Spanish Lessons

Although I took Spanish for three years in high school until this year I don't think I used it more than a few times. The language laid dormant somewhere in the back of my head along with Semisonic lyrics, Billy Madison quotes and other forgotten relics of that bygone era. This year I've been trying to revive my knowledge of Spanish so I can communicate with the parents of my students, the vast majority of whom do not speak English.

It's been going relatively successful (relative to say, not trying at all). Certain phrases I've gotten quite good at through repetition. El comportamiento de su hija es muy malo (Your daughter's behavior is very bad). Su hijo necesita ayuda con el leyendo y matimaticas (Your son needs help with reading and math). Finally yesterday I got to practice a new phrase. Tengo muy orgulloso del progreso que su hija hizo (I've very proud of the progress your daughter has made). It was a nice feeling for a change. Now, if I could only understand what they say in response...

Poem of the Day April 30

Today's the last day of National Poetry Month. We'll now return to your regular scheduled programming...

Where the Sidewalk Ends

There is a place where the sidewalk ends
And before the street begins,
And there the grass grows soft and white,
And there the sun burns crimson bright,
And there the moon-bird rests from his flight
To cool in the peppermint wind.

Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
And the dark street winds and bends.
Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow
We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And watch where the chalk-white arrows go
To the place where the sidewalk ends.

Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go,
For the children, they mark, and the children, they know
The place where the sidewalk ends.

Shel Silverstein

Big Brother is Watching

Along with clocks that actually tell the correct time, my school recently installed an intercom system that's supposed to also work. Finally the annoying, ahem, informative morning announcements can finally resume taking the first 10-15 minutes out of my day. They've been testing out the system for a while now, but apparently they're ready to start using it for real. Today I got a taste of some of the new system's cool new features.

The day was almost over when I heard the intercom spark to life with static and my AP's voice filled the room. "Mr. B, Mr. B, if you can hear this announcement please switch your intercom to talk." So I stop the lesson and flip the switch.

"Okay, Mr. B I hope you are the one who touched the button, because you're students are legally not allowed to touch it, so uh, please be sure to expand on that with them. Mr. B can you hear me?"

At this point all my students shouted out they could hear him. He settled them down over the intercom and explained it was a conversation just between me and him and then asked me some pointless question about whether I had kids in the after-school tennis program. So what was the point? I guess I had the intercom set to privacy so they couldn't get audio from my classroom. The whole thing made me feel very uncomfortable, knowing that my administration wants to be able to listen in on my classroom whenever they can.

Poem of the Day April 29

as freedom is a breakfastfood

as freedom is a breakfastfood
or truth can live with right and wrong
or molehills are from mountains made
-long enough and just so long
will being pay the rent of seem
and genius please the talentgang
and water most encourage flame

as hatracks into peachtrees grow
or hopes dance best on bald men's hair
and every finger is a toe
and any courage is a fear
-long enough and just so long
will the impure think all things pure
and hornets wail by children stung

or as the seeing are the blind
and robins never welcome spring
nor flatfolk prove their world is round
nor dingsters die at break of dong
and common's rare and millstones float
-long enough and just so long
tomorrow will not be too late

worms are the words but joy's the voice
down shall go which and up come who
breasts will be breasts and thighs will be thighs
deeds cannot dream what dreams can do
-time is a tree (this life one leaf)
but love is the sky and i am for you
just so long and long enough

-ee cummings

Full House

What a day to come back to. A restless night of sleep essentially nullified all the energy I had saved up during break. As soon as I entered the auditorium I was asked to take on three 5th graders whose teacher was absent (My school rarely has enough subs so when there's a shortage they just break up the class and spread 'em throughout the school). By around 9 the last few students had trickled in late meaning I only had one student absent, a rare occurrence. Then around 9:30 a new student arrived! It's 8 months into the school year, but never too late to switch schools because of behavioral problems!

As tired as I was, the week off must have done me well. In spite of the surprises thrown at me I kept pretty cool, didn't get too agitated and just stuck to my plan for the day. I knew that the first day back might be tough so I had planned a surprise for the kids at the end of the day, on the condition that they earned it with good effort and behavior. This kept things running pretty smoothly.

Throughout the day I also made an effort to make sure The New New Kid (TNNK) felt comfortable. I guess I just didn't want to repeat the same mistakes I made with The Original New Kid. To be fair TNNK is from a public school 10 blocks away compared to TONK who moved to the Bronx from San Diego. So her transition is already bound to be a bit easier. Learning from mistakes is still good though. On my prep I took TNNK around the school and introduced her to some other teachers and then pulled some of her classmates out of the room one at a time to introduce themselves to her. When I talked to her parents tonight they said she liked her new school a lot. So at least for today that was a success.

So on a day with three extra kids in my class and a permanent addition to the class I feel like I did alright for myself. And I did it all without any help from John Stamos.

Poem of the Day April 28

This is a poem I've been working on with the kids in my morning program for a little while now. It's a bit above them. But it's one of my favorites and I feel like if we keep at it they'll feel the same way too.

The Rose That Grew From Concrete

Did you hear about the rose
that grew from a crack in the concrete?
Proving nature's laws wrong,
it learned to walk
without having feet
Funny it seems,
but by keeping it's dreams,
It learned to breathe fresh air.
Long live the rose that grew from the concrete
When no one else even cared!

by Tupac Shakur

Mini-Lesson 2

The first day back after vacation almost feels like the first day of school all over again. Except I think I might have actually gotten some sleep before the first day of school.

What Hollywood Teacher Would I Be?

I'm Mr. Holland

What Hollywood Teacher Would You Be?

Poem of the Day(s) April 25-27

This profile of August Kleinzahler in the NY Times caught my eye: Bullies, Addicts and Losers: A Poet Loves Them All. Sounds like my kind of poet.

The Strange Hours Travelers Keep

The markets never rest
Always they are somewhere in agitation
Pork bellies, titanium, winter wheat
Electromagnetic ether peppered with photons
Treasure spewing from Unisys A-15 J mainframes
Across the firmament
Soundlessly among the thunderheads and passenger jets
As they make their nightlong journeys
Across the oceans and steppes

Nebulae, incandescent frog spawn of information
Trembling in the claw of Scorpio
Not an instant, then shooting away
Like an enormous cloud of starlings

Garbage scows move slowly down the estuary
The lights of the airport pulse in morning darkness
Food trucks, propane, tortured hearts
The reticent epistemologist parks
Gets out, checks the curb, reparks
Thunder of jets
Peristalsis of great capitals

How pretty in her tartan scarf
Her ruminative frown
Ambiguity and Reason
Locked in a slow, ferocious tango
Of if not, why not

by August Kleinzahler

Study Suggests Math Teachers Scrap Balls and Slices

Teachers are constantly trying to engage students in learning through real world examples. Activating prior knowledge is a way for students to make a connection to the material they're about to learn. But according to a new Ohio State study detailed in Friday's NY Times these real world hypotheticals might actually be hindering students learning.

Poem of the Day April 24

Billy Collins read this poem at the UCSB convocation:

Marginalia

Sometimes the notes are ferocious,
skirmishes against the author
raging along the borders of every page
in tiny black script.
If I could just get my hands on you,
Kierkegaard, or Conor Cruise O'Brien,
they seem to say,
I would bolt the door and beat some logic into your head.

Other comments are more offhand, dismissive -
"Nonsense." "Please!" "HA!!" -
that kind of thing.
I remember once looking up from my reading,
my thumb as a bookmark,
trying to imagine what the person must look like
why wrote "Don't be a ninny"
alongside a paragraph in The Life of Emily Dickinson.

Students are more modest
needing to leave only their splayed footprints
along the shore of the page.
One scrawls "Metaphor" next to a stanza of Eliot's.
Another notes the presence of "Irony"
fifty times outside the paragraphs of A Modest Proposal.

Or they are fans who cheer from the empty bleachers,
Hands cupped around their mouths.
"Absolutely," they shout
to Duns Scotus and James Baldwin.
"Yes." "Bull's-eye." "My man!"
Check marks, asterisks, and exclamation points
rain down along the sidelines.

And if you have managed to graduate from college
without ever having written "Man vs. Nature"
in a margin, perhaps now
is the time to take one step forward.

We have all seized the white perimeter as our own
and reached for a pen if only to show
we did not just laze in an armchair turning pages;
we pressed a thought into the wayside,
planted an impression along the verge.

Even Irish monks in their cold scriptoria
jotted along the borders of the Gospels
brief asides about the pains of copying,
a bird signing near their window,
or the sunlight that illuminated their page-
anonymous men catching a ride into the future
on a vessel more lasting than themselves.

And you have not read Joshua Reynolds,
they say, until you have read him
enwreathed with Blake's furious scribbling.

Yet the one I think of most often,
the one that dangles from me like a locket,
was written in the copy of Catcher in the Rye
I borrowed from the local library
one slow, hot summer.
I was just beginning high school then,
reading books on a davenport in my parents' living room,
and I cannot tell you
how vastly my loneliness was deepened,
how poignant and amplified the world before me seemed,
when I found on one page

A few greasy looking smears
and next to them, written in soft pencil-
by a beautiful girl, I could tell,
whom I would never meet-
"Pardon the egg salad stains, but I'm in love."

- Billy Collins

Poem of the Day April 23

I'm dedicating today's poem to my sister who turns 29 today and taught me a lot about feminism and strong women and is herself a phenomenal woman.

Phenomenal Woman

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I'm telling lies.
I say,
It's in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.
I say,
It's the fire in my eyes,
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing in my waist,
And the joy in my feet.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can't touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them
They say they still can't see.
I say,
It's in the arch of my back,
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I'm a woman

Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Now you understand
Just why my head's not bowed.
I don't shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It's in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
the palm of my hand,
The need of my care,
'Cause I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

- Maya Angelou

Poem of the Day April 22

Clueless in America

Bob Herbert continues to be one of the best (and few) columnists on the issue of education in America. His latest column highlights one of the most important issues that nobody is talking about.

The Four Children

I spent the last two nights celebrating Passover and observing the tradition of the seder when the story of the Exodus is retold (this year we were sure to pour out some liquor for Charlton Heston). Part of the seder is the discussion of the four children. My mother, the consummate educator, asked me to add my thoughts as a teacher on these four archetypes.

First some background from The Passover Haggadah: The Feast of Freedom:

The Torah alludes to four types of children: one who is wise, and one who is wicked, one who is simple, and one who does not know how to ask.

What does the wise child ask? "What are the statutes, the laws and the ordinances which Adonai our God has commanded us?"...

What does the wicked child ask? "What does this ritual mean to you?"...

What does the simple child ask? "What is this all about?"...

As for the child who does not know how to ask, you should open the discussion for him.

The four children always spark thought and discussion at the seders I've been to. The idea that their roles and our response to their question (which I didn't include) are so clearly defined is often controversial. In this day and age distinct labels like wise and wicked, especially when applied to children, is usually off-putting. And so there are lots of interesting ideas to make the idea of the four children relevant. For example, one favorite explanation is that each of the four children inhabit a place in our own consciousness.

Now for my perspective as a first year teacher on the four children...

Each of these children is all too familiar to me. I've discussed Bambi, and she is a perfect fit for the child who does not know how to ask. She will sit there quietly, with a bewildered look on her face not knowing what to do, but not raising her hand to ask for help.

The simple child is a description that applies to many of the students in my class. They simply do not understand the content we are learning, but they are more than happy to ask for help. More often, many of them constantly ask for help rather than find a solution on their own.

The wise child, exalted in the haggadah, is rare in my classroom. The wise child understands the fundamentals of the traditions (the content in the classroom) and with an inquisitive nature wants to know more. These children are favored and it's a pleasure to find someone who understands the basics and still wants to know more. Of course the wise child isn't the most interesting of the four...that honor goes to the wicked child...

This child is the one who often sparks the most discussion at the seder table. Tradition teaches that one should answer the question, "What does this ritual mean to you?" by "setting the child's teeth on edge" and that if this child had been in Egypt, they would not have been redeemed from slavery. Harsh.

I know this "wicked" child all too well. What makes the child wicked? It's the tone of her question. It's the way the child asks. It's a challenge to your faith and of your reasoning. A challenge to explain yourself. Too often we perform rituals as a rote task without questioning ourselves why we're doing them. When an uninvited challenge comes, it often provokes indignation.

The "wicked" child in my classroom is the same way. She challenges me. Sometimes at appropriate times and often at inappropriate times. The instinct is the label this child as wicked rather than admit that I've done wrong or been unfair. The wicked child is one of the smartest in my classroom. I imagine the wicked child of the haggadah is very smart as well. You have to be intelligent to really question anything at its core.

The key to the wicked child is understanding how to respond to this child. For most of the year my response has been anger and defensiveness. This does not produce anything. Instead if you change the tone of the conversation you can guided the wicked child, or any child for that matter, towards real understanding. You can help the wicked child understand why you do things the way you do, and therefore why they should be important to them as well.

Poem of the Day April 21

In honor of Passover and the 10 plagues...

My Frog Is a Frog

My frog is a frog that is hopelessly hoarse,
my frog is a frog with a reason, of course,
my frog is a frog that cannot croak a note,
my frog is a frog with a frog in its throat.

-Jack Prelutsky

Poem of the Day April 20

Freedom's Plow

When a man starts out with nothing,
When a man starts out with his hands
Empty, but clean,
When a man starts to build a world,
He starts first with himself
And the faith that is in his heart-
The strength there,
The will there to build.

First in the heart is the dream-
Then the mind starts seeking a way.
His eyes look out on the world,
On the great wooded world,
On the rich soil of the world,
On the rivers of the world.

The eyes see there materials for building,
See the difficulties, too, and the obstacles.
The mind seeks a way to overcome these obstacles.
The hand seeks tools to cut the wood,
To till the soil, and harness the power of the waters.
Then the hand seeks other hands to help,
A community of hands to help-
Thus the dream becomes not one man’s dream alone,
But a community dream.
Not my dream alone, but our dream.
Not my world alone,
But your world and my world,
Belonging to all the hands who build.

A long time ago, but not too long ago,
Ships came from across the sea
Bringing the Pilgrims and prayer-makers,
Adventurers and booty seekers,
Free men and indentured servants,
Slave men and slave masters, all new-
To a new world, America!

With billowing sails the galleons came
Bringing men and dreams, women and dreams.
In little bands together,
Heart reaching out to heart,
Hand reaching out to hand,
They began to build our land.
Some were free hands
Seeking a greater freedom,
Some were indentured hands
Hoping to find their freedom,
Some were slave hands
Guarding in their hearts the seed of freedom,
But the word was there always:
Freedom.

Down into the earth went the plow
In the free hands and the slave hands,
In indentured hands and adventurous hands,
Turning the rich soil went the plow in many hands
That planted and harvested the food that fed
And the cotton that clothed America.
Clang against the trees went the ax into many hands
That hewed and shaped the rooftops of America.
Splash into the rivers and the seas went the boat-hulls
That moved and transported America.
Crack went the whips that drove the horses
Across the plains of America.
Free hands and slave hands,
Indentured hands, adventurous hands,
White hands and black hands
Held the plow handles,
Ax handles, hammer handles,
Launched the boats and whipped the horses
That fed and housed and moved America.
Thus together through labor,
All these hands made America.

Labor! Out of labor came villages
And the towns that grew cities.
Labor! Out of labor came the rowboats
And the sailboats and the steamboats,
Came the wagons, and the coaches,
Covered wagons, stage coaches,
Out of labor came the factories,
Came the foundries, came the railroads.
Came the marts and markets, shops and stores,
Came the mighty products moulded, manufactured,
Sold in shops, piled in warehouses,
Shipped the wide world over:
Out of labor-white hands and black hands-
Came the dream, the strength, the will,
And the way to build America.
Now it is Me here, and You there.
Now it’s Manhattan, Chicago,
Seattle, New Orleans,
Boston and El Paso-
Now it’s the U.S.A.

A long time ago, but not too long ago, a man said:
ALL MEN ARE CREATED EQUAL--
ENDOWED BY THEIR CREATOR
WITH CERTAIN UNALIENABLE RIGHTS--
AMONG THESE LIFE, LIBERTY
AND THE PURSUIT OF HAPPINESS.
His name was Jefferson. There were slaves then,
But in their hearts the slaves believed him, too,
And silently too for granted
That what he said was also meant for them.
It was a long time ago,
But not so long ago at that, Lincoln said:
NO MAN IS GOOD ENOUGH
TO GOVERN ANOTHER MAN
WITHOUT THAT OTHER’S CONSENT.
There were slaves then, too,
But in their hearts the slaves knew
What he said must be meant for every human being-
Else it had no meaning for anyone.
Then a man said:
BETTER TO DIE FREE
THAN TO LIVE SLAVES
He was a colored man who had been a slave
But had run away to freedom.
And the slaves knew
What Frederick Douglass said was true.

With John Brown at Harper’s Ferry, Negroes died.
John Brown was hung.
Before the Civil War, days were dark,
And nobody knew for sure
When freedom would triumph
"Or if it would," thought some.
But others new it had to triumph.
In those dark days of slavery,
Guarding in their hearts the seed of freedom,
The slaves made up a song:
Keep Your Hand On The Plow! Hold On!
That song meant just what it said: Hold On!
Freedom will come!
Keep Your Hand On The Plow! Hold On!
Out of war it came, bloody and terrible!
But it came!
Some there were, as always,
Who doubted that the war would end right,
That the slaves would be free,
Or that the union would stand,
But now we know how it all came out.
Out of the darkest days for people and a nation,
We know now how it came out.
There was light when the battle clouds rolled away.
There was a great wooded land,
And men united as a nation.

America is a dream.
The poet says it was promises.
The people say it is promises-that will come true.
The people do not always say things out loud,
Nor write them down on paper.
The people often hold
Great thoughts in their deepest hearts
And sometimes only blunderingly express them,
Haltingly and stumblingly say them,
And faultily put them into practice.
The people do not always understand each other.
But there is, somewhere there,
Always the trying to understand,
And the trying to say,
"You are a man. Together we are building our land."

America!
Land created in common,
Dream nourished in common,
Keep your hand on the plow! Hold on!
If the house is not yet finished,
Don’t be discouraged, builder!
If the fight is not yet won,
Don’t be weary, soldier!
The plan and the pattern is here,
Woven from the beginning
Into the warp and woof of America:
ALL MEN ARE CREATED EQUAL.
NO MAN IS GOOD ENOUGH
TO GOVERN ANOTHER MAN
WITHOUT HIS CONSENT.
BETTER DIE FREE,
THAN TO LIVE SLAVES.
Who said those things? Americans!
Who owns those words? America!
Who is America? You, me!
We are America!
To the enemy who would conquer us from without,
We say, NO!
To the enemy who would divide
And conquer us from within,
We say, NO!
FREEDOM!
BROTHERHOOD!
DEMOCRACY!
To all the enemies of these great words:
We say, NO!

A long time ago,
An enslaved people heading toward freedom
Made up a song:
Keep Your Hand On The Plow! Hold On!
The plow plowed a new furrow
Across the field of history.
Into that furrow the freedom seed was dropped.
From that seed a tree grew, is growing, will ever grow.
That tree is for everybody,
For all America, for all the world.
May its branches spread and shelter grow
Until all races and all peoples know its shade.
KEEP YOUR HAND ON THE PLOW! HOLD ON!

-Langston Hughes

Poem of the Day April 19

I'm home in California for Spring Recess and found some of my old school work including a 2nd grade report on tigers and leopards. Included in the report was the classic poem by William Blake which I remember as one of the first poems I ever memorized.

The Tiger

TIGER, tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder and what art
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand and what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? What dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,
And water'd heaven with their tears,
Did He smile His work to see?
Did He who made the lamb make thee?

Tiger, tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

- William Blake

Poem of the Day April 18

Mending Wall

Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,
And spills the upper boulders in the sun;
And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.
The work of hunters is another thing:
I have come after them and made repair
Where they have left not one stone on a stone,
But they would have the rabbit out of hiding,
To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean,
No one has seen them made or heard them made,
But at spring mending-time we find them there.
I let my neighbour know beyond the hill;
And on a day we meet to walk the line
And set the wall between us once again.
We keep the wall between us as we go.
To each the boulders that have fallen to each.
And some are loaves and some so nearly balls
We have to use a spell to make them balance:
"Stay where you are until our backs are turned!"
We wear our fingers rough with handling them.
Oh, just another kind of out-door game,
One on a side. It comes to little more:
There where it is we do not need the wall:
He is all pine and I am apple orchard.
My apple trees will never get across
And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.
He only says, "Good fences make good neighbours."
Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder
If I could put a notion in his head:
"Why do they make good neighbours? Isn't it
Where there are cows? But here there are no cows.
Before I built a wall I'd ask to know
What I was walling in or walling out,
And to whom I was like to give offence.
Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
That wants it down." I could say "Elves" to him,
But it's not elves exactly, and I'd rather
He said it for himself. I see him there
Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top
In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed.
He moves in darkness as it seems to me,
Not of woods only and the shade of trees.
He will not go behind his father's saying,
And he likes having thought of it so well
He says again, "Good fences make good neighbours."
-Robert Frost

"Today was the best day of my life..."

It's been a while since I've had a genuinely rewarding moment. One of those ah-ha, light bulb moments where a kid understands a new math concept, or delivers a great explanation of an ecosystem or just a moment where every single student is fully engaged in something. It's these little sparks that makes all the other challenges worthwhile. But, yesterday I told a friend I didn't remember the last one I'd had such a moment. Instead I felt I was just stuck in the routine, spinning my gears until June.

I knew that today would be a special day for the students. They had failed to earn a pizza party. As a consolation I planned a lesson on equivalent fractions using s'mores. I told them at the beginning of the day that I had a surprise planned for the end of the day, but they would have to be on their BEST behavior to earn it. I made a very simple puzzle of a s'more and after each lesson in the the morning I would add a piece of the puzzle if they'd stayed focused.

They weren't perfect. I'm sure they weren't as good as some other classes on their worst day. But I could tell they were doing their best for me. And so we had s'mores while we watched some of BBC's Planet Earth. As Gary Coleman Jr. was chomping down on his s'more, chocolate and marshmallow oozing over his tiny face, he said, "Today was the best day of my life." Now, I know better than to take the comment on face value. If I did that I would have to also believe him every time he told me how much he hated me and my class. But, still, I counted it as one of those moments that makes the many tough parts forgettable, even if just for an afternoon.

Poem(s) of the Day April 17

Today I taught a lesson on personification and was happy to find a poem by Langston Hughes that I didn't know before, but fit well with the lesson.

April Rain Song

Let the rain kiss you
Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops
Let the rain sing you a lullaby
The rain makes still pools on the sidewalk
The rain makes running pools in the gutter
The rain plays a little sleep song on our roof at night
And I love the rain.

by Langston Hughes

I wish I'd thought to bring in this poem by Carl Sandburg, another one of my favorites:

Fog

The fog comes
on little cat feet.

It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.

by Carl Sandburg

My Letter to Myself

Almost a year ago on the first day of pre-service training for NYC Teaching Fellows I was asked to write a letter to myself. I would receive it later once I was actually teaching. Today it arrived.

I was a bit apprehensive at first when I took the letter from my mailbox. What kind of obnoxiously naive words had my past self written for me? Reading, I was pleasantly surprised by how realistic my expectations were, for myself and the experience as a whole. Here is my letter to myself:

Dear Ruben,
Holy shit what did I get myself into? It's hard trying not to be melodramtic, but I'm on the verge of a panic attack. I am completely unprepared for what is coming, but nonetheless, here I am.
How am I supposed to be a teacher? To be responsible for the learning and achievement of some 25 kids facing the worst obstacles imaginable? How am I supposed to be responsible, patient, thoughtful, dynamic, compassionate, authoritative, strong and energetic every day for a whole school year? I don't even know what I'm doing here.
Everyone else [in the Teaching Fellows program] seems guided by a very specific purpose. All I know is I want to do something good, to make a positive change in the world. It's so vague and probably not enough to make me a good teacher. I'm worried that despite the idealism that made me choose this path, I don't have enough to make it to the end. I'm scared cynicism will take over and I'll fail. I hope when you read this you laugh and have proved me wrong. Go out and change the world!

I guess what surprises me reading this letter 10 months after writing it, is that my questions were spot on. I question myself and my ability to fulfill those many roles every day. What strengthens me is that I haven't failed, I haven't given up and I have given in to cynicism. I haven't and I won't. Meanwhile, there's still tiem to figure out how to be responsible, patient, thoughtful, dynamic, compassionate, authoritative, strong and energetic.

Poem of the Day April 16

Today's poem I used for a lesson on hyperbole and is by one of my favorite children's authors...

Sarah Cynthia Sylvia Stout Would Not Take the Garbage Out

Sarah Cynthia Sylvia Stout
Would not take the garbage out!
She'd scour the pots and scrape the pans,
Candy the yams and spice the hams,
And though her daddy would scream and shout,
She simply would not take the garbage out.
And so it piled up to the ceilings:
Coffee grounds, potato peelings,
Brown bananas, rotten peas,
Chunks of sour cottage cheese.
It filled the can, it covered the floor,
It cracked the window and blocked the door
With bacon rinds and chicken bones,
Drippy ends of ice cream cones,
Prune pits, peach pits, orange peel,
Gloppy glumps of cold oatmeal,
Pizza crusts and withered greens,
Soggy beans and tangerines,
Crusts of black burned buttered toast,
Gristly bits of beefy roasts. . .
The garbage rolled on down the hall,
It raised the roof, it broke the wall. . .
Greasy napkins, cookie crumbs,
Globs of gooey bubble gum,
Cellophane from green baloney,
Rubbery blubbery macaroni,
Peanut butter, caked and dry,
Curdled milk and crusts of pie,
Moldy melons, dried-up mustard,
Eggshells mixed with lemon custard,
Cold french fried and rancid meat,
Yellow lumps of Cream of Wheat.
At last the garbage reached so high
That it finally touched the sky.
And all the neighbors moved away,
And none of her friends would come to play.
And finally Sarah Cynthia Stout said,
"OK, I'll take the garbage out!"
But then, of course, it was too late. . .
The garbage reached across the state,
From New York to the Golden Gate.
And there, in the garbage she did hate,
Poor Sarah met an awful fate,
That I cannot now relate
Because the hour is much too late.
But children, remember Sarah Stout
And always take the garbage out!

-Shel Silverstein, 1974

Poem of the Day April 15

I found this poem for an art class I'm taking. Pablo Neruda has been one of my favorite poets since high school. This poem caught my eye because as a teacher barely a year out of college I feel like I'm constantly reconciling different identities and still trying to figure out where certain sides of me fit into my life.

We Are Many

Of the many men whom I am, whom we are,
I cannot settle on a single one.
They are lost to me under the cover of clothing
They have departed for another city.

When everything seems to be set
to show me off as a man of intelligence,
the fool I keep concealed on my person
takes over my talk and occupies my mouth.

On other occasions, I am dozing in the midst
of people of some distinction,
and when I summon my courageous self,
a coward completely unknown to me
swaddles my poor skeleton
in a thousand tiny reservations.

When a stately home bursts into flames,
instead of the fireman I summon,
an arsonist bursts on the scene,
and he is I. There is nothing I can do.
What must I do to distinguish myself?
How can I put myself together?

All the books I read
lionize dazzling hero figures,
brimming with self-assurance.
I die with envy of them;
and, in films where bullets fly on the wind,
I am left in envy of the cowboys,
left admiring even the horses.

But when I call upon my DASHING BEING,
out comes the same OLD LAZY SELF,
and so I never know just WHO I AM,
nor how many I am, nor WHO WE WILL BE BEING.
I would like to be able to touch a bell
and call up my real self, the truly me,
because if I really need my proper self,
I must not allow myself to disappear.

While I am writing, I am far away;
and when I come back, I have already left.
I should like to see if the same thing happens
to other people as it does to me,
to see if as many people are as I am,
and if they seem the same way to themselves.
When this problem has been thoroughly explored,
I am going to school myself so well in things
that, when I try to explain my problems,
I shall speak, not of self, but of geography.

Pablo Neruda

A SMART Board Breakthrough

I've really been enjoying the SMART Board. I know how lucky I am. In these inner city school horror stories, the teacher isn't supposed to have resources like these. It's a credit to my principal, Joel Klein and Mayor Bloomberg that a school like mine can have such state of the art technology.

I've been doing my best to incorporate the smart board into my lessons. The easiest way is just to replace my writing on the whiteboard with typing on the SMART Board. It saved time and I could keep my eyes on the students. Aside from that my big "accomplishment" with the SMART Board was creating a couple of jeopardy games on PowerPoint.

Today I was looking around and I found an online activity where you create two sets of fractions equivalent to the fraction shown. Then I set up the SMART Board so that you navigated the site by dragging and clicking on the board instead of the lap top. This meant I could show the kids how to create the fractions and then ask for volunteers to try it.

The kids were SO into it! It was really amazing. I'll admit they weren't all engaged 100% of the time, but they were all very excited by it. When we would click to see if the fractions were equivalent they would cheer every time it said "CORRECT"! The beauty of it was I barely had to say a word the whole time. So, I was incorporating technology into my lesson, integrating kinesthetic and visual modalities of learning, and the kids were loving every second of it. I'm looking forward to seeing what other kinds of tricks I can pull from my SMART Board sleeve in the next few months.

Mini-Lesson

If you set your alarm to wake up from a nap, don't forget to reset it to AM.

The Little Things

How is it April and I'm just now figuring out how to ensure that all my kids turn in their homework (take away recess)? How is it April and I'm still trying to figure out how to stop name-calling? I think I've gotten a better grasp on the big picture of teaching, but I'm still struggling with some of the smaller albeit essential details. Still, it feels good. I get through a day and I've gotten through all the lessons I had planned. Things like pacing, ignoring the small misbehavior and implementing consistent rewards and consequences are finally coming together. I hope that soon the small things will follow.

Poem of the Day April 14

This is one of the poems I worked on with my students to teach about similes. It's a fun poem that the kids enjoyed from a collection of poetry for children called No More Homework, No More Tests.

A Bad Case of the Giggles

I found a book of poems.
I brought the book to school.
And every time I readi it,
I giggle like a fool.

Today in social studies,
I opened up the book.
I started giggling right away
from just a single look.

I'm croaking like a bullfrong.
I'm braying like a mule.
These aren't sounds you're supposed to make
while studying at school.

The more I try to stop it,
the louder that I howl.
I squawking like a parrot,
and hooting like an owl!

I'm making a commotion;
the teacher is upset.
I'm losing my position
as teacher's favorite pet!

My giggling is contagious.
My friends have all joined in.
The teacher's getting angry,
We're making quite a din.

The whole darned class is giggling.
Not one of us can stop.
The teacher says if we can't,
he'll call the hallway cop.

The room next door has heard us.
And now they're giggling too.
The sound of giggling travles fast.
The school sounds like a zoo.

And now the teacher's giving up.
He cannot teach today.
The principal's declaring it
a giggling holiday.

Bruce Lansky

Five Days

Live from my new smartboard... Just have to make it through five days and then I get a much deserved, much needed week off. Home to California... a chance to see my family and recharge the batteries before one last final push to summer vacation. But, I'm getting ahead of myself. Gotta remember to take things one day at a time. It's when I don't focus on each day that I get myself into trouble.

National Poetry Month

April is National Poetry Month. I figured I'd share some of my favorites and some of the poems I'm reading with my kids. The first is a short one, but one of my favorite poems. It's by Yehuda Amichai.

Forgetting Someone

Forgetting someone is like forgetting to turn off the light
in the backyard so it stays lit all the next day

But then it is the light that makes you remember.
-Translated by Chana Bloch

Friday Funday

Lately Fridays are my best day of the week. For some reason the kids seem a bit more mellow. Of course it helps to have the weekend right within my reach to make the day a bit more tolerable. At the same time it often feels like I'm just going through the motions, trying to make it to dismissal without too much stress. Still, Fridays tend to go better overall.

Now I'm trying to figure out why that is, and see if there's a way to transpose that success to the rest of the week. There are so many factors going into a good day of teaching, it's hard to say any one thing I'm doing on Fridays is helping.

Here's what I can say I do differently on Fridays:
- I dress down in jeans and a button down. I doubt this has a major effect on behavior, but I do know the kids get really excited to see me dressed casually for some reason. If I dressed like this all the time would it help behavior? Doubtful, since the main reason the kids get so excited in the first place is because when I dress down it's rare.
- We play games. In the morning I usually try to substitute at least one "normal" lesson for a game. Today we played Science Jeopardy, a game I made on Powerpoint to help the kids review the last two chapters we read. It's still educational, but the kids don't realize it and they love the competition.
- I have lunch with 5-6 students who earned the privilege by being MVP's of the day or week during the past week. This also happens to be one of my favorite parts of the week when I get to relax and let my guard down and just interact with the kids as a human being.
- I have a class meeting. During the class meeting we reflect on what we've done and I usually discuss at least one issue we need to work on as a class. I also try to incorporate a mini-lesson of some type on community.

Obviously I can't incorporate all these things into the rest of the week. Some of them are only effective by the token of happening once a week. Still, I'm hoping I can delve deeper into my Friday teaching and think of a way to extend the positive aspects to the rest of the week.

Stagnation

Let a few more days pass than usual since my last post. Not that I don't have more than a few stories to tell, but I guess I've just been caught up in the routine. Sometimes it's harder to make time to take a breath when you're just going through the motions rather than caught up in something hectic or new. In any case, things have settled down somewhat over the past week.

It really does feel as though I'm in a bit of a doldrums however. Still dealing with some of the same old problems, and I wonder how much of it is a result of my own malaise. I remember back in September it was all I could do to get through a day. Now it's not too hard. But, I think maybe I'm just doing enough to get through the day, instead of making the most of each one.

I'm living and working within a paradox. I'm counting the school days left until summer vacation (51). This is a good feeling. At the same time I feel like time is running out. I only have 51 days left to get through and I only have 51 days left to prepare these kids for next year. Counting the days is a dangerous game to play. You run the risk of just running the clock down instead of really doing everything in your power to succeed.

A funny thing about the passing time is that I didn't even realize that another milestone passed. April 4 was official seven months of teaching. I remember when I was exhilarated I'd made it one month, two months... I guess when you stop patting yourself on the back for reaching an insignificant landmark you're doing something right. Now, when I get to June 26, that will be a whole other story...

The X-Factor

If a student (or all 26 of them) have a bad day I'm usually thinking on it for a while. What was it that went wrong for them? At first I think of the factors I can control - do they understand the material, do they understand my expectations, etc. - and then I wonder about those outside factors. Did they eat breakfast? Was Dad hitting Mom last night? Are they just feeling out of sorts because of the weather or they got in trouble before school? All these factors are among hundreds or more that could affect a kid's behavior and focus.

Yesterday I had something of an (obvious) epiphany. What about the factors that affect my teaching? I'm always thinking about my lesson planning and preparation for teaching. Do I have a clear idea of what I'm teaching and how I'm going to teach it? What materials do I need? Am I doing everything I can to engage the different kinds of learners in my classroom. But, until yesterday for some reason I never thought to think about the x-factors that affect me as a teacher.

It's funny because I always think about them with my students. And in a way I was not being fair to myself, because adults can get thrown off just as much as kids by external forces. And usually we're just as oblivious (if not more) to the way these factors affect our daily performance. Whether it's bad weather, dirty dishes in the sink, a negative comment from a coworker or whatever, there's a myriad of things that can throw you off without you knowing it.

This was an especially important realization, because the students definitely feed off the attitude of the teacher. Frustration and anxiety are completely projected onto the students. If I raise my voice out of anger it may result in quiet, but more often than not the students react with equal negativity. So if I'm upset or aggravated and I bring that into the classroom without realizing it I might end up inadvertently undermining my teaching for the day.

What I understood yesterday when I had this epiphany is that this is okay sometimes. Sometimes you just have a bad day and it's not anybody's fault. You can do your best to reflect and examine and rethink your whole game plan. But every once in a while it's important to just chalk things up to things outside your control and plan for a fresh start tomorrow.

"Kids are barometers"

Another frustrating day. One possible explanation: the weather. The quote above is from another teacher and I have agree. It seems strange, but the kids seem to act out especially on rainy days. Yesterday it was overcast and rainy and today it was the same. For some reason the kids just crazy. Maybe they're restless. I guess it's just something psychological that I won't ever really comprehend.

Of course at the same time everyone's telling to prepare for the real craziness when the weather warms up. So, I guess the only way to have an ideal setting for teaching is a 65 degree weather with a couple of clouds in the sky... or I could just get a handle on my band of maniacs. Oh well. Tomorrow's forecast is 55 degrees and sunny, so we'll see how things go.