I gathered the girl's soccer team in my classroom today to watch The Big Green, a cheesy early 90's film about a rag-tag soccer team who prevail in the end. Before hand, I asked the girls to think about the kind of team we wanted to be. "We'll have our ups and downs," I said. "We saw how easy it is to get upset and angry at one another yesterday."
"I have something to say," Kel interrupted. "I just want to say I'm sorry for how I acted yesterday."
"Me too. I want to apologize," someone else chimed in.
Success! If my soccer team were a Disney Movie, we would be on our way to beating our rivals and receiving free uniforms in the mail. In real life, we will probably lose the rest of our games. I don't care. The girls are growing as people, if not as soccer players. And that matters.
Am I growing in the same way? Do I care who I am, or just about results? My job is to be a teacher, and the outcome is more important than that of a soccer match. Kid's lives are at stake. When do I motivate? When do I punish? When do I reteach, and when do I ramp up the rigor? Does being a great teacher mean having great test scores? Does being a great teacher make you successful in a school? How do I measure my success. In real life, does doing the right thing necessarily correspond with winning?
Friday, February 25, 2011
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Selling Out and Settling In: ideals undone by flying crayons
My main goal upon graduating from college and becoming a teacher was to remain true to my ideals. I would keep wearing my pig tails. I would not sell out. I would not conform.
That brings me to the story of the crayons:
For the first two years of my teaching, I avoided all activities involving crayons because I dreaded the inevitable moment when a majenta or burnt orange would wiz across the room at an innocent student's head. I would swear off crayons once again. My students are 12 years old. Of course they know better. What was going on?
My third year teaching, I tried an experiment. I made a crayon class rule.A crayon proclamation: "Please don't tear up or throw the crayons. It is scary to have a crayon thrown at your head, and it is disruptive. Use them to write with, and when you are finished with them, put them back in the box." I say that every time we use crayons.
It seems crazy, but, no one throws crayons in my class anymore. Problem solved.
Recently, a writer from my home town featured my class in a story in his new book Want to Make Me a Sandwich. Quist narrates his visit to read his story to my class. I was thrilled to be in a book (the first time I've been a character) but I was at first a little disappointed in my description. I was a fuddy duddy. In the story, I give looks to children when their questions get to personal. I have eyes that hush comments when hands aren't raised. I'm not at all the carefree, cool, cutting-edge teacher I fancied myself. Not the Alfie Kohn constructivist I vowed to be in college. "I'm not cool?," I reflected.
I'm not cool. I have a rule about crayons. I'm pretty sure that means I have both conformed and sold out.I even have a what to do with your pencil shavings rule. A how to knock on the door if you come in late because I have locked you out rule. A nod your head at the teacher and look at her so she thinks you are listening and likes you rule.
Additionally, the number of days I wear pig tails is on the decline and along with, it seems, my convictions. I am conforming and forcing my students to conform.What happened to the class I dreamed of where we all sit where we please, probably on top of desks and discuss literature, create memoir, learn for the sake of learning? I remember my gag reflex each time a veteran teacher offered to loan me a copy of Harry Wong's The First Days of School . They explained how it changed their lives. To me, the book was everything that school shouldn't be. It was a step by step guide of what to say. It was old-school.
I was totally wrong. Harry Wong is on to something. The chaos of my first year teaching was proof enough. I didn't want to compromise my values. Learning should be about inquiry. Teaching should be individualized. Classrooms should be about relationship. You can find books to back up all of those theories (because they are right) but what you don't find is someone to tell you when to sell out. Millions of teachers have to learn that on their own, and the lucky ones get the hang of it before they burn out. The most idealistic among us, I think, are the most at risk of being heartfelt, do-gooder, crappy teachers.
It is in this little bit of selling out that I have been able to settle in as a teacher and remain true to my mission: teaching. Structure allows kids to enjoy learning. Now, kids read novels and news rather than throw crayons. Kid's learn to be successful in school: an environment often very different from their home life. I tell the kids upfront that some rules are stupid, but we have to learn to adapt because that is life. There are too many of us in the classroom to run around or shout out. We all get to feel safe and comfy because of rules. That is teaching democracy. Those rules allow me to teach with inquiry, for my class to discuss, to write memoir. They allow me the time to individualize instruction.
I guess I've grown to be proud of adding a little fuddy-duddy to my teaching style. I guess I hope I continue to sell out, or as I see it now, remain willing to adapt, learn and grow.
That brings me to the story of the crayons:
For the first two years of my teaching, I avoided all activities involving crayons because I dreaded the inevitable moment when a majenta or burnt orange would wiz across the room at an innocent student's head. I would swear off crayons once again. My students are 12 years old. Of course they know better. What was going on?
My third year teaching, I tried an experiment. I made a crayon class rule.A crayon proclamation: "Please don't tear up or throw the crayons. It is scary to have a crayon thrown at your head, and it is disruptive. Use them to write with, and when you are finished with them, put them back in the box." I say that every time we use crayons.
It seems crazy, but, no one throws crayons in my class anymore. Problem solved.
Recently, a writer from my home town featured my class in a story in his new book Want to Make Me a Sandwich. Quist narrates his visit to read his story to my class. I was thrilled to be in a book (the first time I've been a character) but I was at first a little disappointed in my description. I was a fuddy duddy. In the story, I give looks to children when their questions get to personal. I have eyes that hush comments when hands aren't raised. I'm not at all the carefree, cool, cutting-edge teacher I fancied myself. Not the Alfie Kohn constructivist I vowed to be in college. "I'm not cool?," I reflected.
I'm not cool. I have a rule about crayons. I'm pretty sure that means I have both conformed and sold out.I even have a what to do with your pencil shavings rule. A how to knock on the door if you come in late because I have locked you out rule. A nod your head at the teacher and look at her so she thinks you are listening and likes you rule.
Additionally, the number of days I wear pig tails is on the decline and along with, it seems, my convictions. I am conforming and forcing my students to conform.What happened to the class I dreamed of where we all sit where we please, probably on top of desks and discuss literature, create memoir, learn for the sake of learning? I remember my gag reflex each time a veteran teacher offered to loan me a copy of Harry Wong's The First Days of School . They explained how it changed their lives. To me, the book was everything that school shouldn't be. It was a step by step guide of what to say. It was old-school.
I was totally wrong. Harry Wong is on to something. The chaos of my first year teaching was proof enough. I didn't want to compromise my values. Learning should be about inquiry. Teaching should be individualized. Classrooms should be about relationship. You can find books to back up all of those theories (because they are right) but what you don't find is someone to tell you when to sell out. Millions of teachers have to learn that on their own, and the lucky ones get the hang of it before they burn out. The most idealistic among us, I think, are the most at risk of being heartfelt, do-gooder, crappy teachers.
It is in this little bit of selling out that I have been able to settle in as a teacher and remain true to my mission: teaching. Structure allows kids to enjoy learning. Now, kids read novels and news rather than throw crayons. Kid's learn to be successful in school: an environment often very different from their home life. I tell the kids upfront that some rules are stupid, but we have to learn to adapt because that is life. There are too many of us in the classroom to run around or shout out. We all get to feel safe and comfy because of rules. That is teaching democracy. Those rules allow me to teach with inquiry, for my class to discuss, to write memoir. They allow me the time to individualize instruction.
I guess I've grown to be proud of adding a little fuddy-duddy to my teaching style. I guess I hope I continue to sell out, or as I see it now, remain willing to adapt, learn and grow.
The P word
I think about my students and how to better teach them while I jog, eat dinner, dream, and floss my teeth. Funny, then, how I find myself actively avoiding conversations about my classroom and my life as a teacher. I, on occasion, tell a silly classroom story. I confide my worries to those close. But, to describe my classroom to others, even other educators, always leaves me feeling dissatisfied and uneasy.
To talk about my classroom is to take on a dialogue about poverty. 98% of the children I teach live with incomes below the poverty line. This statistic is a start in understanding where I teach, but is insufficient. The "Title I" descriptor of my school often elicits pity, judgment, or scenes from Mr. Holland's Opus. None are accurate. The students I teach are at-risk, but they are more than that.
To talk about "at-risk" students seems a betrayal. I never address my class with 'Good morning "at-risk" students. I address my students as kids with serious smarts, potential, and purpose. As people who deserve the best and can achieve greatness. As people who can change the world.
However, I also talk to my students about the many challenges the world will throw at them. I teach resilience and efficacy. It is no secret to my students, many of whom often can't scrounge up the money for lunch much less a field trip, that they are at-risk of many hardships. The label "at-risk" defines students by deficits and ignores strengths. The label is how the world sees my students, how the education system views my students: as statistics.
How then, do we, as teachers of students who are "at-risk," have meaningful, frank discussions about poverty, acknowledging the issues our students face? It is crucial that we as educators answer this question. We hear much about charter schools, teacher quality, and engaged learning, but very little about what best practices look like for students "at-risk". The voices lacking in the debate on education reform are those of teachers working to close the gap, and the voices of our students. Conversations about what works for struggling students are crucial. Discussing what needs our students have, and how to meet these needs is a necessary first step to closing the achievement gap.
Discussing poverty is uncomfortable. An honest discussion requires talking about our failure as educators; the discussion of what doesn't work. In a climate of stressful accountability and fear mongering, admitting struggles is far from the norm. Additionally, talking about poverty elicits guilt. I have to confront the irony that I decry poverty while sipping $6 a bag hazelnut coffee.I do not know what it means to be poor. I advocate for marginalized students whom I will always be somewhat irrelevant to because I am white, grew up in a two-story house, money for college, and a stay at home mom. Speaking of poverty is sad. What if the issues my student's face are too daunting to tackle? What if no matter what I do, they won't make it to college?
I am afraid that my conversation will be trite, elitist, and hypocritical.All are likely. But silence is inexcusable.
To talk about my classroom is to take on a dialogue about poverty. 98% of the children I teach live with incomes below the poverty line. This statistic is a start in understanding where I teach, but is insufficient. The "Title I" descriptor of my school often elicits pity, judgment, or scenes from Mr. Holland's Opus. None are accurate. The students I teach are at-risk, but they are more than that.
To talk about "at-risk" students seems a betrayal. I never address my class with 'Good morning "at-risk" students. I address my students as kids with serious smarts, potential, and purpose. As people who deserve the best and can achieve greatness. As people who can change the world.
However, I also talk to my students about the many challenges the world will throw at them. I teach resilience and efficacy. It is no secret to my students, many of whom often can't scrounge up the money for lunch much less a field trip, that they are at-risk of many hardships. The label "at-risk" defines students by deficits and ignores strengths. The label is how the world sees my students, how the education system views my students: as statistics.
How then, do we, as teachers of students who are "at-risk," have meaningful, frank discussions about poverty, acknowledging the issues our students face? It is crucial that we as educators answer this question. We hear much about charter schools, teacher quality, and engaged learning, but very little about what best practices look like for students "at-risk". The voices lacking in the debate on education reform are those of teachers working to close the gap, and the voices of our students. Conversations about what works for struggling students are crucial. Discussing what needs our students have, and how to meet these needs is a necessary first step to closing the achievement gap.
Discussing poverty is uncomfortable. An honest discussion requires talking about our failure as educators; the discussion of what doesn't work. In a climate of stressful accountability and fear mongering, admitting struggles is far from the norm. Additionally, talking about poverty elicits guilt. I have to confront the irony that I decry poverty while sipping $6 a bag hazelnut coffee.I do not know what it means to be poor. I advocate for marginalized students whom I will always be somewhat irrelevant to because I am white, grew up in a two-story house, money for college, and a stay at home mom. Speaking of poverty is sad. What if the issues my student's face are too daunting to tackle? What if no matter what I do, they won't make it to college?
I am afraid that my conversation will be trite, elitist, and hypocritical.All are likely. But silence is inexcusable.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
