunshine homes; I suspect there are some very tragic stories out there, and this is just the beginning.
6- Eyeball Suction Cup
I can tell that the novelty of “the first week of school” has started to wear off, because the kids are getting a little relaxed. They seemed less rigid today, and less concerned about following classroom rules. The air feels less tense, and I like that. This week I want to focus on getting to know my students as learners. I am eager to find out their personal interests and the ways they learn best. I have extremely high expectations for my students and am determined to do all I can to help them reach their potential.
This morning, all but two mommies refrained from walking their children into the classroom. Taylor’s mom completed her ritual of unpacking his backpack and massaging his shoulders while the boy completed his morning work, “He’s a little tense in the mornings,” was the Asian mother’s excuse. Class Mommy surprised me with a generous gift of twenty small dry-erase boards, along with their own eraser and marker. The boards are items that I have wanted to purchase for my classroom, but haven’t had enough money. I felt so thankful; I almost forgave her for last week’s bathroom incident.
Today, while I was in the middle of teaching a Science lesson on ecosystems, I heard snickering in the back of the classroom. I figured the kids must be laughing at my pathetic attempt to draw a frog catching a fly on the front board. I try to have a good sense of humor, so I laughed along with them and commented on how they needed to use their imaginations when I drew. As the lesson progressed, the snickering did not stop. I realized that ignoring the commotion was going to get me nowhere, so I paused to resolve the situation.
I glanced in the direction of the giggles just in time to see Robbie slap something small down onto Gabriella’s desk. Gaby’s eyebrows formed a perfect V above her nose as she let out a very typical girly squeal. “EEeeeeeee!” Being one of the class’ more prissy girls, Gaby shrieked again and then turned furiously to Robbie. “Get. It. Off.” Her face was red with fury, and she seemed completely disgusted.
Robbie, a boy whose haircut makes him look exactly like the comic book hero, Wolverine, shrugged nonchalantly. He grinned with big white teeth and then looked away as if he had barely heard Gaby. I have learned over the past few days that Robbie is the class clown. A smart boy with both wit and charm, he easily makes his classmates, and me, laugh. I constantly have to remind him to raise his hand before blurting out, and I constantly have to remind myself that laughing at students is a terrible way to maintain classroom control.
So there I am, trying to teach ecosystems, when Robbie goofs off again. I walk over to Gaby and see that a suction cup, about the diameter of a nickel, is stuck to her desk. It’s the same kind of thing one would use to hang little signs or trinkets on their window. I tried to pull the suction cup off the desk, but it was so tightly stuck to the surface, I ended up sliding it all the way to the edge in order to remove it. At this point, I catch myself rolling my eyes, annoyed that Robbie has interrupted my teaching.
Holding the suction cup, I glanced in Robbie’s direction and told him that I would return his toy at the end of the week. I tried to say this in a stern voice, so he would know that I meant business. The class had grown unusually quiet by then.
Why is everyone so quiet? I felt suspicious.
As I returned to the front of the room, a little voice piped up from behind. “Teacher, that doesn’t belong to Robbie.”
“Who does it belong to?”
No answer. The class has fallen silent.
“Well?” I asked again.
Out of the silence, Robbie’s voice boomed, loud and proud, “THAT BELONGS TO KRAMER. THAT’S THE THING HE USES TO PULL HIS EYE OUT.”
With this, the other class joker, Taylor, went into hysterics. The rest of the class soon joined him.
Pull his eye out? I looked down into my hands and realized that I had been unconsciously suctioning and then unsuctioning the palm of my hand. I prayed that they were kidding.
Holding the thing between my thumb and my index finger, I walked over to Kramer, a chubby African American boy that looks an awful lot like Fat Albert (and does, in fact, have a glass eye). The poor kid was in an automobile accident several years before and lost his left eye. In its place sits a perfect glass replica to match his remaining operative right eye. Kramer looked up at me and smiled sheepishly. I placed the suction cup into his outstretched hand. Looking embarrassed, he whispered, “Thank you,” and then shoved the instrument into his pocket.
Oh my God. I felt bad. I had no idea that people suctioned their eyeballs out.
I didn’t want to embarrass Kramer any further, but I was a little grossed out. A lot grossed out. For the last five minutes of class, I let Kramer give a mini- science lesson to his classmates about glass eye removal.
While he was speaking, I snuck over to the sink and washed my hands.
This morning, all but two mommies refrained from walking their children into the classroom. Taylor’s mom completed her ritual of unpacking his backpack and massaging his shoulders while the boy completed his morning work, “He’s a little tense in the mornings,” was the Asian mother’s excuse. Class Mommy surprised me with a generous gift of twenty small dry-erase boards, along with their own eraser and marker. The boards are items that I have wanted to purchase for my classroom, but haven’t had enough money. I felt so thankful; I almost forgave her for last week’s bathroom incident.
Today, while I was in the middle of teaching a Science lesson on ecosystems, I heard snickering in the back of the classroom. I figured the kids must be laughing at my pathetic attempt to draw a frog catching a fly on the front board. I try to have a good sense of humor, so I laughed along with them and commented on how they needed to use their imaginations when I drew. As the lesson progressed, the snickering did not stop. I realized that ignoring the commotion was going to get me nowhere, so I paused to resolve the situation.
I glanced in the direction of the giggles just in time to see Robbie slap something small down onto Gabriella’s desk. Gaby’s eyebrows formed a perfect V above her nose as she let out a very typical girly squeal. “EEeeeeeee!” Being one of the class’ more prissy girls, Gaby shrieked again and then turned furiously to Robbie. “Get. It. Off.” Her face was red with fury, and she seemed completely disgusted.
Robbie, a boy whose haircut makes him look exactly like the comic book hero, Wolverine, shrugged nonchalantly. He grinned with big white teeth and then looked away as if he had barely heard Gaby. I have learned over the past few days that Robbie is the class clown. A smart boy with both wit and charm, he easily makes his classmates, and me, laugh. I constantly have to remind him to raise his hand before blurting out, and I constantly have to remind myself that laughing at students is a terrible way to maintain classroom control.
So there I am, trying to teach ecosystems, when Robbie goofs off again. I walk over to Gaby and see that a suction cup, about the diameter of a nickel, is stuck to her desk. It’s the same kind of thing one would use to hang little signs or trinkets on their window. I tried to pull the suction cup off the desk, but it was so tightly stuck to the surface, I ended up sliding it all the way to the edge in order to remove it. At this point, I catch myself rolling my eyes, annoyed that Robbie has interrupted my teaching.
Holding the suction cup, I glanced in Robbie’s direction and told him that I would return his toy at the end of the week. I tried to say this in a stern voice, so he would know that I meant business. The class had grown unusually quiet by then.
Why is everyone so quiet? I felt suspicious.
As I returned to the front of the room, a little voice piped up from behind. “Teacher, that doesn’t belong to Robbie.”
“Who does it belong to?”
No answer. The class has fallen silent.
“Well?” I asked again.
Out of the silence, Robbie’s voice boomed, loud and proud, “THAT BELONGS TO KRAMER. THAT’S THE THING HE USES TO PULL HIS EYE OUT.”
With this, the other class joker, Taylor, went into hysterics. The rest of the class soon joined him.
Pull his eye out? I looked down into my hands and realized that I had been unconsciously suctioning and then unsuctioning the palm of my hand. I prayed that they were kidding.
Holding the thing between my thumb and my index finger, I walked over to Kramer, a chubby African American boy that looks an awful lot like Fat Albert (and does, in fact, have a glass eye). The poor kid was in an automobile accident several years before and lost his left eye. In its place sits a perfect glass replica to match his remaining operative right eye. Kramer looked up at me and smiled sheepishly. I placed the suction cup into his outstretched hand. Looking embarrassed, he whispered, “Thank you,” and then shoved the instrument into his pocket.
Oh my God. I felt bad. I had no idea that people suctioned their eyeballs out.
I didn’t want to embarrass Kramer any further, but I was a little grossed out. A lot grossed out. For the last five minutes of class, I let Kramer give a mini- science lesson to his classmates about glass eye removal.
While he was speaking, I snuck over to the sink and washed my hands.
5- Bud Lite
Every Friday, my team of teachers gathers for our Grade Level Meeting. This provides us an opportunity to touch base and plan what we need to teach. We’re supposed to stay at the same pace within each subject area and will often write lessons together. So far, I really like the women I work with. There’s Esther, who has been teaching for 25 years and says she’s about to retire. Esther is a grandmotherly Southern Belle with impeccable manners. She obviously comes from money, because she wears an excessive amount of gems and drives a Lexus. Then there’s Caroline, a thin blonde from New Jersey who is in her mid 30’s. She seems standoffish, with her Yankee ways, and could be easily misinterpreted as rude, but is really a delightful lady who loves her students. I suspect that Caroline has a bit of a wild streak.
Today we met in Caroline’s classroom. We sat on shortened chairs, at a shortened table, and I inspected Caroline’s classroom, taking mental inventory of her clever posters and charts. As I scanned, my eyes settled on a startling object. I hesitated for a second and then blurted out, “Caroline!”
Esther and Caroline stopped their chatter and followed my gaze. Resting on the top shelf of Caroline’s closet, amid two dozen cans of seltzer water was one shiny can of Bud Lite.
Beer in the classroom.
I started laughing. Esther looked stunned. Caroline freaked out. The Yankee jumped up and snatched the can off the shelf, and shoved it into her giant teacher handbag.
Apparently, Caroline likes to bring cans of seltzer to drink during the day. The seltzer and the Bud Lite cans are the same size and same silver color, so she must have grabbed the beer by mistake when packing up at home. Funny. Funny, but not funny. She could have lost her job. We all agreed that it was a good thing Principal didn’t spot the beer. And a good thing Caroline didn’t crack open and slurp down a Bud Lite during lunch today!
Caroline’s beer put a smile on my face for the rest of the day.
Today we met in Caroline’s classroom. We sat on shortened chairs, at a shortened table, and I inspected Caroline’s classroom, taking mental inventory of her clever posters and charts. As I scanned, my eyes settled on a startling object. I hesitated for a second and then blurted out, “Caroline!”
Esther and Caroline stopped their chatter and followed my gaze. Resting on the top shelf of Caroline’s closet, amid two dozen cans of seltzer water was one shiny can of Bud Lite.
Beer in the classroom.
I started laughing. Esther looked stunned. Caroline freaked out. The Yankee jumped up and snatched the can off the shelf, and shoved it into her giant teacher handbag.
Apparently, Caroline likes to bring cans of seltzer to drink during the day. The seltzer and the Bud Lite cans are the same size and same silver color, so she must have grabbed the beer by mistake when packing up at home. Funny. Funny, but not funny. She could have lost her job. We all agreed that it was a good thing Principal didn’t spot the beer. And a good thing Caroline didn’t crack open and slurp down a Bud Lite during lunch today!
Caroline’s beer put a smile on my face for the rest of the day.
4- Principal & Vice
I met with the principal briefly today and she reassured me that I was entitled to politely request that Class Mommy back off. Principal is a nice, older southern lady who barely ever raises her voice above a whisper. I remember when I came in for my interview- I sat uncomfortably and chatted with her for over 30 minutes, leaving with the impression that she was a snobby woman who would never crack a smile. Fortunately, my first impression is turning out to be wrong. Principal has a great reputation around the school and I’ve already heard several other teachers say they love her. Rumor has it, she’s never yelled at a student. Once you get over her quiet, cold demeanor, you realize that she’s not at all the stuck- up woman she appears.
On the other hand, I have some serious concerns about the Assistant Principal. I have already given her a nickname: The Intimidator. Typically, student discipline falls into the Assistant Principal’s line of responsibilities. The Intimidator takes her job very seriously. She, like Principal, is contradictory in her appearance and demeanor. The Intimidator is an African American woman who weighs at least 200 pounds. She thunders through the halls like a giant bowling ball. The woman acts smiley and cheerful to cover for the demon inside.
The Intimidator is one of those women who prides herself on “nipping it in the bud”; she thrives on intimidating children. Today at lunch, I watched The Intimidator stomp into the cafeteria like an angry elephant. With her eyes bulging out of her head, she screamed for the students to get quiet. The cafeteria immediately settled into a stunned silence.
At what looked like random, The Intimidator selected students to “set straight.” She wagged her finger in children’s faces, threatening them into being quiet. She told them she would “call their mamma” and she “knew they weren’t being loud in her school, oh no!” I saw a bit of The Intimidator’s spittle land on one kid’s cheek.
I do realize that students need rules to follow. I also understand that all consequences should be fair and administered accordingly. The Intimidator’s methods do not appear to be fair or consistent. She uses scare tactics to her advantage. I feel sorry for the kids who cross her path.
On a different note, the “Fun Committee” sent out an email today inviting everyone on the faculty to meet for drinks at a local bar next Friday. I have conflicted feelings about this; I would like to hang out with my colleagues and get to know them as human beings, but I have a life of my own and my Friday nights are special to me. I’ve also been warned that becoming too chummy with my coworkers could cause problems. I don’t know if I’ll go to the bar or not, but I do think it was pretty cool to have been invited.
I’m still exhausted, but today I like my job.
On the other hand, I have some serious concerns about the Assistant Principal. I have already given her a nickname: The Intimidator. Typically, student discipline falls into the Assistant Principal’s line of responsibilities. The Intimidator takes her job very seriously. She, like Principal, is contradictory in her appearance and demeanor. The Intimidator is an African American woman who weighs at least 200 pounds. She thunders through the halls like a giant bowling ball. The woman acts smiley and cheerful to cover for the demon inside.
The Intimidator is one of those women who prides herself on “nipping it in the bud”; she thrives on intimidating children. Today at lunch, I watched The Intimidator stomp into the cafeteria like an angry elephant. With her eyes bulging out of her head, she screamed for the students to get quiet. The cafeteria immediately settled into a stunned silence.
At what looked like random, The Intimidator selected students to “set straight.” She wagged her finger in children’s faces, threatening them into being quiet. She told them she would “call their mamma” and she “knew they weren’t being loud in her school, oh no!” I saw a bit of The Intimidator’s spittle land on one kid’s cheek.
I do realize that students need rules to follow. I also understand that all consequences should be fair and administered accordingly. The Intimidator’s methods do not appear to be fair or consistent. She uses scare tactics to her advantage. I feel sorry for the kids who cross her path.
On a different note, the “Fun Committee” sent out an email today inviting everyone on the faculty to meet for drinks at a local bar next Friday. I have conflicted feelings about this; I would like to hang out with my colleagues and get to know them as human beings, but I have a life of my own and my Friday nights are special to me. I’ve also been warned that becoming too chummy with my coworkers could cause problems. I don’t know if I’ll go to the bar or not, but I do think it was pretty cool to have been invited.
I’m still exhausted, but today I like my job.
3- Class Moms
It’s the strangest thing, as the kids were all coming in this morning, I could have sworn I saw Mr. Love, the school custodian, slap one of the moms on the ass. My eyes must have been still groggy from sleep…. Except I did see the mom smile at him, and I thought I heard a giggle.
Anyway, on the topic of MOMS--- they won’t quit coming into my classroom. Many of them, and a few dads, have been walking their kids into the room in the mornings. These kids are old enough to be dropped off at the front door and left to fend for themselves. Taylor’s mom has even gone as far as to come into the room, walk the boy to his seat, unpack his book bag, and then massage his shoulders while he does his morning work. Is she out of her mind? I politely suggested yesterday, and now this morning, that she stop doing that- we’ll see what happens tomorrow.
I also have a Class Mom who, apparently, has a reputation for undermining the teacher’s authority while visiting in the classroom. She has been Class Mommy every year that her daughter, Francesca, has been in Elementary School, and many of the other teachers have warned me about her wicked ways. Word on the street is that Class Mommy believes she owns the class. I think I got a little taste of this attitude today…
After lunch, I line the kids up outside of the bathroom, to give them all the opportunity to go before we return to our classroom. I tell them that they should try to go, even if they don’t have to, so they do not interrupt valuable teaching time. This is the rule: they try to go or they hold it until Related Areas, which is about 90 minutes later. This is a very reasonable timeframe.
Today, after bathroom break, we returned to class to discover… Surprise! Class Mommy is standing in the middle of my classroom with a tray full of cupcakes! (Obviously, she did not get the school newsletter requesting that parents please avoid bringing in unhealthy snacks.)
The pretty brunette woman was wearing a designer tennis outfit, with matching shoes and visor. Her chestnut hair was pulled back into a fluffy ponytail to reveal monstrous sized diamonds hanging from each of her earlobes.
“The school is on my way to the Country Club, so I thought I’d surprise the kids with some snacks before my tennis match.” Class Mommy flashed her pearly white teeth and proceeded to distribute cupcakes to my students.
So there we were, celebrating nothing during precious learning time, and all of a sudden I hear Ajith sneeze. A few kids giggle as Ajith puts his hands between his legs to hold himself. Class Mommy sees this and says, “Awwww! Baby, do you need to go to the restroom?”
Of course Ajith nods, even though we all know that he is just paranoid about wetting himself and does not really need to go. (After the first day, I made a phone call home to find out about his situation, and learned it is usually a false alarm.) Class Mommy ushers Ajith towards the door and tells him, “You just go right ahead, sweetie. Go on!”
Meanwhile, Josh, my challenging student has observed all of this and suddenly he falls from his desk to the ground. Clutching at his groin area with both hands, he dramatically groans, “Ohhhh! Oh, man! I have to peeeeeeeee! Teacher! I gotta go soooooo bad!” Immediately, Class Mommy runs over to him. Ignoring my protests, she baby talks to Josh and gives him permission to go to the bathroom.
I felt helpless as I watched the devil child run out of my classroom. Before I could exhale, Class Mommy was standing in front of me with her arms crossed and a disapproving look upon her face. With her charming, southern smile, she asked, “When was the last time you let these little darlings go to the restroom?” Her eyes narrowed a little bit, and I felt worried she was going to try to choke me with a cupcake. I opened my mouth to explain the bathroom procedures, but she waved her hand at me dismissively.
In disbelief, I watched as Class Mommy clapped her hands and announced to my entire classroom that she was taking them “on a little trip to the Girls’ and Boys’ rooms.”
Who does Class Mommy think she is? The audacity!
I felt stunned and uncomfortable. I did not want to argue with Class Mommy in front of my students. Instead, I helped her line them all up and march them down the hall to the bathroom. I was so frustrated, I felt like crying.
Predictably, when we reached the bathrooms, there had been an “incident” with Josh. Ajith was crying because Josh had tried to make him wash his hands in the toilet.
When Class Mommy realized that the kids were starting to be a handful, she quickly ducked out. “Oh, my goodness! Look at the time, need to scoot if I want to make my match on time! Bye, bye, ‘y’all.” As suddenly as she had appeared, Class Mommy disappeared, leaving me alone to clean up her mess.
Anyway, on the topic of MOMS--- they won’t quit coming into my classroom. Many of them, and a few dads, have been walking their kids into the room in the mornings. These kids are old enough to be dropped off at the front door and left to fend for themselves. Taylor’s mom has even gone as far as to come into the room, walk the boy to his seat, unpack his book bag, and then massage his shoulders while he does his morning work. Is she out of her mind? I politely suggested yesterday, and now this morning, that she stop doing that- we’ll see what happens tomorrow.
I also have a Class Mom who, apparently, has a reputation for undermining the teacher’s authority while visiting in the classroom. She has been Class Mommy every year that her daughter, Francesca, has been in Elementary School, and many of the other teachers have warned me about her wicked ways. Word on the street is that Class Mommy believes she owns the class. I think I got a little taste of this attitude today…
After lunch, I line the kids up outside of the bathroom, to give them all the opportunity to go before we return to our classroom. I tell them that they should try to go, even if they don’t have to, so they do not interrupt valuable teaching time. This is the rule: they try to go or they hold it until Related Areas, which is about 90 minutes later. This is a very reasonable timeframe.
Today, after bathroom break, we returned to class to discover… Surprise! Class Mommy is standing in the middle of my classroom with a tray full of cupcakes! (Obviously, she did not get the school newsletter requesting that parents please avoid bringing in unhealthy snacks.)
The pretty brunette woman was wearing a designer tennis outfit, with matching shoes and visor. Her chestnut hair was pulled back into a fluffy ponytail to reveal monstrous sized diamonds hanging from each of her earlobes.
“The school is on my way to the Country Club, so I thought I’d surprise the kids with some snacks before my tennis match.” Class Mommy flashed her pearly white teeth and proceeded to distribute cupcakes to my students.
So there we were, celebrating nothing during precious learning time, and all of a sudden I hear Ajith sneeze. A few kids giggle as Ajith puts his hands between his legs to hold himself. Class Mommy sees this and says, “Awwww! Baby, do you need to go to the restroom?”
Of course Ajith nods, even though we all know that he is just paranoid about wetting himself and does not really need to go. (After the first day, I made a phone call home to find out about his situation, and learned it is usually a false alarm.) Class Mommy ushers Ajith towards the door and tells him, “You just go right ahead, sweetie. Go on!”
Meanwhile, Josh, my challenging student has observed all of this and suddenly he falls from his desk to the ground. Clutching at his groin area with both hands, he dramatically groans, “Ohhhh! Oh, man! I have to peeeeeeeee! Teacher! I gotta go soooooo bad!” Immediately, Class Mommy runs over to him. Ignoring my protests, she baby talks to Josh and gives him permission to go to the bathroom.
I felt helpless as I watched the devil child run out of my classroom. Before I could exhale, Class Mommy was standing in front of me with her arms crossed and a disapproving look upon her face. With her charming, southern smile, she asked, “When was the last time you let these little darlings go to the restroom?” Her eyes narrowed a little bit, and I felt worried she was going to try to choke me with a cupcake. I opened my mouth to explain the bathroom procedures, but she waved her hand at me dismissively.
In disbelief, I watched as Class Mommy clapped her hands and announced to my entire classroom that she was taking them “on a little trip to the Girls’ and Boys’ rooms.”
Who does Class Mommy think she is? The audacity!
I felt stunned and uncomfortable. I did not want to argue with Class Mommy in front of my students. Instead, I helped her line them all up and march them down the hall to the bathroom. I was so frustrated, I felt like crying.
Predictably, when we reached the bathrooms, there had been an “incident” with Josh. Ajith was crying because Josh had tried to make him wash his hands in the toilet.
When Class Mommy realized that the kids were starting to be a handful, she quickly ducked out. “Oh, my goodness! Look at the time, need to scoot if I want to make my match on time! Bye, bye, ‘y’all.” As suddenly as she had appeared, Class Mommy disappeared, leaving me alone to clean up her mess.
2- Meet Josh
I went to bed last night at 7:30. I fell asleep in my work clothes on the top of all my covers and didn’t wake up again until my alarm clock went off at 5am. Clearly, I was wiped out. I was in my classroom by 6:15 this morning, that’s the earliest that Mr. Love, the custodian, will allow us teachers into the school.
Yesterday, I felt good about teaching. It was hectic and busy, but the kids were sweet. They looked eager to learn and I felt excited to teach them. Today I got a new student who might make my life hell. His name is Josh and he is a challenging student. “Challenging” is the word that politically correct teachers use when talking about the bad kids. We put a positive spin on everything in the education profession.
Josh waltzed into my classroom about thirty minutes late. We were in the middle of practicing Calendar Math, when he showed up. He is a well kempt child; with perfectly ironed clothes to match his freshly cut brown hair. I greeted him in my sweet, welcoming teacher voice, “Hello there, what is your name?”
In response, Josh narrowed his green eyes and threw a crumpled sheet of paper at me. I picked up the paper and uncrumpled it to find that it contained all of his contact information. The school guidance counselor, Mr. Thorpe, had escorted Josh to my classroom and then motioned me out to the hall.
Barely into his late twenties, Mr. Thorpe looks like his job has destroyed him. As an ex-hipster, the guy went into counseling after several years of nagging from his parents and girlfriend to “get a real job.” He dresses in an ultra-geek style; today he was wearing a tweed jacket and thick rimmed glasses. The Converse All Star sneakers that peek out from the bottoms of his tailored pants are a dead giveaway that Mr. Thorpe has not yet given up on being cool.
“That’s Josh Greene. He was here last year, too. I’ll meet with you soon to review his situation.” Mr. Thorpe let out an exasperated sigh and lowered his voice, “I’m sorry, they give all the challenging students to first year teachers,” he said apologetically and then turned and scurried down the hall.
Sorry? Situation? Uh oh. I knew those words meant only two things- trouble and extra paperwork. I went back into my classroom just in time to see Josh, with his deceiving choir boy appearance, whack another boy in the back of the head with a pencil. The boy clutched his head in pain, and I saw Josh smile and mutter, “idiot.”
I gathered up all my teacher bravado and in the sternest voice I could muster, I told Josh that that type of behavior was unacceptable in our classroom. I began a little speech on respect and before I could finish the second sentence, Josh had interrupted.
“Ha! You can respect my butt. I don’t have to listen to you. I don’t have to listen to nobody.” With that he turned around and walked out the door.
Respect his butt?
Did that kid really just walk out of my classroom?
I felt shocked as I watch him strut down the hallway. I didn’t know what to think or do, and I did not want the rest of my class to see how useless I felt.
I ended up calling Mr. Thorpe, who called the Assistant Principal, and they did whatever it was that they did. I suspect they didn’t do much, because the kid was back in my classroom 5 minutes later.
I spent the remainder of the day teaching procedures to the rest of the students, while juggling a power struggle with Josh. He called me names. He called the other students names. He threw things. He slammed doors. He belched. He screamed obscenities. He did not do one ounce of classwork. I felt sorry for the other students, most of whom seemed to be used to Josh’s behavior. The kids tried to ignore Josh, but would still cast an occasional worried glance in his direction.
I left school today feeling sorry for myself. Now, I am exhausted and feel like crying. Today, I do not feel like being a teacher. I have a mountain of paperwork to complete, I still need to plan for tomorrow, and I feel an utter loss as to how I will deal with my new problem child.
Yesterday, I felt good about teaching. It was hectic and busy, but the kids were sweet. They looked eager to learn and I felt excited to teach them. Today I got a new student who might make my life hell. His name is Josh and he is a challenging student. “Challenging” is the word that politically correct teachers use when talking about the bad kids. We put a positive spin on everything in the education profession.
Josh waltzed into my classroom about thirty minutes late. We were in the middle of practicing Calendar Math, when he showed up. He is a well kempt child; with perfectly ironed clothes to match his freshly cut brown hair. I greeted him in my sweet, welcoming teacher voice, “Hello there, what is your name?”
In response, Josh narrowed his green eyes and threw a crumpled sheet of paper at me. I picked up the paper and uncrumpled it to find that it contained all of his contact information. The school guidance counselor, Mr. Thorpe, had escorted Josh to my classroom and then motioned me out to the hall.
Barely into his late twenties, Mr. Thorpe looks like his job has destroyed him. As an ex-hipster, the guy went into counseling after several years of nagging from his parents and girlfriend to “get a real job.” He dresses in an ultra-geek style; today he was wearing a tweed jacket and thick rimmed glasses. The Converse All Star sneakers that peek out from the bottoms of his tailored pants are a dead giveaway that Mr. Thorpe has not yet given up on being cool.
“That’s Josh Greene. He was here last year, too. I’ll meet with you soon to review his situation.” Mr. Thorpe let out an exasperated sigh and lowered his voice, “I’m sorry, they give all the challenging students to first year teachers,” he said apologetically and then turned and scurried down the hall.
Sorry? Situation? Uh oh. I knew those words meant only two things- trouble and extra paperwork. I went back into my classroom just in time to see Josh, with his deceiving choir boy appearance, whack another boy in the back of the head with a pencil. The boy clutched his head in pain, and I saw Josh smile and mutter, “idiot.”
I gathered up all my teacher bravado and in the sternest voice I could muster, I told Josh that that type of behavior was unacceptable in our classroom. I began a little speech on respect and before I could finish the second sentence, Josh had interrupted.
“Ha! You can respect my butt. I don’t have to listen to you. I don’t have to listen to nobody.” With that he turned around and walked out the door.
Respect his butt?
Did that kid really just walk out of my classroom?
I felt shocked as I watch him strut down the hallway. I didn’t know what to think or do, and I did not want the rest of my class to see how useless I felt.
I ended up calling Mr. Thorpe, who called the Assistant Principal, and they did whatever it was that they did. I suspect they didn’t do much, because the kid was back in my classroom 5 minutes later.
I spent the remainder of the day teaching procedures to the rest of the students, while juggling a power struggle with Josh. He called me names. He called the other students names. He threw things. He slammed doors. He belched. He screamed obscenities. He did not do one ounce of classwork. I felt sorry for the other students, most of whom seemed to be used to Josh’s behavior. The kids tried to ignore Josh, but would still cast an occasional worried glance in his direction.
I left school today feeling sorry for myself. Now, I am exhausted and feel like crying. Today, I do not feel like being a teacher. I have a mountain of paperwork to complete, I still need to plan for tomorrow, and I feel an utter loss as to how I will deal with my new problem child.
1- First Day
“Ajith hates to sneeze, BECAUSE WHEN HE DOES, HE PEES A LITTLE!” Taylor, a happy Chinese boy proudly introduced his friend, Ajith, to his classmates. The children giggled nervously, unsure of whether or not they were allowed to laugh.
We were playing an introductory name game, where everyone sits in a circle and takes turns sharing something interesting about their neighbor.
“This is Ajith,” Taylor repeated, pointing at a small Indian child who was dressed in a bright green, traditional Indian salwar-kameez. Ajith’s facial features were delicate and he wore gold earrings in his ears that were barely hidden by his androgynous haircut. If his parents hadn’t introduced their son to me earlier this morning, I would have had difficulty determining if the kid were a girl or a boy.
Ajith looked sheepishly around at his classmates with a meek smile. He sniffled and then wiped his hand across his nose, leaving a shiny trail of snot along his cheek.
“Ajith,” continued Taylor “Is new to this school. He came from India.” Ajith nodded at this and then sneezed. At the sound of the sneeze, Taylor broke out into a big grin and asked, “Did you pee that time?”
“Yeah, a little,” Ajith admitted.
My students gave in to their giggles and broke out into a fit of laughter.
I rolled my eyes.
Today was my first, first day of school, and I was unsure of what to expect.
At 7:30 this morning, students and parents were lining up at my door. I felt nauseous and dizzy. My head was swimming with what-ifs. What if I forget what to do next? What if they hate me? What if I turn out to be a terrible teacher?
My anxieties had been quickly drowned out by a whirlwind of commotion as my very first student entered the classroom. A tiny African American girl, hair bobbing with black ringlets, danced into the classroom, and announced herself as “Kathleen.” She looked up into my face with huge, happy brown eyes, and asked, “Where’s my seat?” She giggled, and when she did, her voice sounded like a bell.
I showed Kathleen her seat and gave her a book to read until the rest of the class had arrived. Standing by the door, I greeted each little face as they arrived. Some students were smiling, but a few had tear-stained cheeks. I wanted to reassure them, tell them that I was nervous, too.
Parents were everywhere. They all wanted to talk to me, and they all wanted to talk at the same time. Over 50% of the parents had chosen not to attend Open House the night before, a time set aside for me to explain the yearly plans and to answer any questions the parents may have had. Instead, they all filed into my room on the first morning of school and bombarded me with neurotic questions.
--I forgot to buy juice boxes at the store, so I packed a Red Bull in Kramer’s lunchbox- is that okay?
--Approximately how many times a month can I expect Kramer to have homework?
--My son, Robbie, is very smart. Would it be possible for him to have extra classwork assignments?
--Francesca and Gaby are good friends from last year, would you mind seating them next to each other?
When the room had finally cleared of parents, I found myself being inspected by 40 little eyeballs. Twenty sets of curious eyes stared at me intently. I gulped down my worries and jumped into action.
The day flew by at a rapid pace. I had over planned. I had been told multiple times that there is nothing worse that having a classroom full of children and absolutely nothing for them to do. Our schedule was booked, and my sole duty of the week was to take on the monotonous task of teaching the children classroom procedures. Procedures. Kids need to be told everything: How to stand in a quiet line. The number of seconds to drink from the water fountain. What color folder to put your homework in. How to ask to go to the bathroom. How to put a book back on the shelf. The list goes on and on.
We spent the entire day reviewing what was expected during school hours. I tried to smile a lot and be cheerful. I wanted to let the children know that we were going to have a great year with “lots of successes.” The District had slowly changed my vocabulary over the summer to have a more positive spin, and the word “success” was used in every other sentence. I let the children know that I was a first year teacher. I told them that we had the special opportunity to teach each other, I would teach them their subjects and they would teach me to be the best teacher I could be. This year, we were going to learn together.
We were playing an introductory name game, where everyone sits in a circle and takes turns sharing something interesting about their neighbor.
“This is Ajith,” Taylor repeated, pointing at a small Indian child who was dressed in a bright green, traditional Indian salwar-kameez. Ajith’s facial features were delicate and he wore gold earrings in his ears that were barely hidden by his androgynous haircut. If his parents hadn’t introduced their son to me earlier this morning, I would have had difficulty determining if the kid were a girl or a boy.
Ajith looked sheepishly around at his classmates with a meek smile. He sniffled and then wiped his hand across his nose, leaving a shiny trail of snot along his cheek.
“Ajith,” continued Taylor “Is new to this school. He came from India.” Ajith nodded at this and then sneezed. At the sound of the sneeze, Taylor broke out into a big grin and asked, “Did you pee that time?”
“Yeah, a little,” Ajith admitted.
My students gave in to their giggles and broke out into a fit of laughter.
I rolled my eyes.
Today was my first, first day of school, and I was unsure of what to expect.
At 7:30 this morning, students and parents were lining up at my door. I felt nauseous and dizzy. My head was swimming with what-ifs. What if I forget what to do next? What if they hate me? What if I turn out to be a terrible teacher?
My anxieties had been quickly drowned out by a whirlwind of commotion as my very first student entered the classroom. A tiny African American girl, hair bobbing with black ringlets, danced into the classroom, and announced herself as “Kathleen.” She looked up into my face with huge, happy brown eyes, and asked, “Where’s my seat?” She giggled, and when she did, her voice sounded like a bell.
I showed Kathleen her seat and gave her a book to read until the rest of the class had arrived. Standing by the door, I greeted each little face as they arrived. Some students were smiling, but a few had tear-stained cheeks. I wanted to reassure them, tell them that I was nervous, too.
Parents were everywhere. They all wanted to talk to me, and they all wanted to talk at the same time. Over 50% of the parents had chosen not to attend Open House the night before, a time set aside for me to explain the yearly plans and to answer any questions the parents may have had. Instead, they all filed into my room on the first morning of school and bombarded me with neurotic questions.
--I forgot to buy juice boxes at the store, so I packed a Red Bull in Kramer’s lunchbox- is that okay?
--Approximately how many times a month can I expect Kramer to have homework?
--My son, Robbie, is very smart. Would it be possible for him to have extra classwork assignments?
--Francesca and Gaby are good friends from last year, would you mind seating them next to each other?
When the room had finally cleared of parents, I found myself being inspected by 40 little eyeballs. Twenty sets of curious eyes stared at me intently. I gulped down my worries and jumped into action.
The day flew by at a rapid pace. I had over planned. I had been told multiple times that there is nothing worse that having a classroom full of children and absolutely nothing for them to do. Our schedule was booked, and my sole duty of the week was to take on the monotonous task of teaching the children classroom procedures. Procedures. Kids need to be told everything: How to stand in a quiet line. The number of seconds to drink from the water fountain. What color folder to put your homework in. How to ask to go to the bathroom. How to put a book back on the shelf. The list goes on and on.
We spent the entire day reviewing what was expected during school hours. I tried to smile a lot and be cheerful. I wanted to let the children know that we were going to have a great year with “lots of successes.” The District had slowly changed my vocabulary over the summer to have a more positive spin, and the word “success” was used in every other sentence. I let the children know that I was a first year teacher. I told them that we had the special opportunity to teach each other, I would teach them their subjects and they would teach me to be the best teacher I could be. This year, we were going to learn together.
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