So, today--I saw an amazing thing. I saw a drama fueled, emotinally charged, socially...erm,...well, I don't know...unsure? socially eager, social 8th grade girl? I mean, it's 8th grade! Plus, well...I don't think she's had the easiest time of it, kind of girl--well, I watched her walk away from a fight. She walked away because she knew it was the right thing to do. But also, this girl--she didn't have the best...well, skills? Upbringing? History? Highly transient, long history of changing schools because of fights, long self--perception of being disliked by "trusted" adults--I saw this powerful young girl not only walk away, but unflinchingly tell the truth about a tough situation.
This, in a time where I'm personally struggling with my own abilities, plus more looming budget news, plus overwhelming feelings of unflagging tedium, this strong, self-assured, powerful young woman not only does the right thing, but also trusts me enough to unload the burdens of how crappy 8th grade drama can be. Of course, I cried. I mean, I access every single emotion through tears. But still--it was amazing to watch this young girl process her emotions in a way I only hope I can--she was so...well, she wasn't self assured, she just seriously thought about her actions. Wow.
I am a reactionary person. Well--no. That's not true. I'm learning, and getting better, and I don't always react right away. I'm getting better at stopping and thinking. But this girl--this 14 year old dramatic, hormonally charged girl, stopped and walked away. There is such power in that. I was left in awe. And honor. Today, this girl, she's my hero. She's who I look up to right now.
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Thanksgiving, with a point. Really.
So. Thanksgiving is my all-time favorite holiday. Yes, I realize it's still weeks away. But I was excited about it WAY back in July. Seriously. The thing is, I'm a recovering vegetarian. I was a vegetarian--like most idealistic youth--for over eleven years. When I was growing up, I detested meat with a passion that rivaled my negative feelings toward my brothers, the Detroit Tigers, and visiting the my great grandmother, Griselda (seriously, that was her name) in her retirement home. (I know, I'm awful--and, in retrospect, if I knew what I know about the elderly, I might have tried to be a bit more compassionate--but I was young, and it was a forced activity, and she scared me.) Anyway, I really did hate meat--all kinds.
My meat affliction stemmed from a sky-mall article. When I was pretty young, but old enough to fly alone, I took a trip to Philly to seem my most awesome Granny. I was the oldest grandchild, and therefore, the favorite, and this was a supreme privilege. I was sitting next to a man that, seconds after lift off, started smoking a stogie. Yes--this was a long, long time ago, and yes, you could smoke on the planes then, but I KNEW I was sitting in the non-smoking section, AND I knew that even if you could smoke, you couldn't smoke big, fat, stinky cigars. He argued with me. I won. However, even now, I still equate the information in the sky-mall article with the smell of cigars.
The article: It was all about the tiny, microscopic awfulness that can live on a knife that was used to cut pork and then washed in extremely hot water for a very long time, and can still (STILL!) give you a nasty worm that lives in your stomach. I was, what? maybe twelve? I was horribly grossed out and decided at that moment to never, ever eat any pork product again. And I didn't. For, well, probably over twenty years. Seriously. No bacon. And we lived in a bacon loving house.
Truth be told, we lived in a meat loving house. We had meat at every meal. EVERY meal. Hot dogs, liverwurst, steak, burgers, sausage, pork chops, stew, bologna, you name it, we ate it. While we did eat our share of crazy processed meat products, we didn't eat meat out of a can.
So--I come home from my exclusive Granny-filled vacation and declare I won't eat pork ever again. My parents gave in. I mean, there are some battles you just can't fight, right? Especially with a twelve year old girl. I know this. I teach middle school.
And they were cool with that. But soon, my issue spread, and within months, I would gag at the table when we had burgers. I would eat around the chicken in the pasta. I would--much to my father's disgust and horror--try to cover the taste of my steak with mayo. But they were firm. Pork I could avoid, but all meat, no way. So, as soon as I moved out, I quit eating meat. Whew.
And then, of course, I joined a co-op and read the pamphlets on the treatment of chickens, and pretty much went off and on vegan. I was self-righteous and opinionated and stick thin. And then--well, years later, I had a carnitas taco. I don't know why, but OH MY GOD it was good. Crispy fried wild boar, soaked in house made lard, fried in lard. Damn. So, I got over it.
And then: My first Thanksgiving with meat. My brother likes to tell the story about how I punched him after my first taste of gravy and stuffing and turkey and mashed deliciousness. I exclaimed, "WHY didn't you tell me it was so good!?" And ever since then, yeah. It's my favorite holiday. I especially like the sausage cornbread stuffing creations, but it's all pretty yummy.
And this gets me thinking, because of course, I like to bring up the whole, "What are you thankful for?" bit with my students. So, I get home today, and I start thinking about Thanksgiving, which gets me thinking about the thankful bit, which gets me thinking about a lot of other stuff.
Quite often, I spend Thanksgiving up at a friend's farm. I care for and watch and love their animals, and get to stay in this awesome house and have a bunch of friends over. This year, this isn't the case--but the thing is, this friend, she used to co-teach with me. Well, we used to co-teach together. And this is how my weird brain works, because the whole reason for this post is that I miss having this friend in my classroom. But more than that--this year is the first year that I haven't actually been fully involved in an intervention team. Oh, our class rosters are still made up of the kids that scored lowest on their state assessment tests, but we have no true interventions in place. And this is the thing--for three years, we were a full on reading intervention team. We had a team that met way too often. We looked and looked and looked at and analyzed data. We questioned every little assessment we did--and we did a lot of them. We studied all the literacy gurus and tried all sorts of new things. I had different adults in my classroom all the time, and our team worked with literacy coaches and reading specialists. We had a variety of different supports and we really analyzed what we were doing. We looped and had the kids for two years, instead of just one (trust me, I saw some good and some bad in that practice).
And we saw results--but really, is three years enough? I mean--yeah, our first group of students--they are now sophomores--and we keep in touch with some of them. Well, I do, and our reading specialist is now working part of the day at the high school, so she sees some of them too, so we get some unofficial, anecdotal updates on them. But...when we formed the team, we wanted to see them go through high school with some sort of continuing support. We also wanted to keep the team fully supported at the middle school--so we could continue to track our progress and make changes.
Ah, well. no use crying over spilt milk, right? (Unless you have to clean it up, as I told my Granny when I was six, cleaning up a mess). But the thing is, after weird schedule changes and budget cuts and decisions that lowly peons like me just don't understand, I am now left teaching on my own. Just me. Just like I used to teach, before I agreed to join the reading intervention team. Now, I close the door, and nobody cares what I do. There is nobody analyzing my results. Nobody cares about my lessons. We aren't (over)assessing the students and then trying to figure out their gaps. Nobody else in my room. And it's weird. And it's a little lonely.
But also--is this how everybody teaches? I mean, I used to teach like this. I used to just...well...teach. I don't think I was so introspective. I think I wondered if I was doing an okay job, but I also don't think I really looked all that closely. And true, having so many adults in my classroom was a little unnerving at first--but I'm sure it made me a better teacher. I was accountable. And I think that's what is really bothering me now. I know I'm still accountable. I'm clearly accountable to my students and to myself. I always have been--we all are, right? But I don't think it feels like that when it mostly feels like nobody really cares what you do. I want other teachers all up in my business, because I think it made me a better teacher. I want those conversations about what's best for kids, because I think it helps guide us to do what's best for kids. I don't really want to go back to the way I used to teach, because I think it's real easy for us all to forget that we are supposed to be here for them, not for us. We are supposed to be doing what is best for kids, not what is easiest for the adults. And I think that quite possibly, the powers that be might have lost sight of why we are here, and now, I close my door, and I might just be the only person who cares what happens in my classroom.
My meat affliction stemmed from a sky-mall article. When I was pretty young, but old enough to fly alone, I took a trip to Philly to seem my most awesome Granny. I was the oldest grandchild, and therefore, the favorite, and this was a supreme privilege. I was sitting next to a man that, seconds after lift off, started smoking a stogie. Yes--this was a long, long time ago, and yes, you could smoke on the planes then, but I KNEW I was sitting in the non-smoking section, AND I knew that even if you could smoke, you couldn't smoke big, fat, stinky cigars. He argued with me. I won. However, even now, I still equate the information in the sky-mall article with the smell of cigars.
The article: It was all about the tiny, microscopic awfulness that can live on a knife that was used to cut pork and then washed in extremely hot water for a very long time, and can still (STILL!) give you a nasty worm that lives in your stomach. I was, what? maybe twelve? I was horribly grossed out and decided at that moment to never, ever eat any pork product again. And I didn't. For, well, probably over twenty years. Seriously. No bacon. And we lived in a bacon loving house.
Truth be told, we lived in a meat loving house. We had meat at every meal. EVERY meal. Hot dogs, liverwurst, steak, burgers, sausage, pork chops, stew, bologna, you name it, we ate it. While we did eat our share of crazy processed meat products, we didn't eat meat out of a can.
So--I come home from my exclusive Granny-filled vacation and declare I won't eat pork ever again. My parents gave in. I mean, there are some battles you just can't fight, right? Especially with a twelve year old girl. I know this. I teach middle school.
And they were cool with that. But soon, my issue spread, and within months, I would gag at the table when we had burgers. I would eat around the chicken in the pasta. I would--much to my father's disgust and horror--try to cover the taste of my steak with mayo. But they were firm. Pork I could avoid, but all meat, no way. So, as soon as I moved out, I quit eating meat. Whew.
And then, of course, I joined a co-op and read the pamphlets on the treatment of chickens, and pretty much went off and on vegan. I was self-righteous and opinionated and stick thin. And then--well, years later, I had a carnitas taco. I don't know why, but OH MY GOD it was good. Crispy fried wild boar, soaked in house made lard, fried in lard. Damn. So, I got over it.
And then: My first Thanksgiving with meat. My brother likes to tell the story about how I punched him after my first taste of gravy and stuffing and turkey and mashed deliciousness. I exclaimed, "WHY didn't you tell me it was so good!?" And ever since then, yeah. It's my favorite holiday. I especially like the sausage cornbread stuffing creations, but it's all pretty yummy.
And this gets me thinking, because of course, I like to bring up the whole, "What are you thankful for?" bit with my students. So, I get home today, and I start thinking about Thanksgiving, which gets me thinking about the thankful bit, which gets me thinking about a lot of other stuff.
Quite often, I spend Thanksgiving up at a friend's farm. I care for and watch and love their animals, and get to stay in this awesome house and have a bunch of friends over. This year, this isn't the case--but the thing is, this friend, she used to co-teach with me. Well, we used to co-teach together. And this is how my weird brain works, because the whole reason for this post is that I miss having this friend in my classroom. But more than that--this year is the first year that I haven't actually been fully involved in an intervention team. Oh, our class rosters are still made up of the kids that scored lowest on their state assessment tests, but we have no true interventions in place. And this is the thing--for three years, we were a full on reading intervention team. We had a team that met way too often. We looked and looked and looked at and analyzed data. We questioned every little assessment we did--and we did a lot of them. We studied all the literacy gurus and tried all sorts of new things. I had different adults in my classroom all the time, and our team worked with literacy coaches and reading specialists. We had a variety of different supports and we really analyzed what we were doing. We looped and had the kids for two years, instead of just one (trust me, I saw some good and some bad in that practice).
And we saw results--but really, is three years enough? I mean--yeah, our first group of students--they are now sophomores--and we keep in touch with some of them. Well, I do, and our reading specialist is now working part of the day at the high school, so she sees some of them too, so we get some unofficial, anecdotal updates on them. But...when we formed the team, we wanted to see them go through high school with some sort of continuing support. We also wanted to keep the team fully supported at the middle school--so we could continue to track our progress and make changes.
Ah, well. no use crying over spilt milk, right? (Unless you have to clean it up, as I told my Granny when I was six, cleaning up a mess). But the thing is, after weird schedule changes and budget cuts and decisions that lowly peons like me just don't understand, I am now left teaching on my own. Just me. Just like I used to teach, before I agreed to join the reading intervention team. Now, I close the door, and nobody cares what I do. There is nobody analyzing my results. Nobody cares about my lessons. We aren't (over)assessing the students and then trying to figure out their gaps. Nobody else in my room. And it's weird. And it's a little lonely.
But also--is this how everybody teaches? I mean, I used to teach like this. I used to just...well...teach. I don't think I was so introspective. I think I wondered if I was doing an okay job, but I also don't think I really looked all that closely. And true, having so many adults in my classroom was a little unnerving at first--but I'm sure it made me a better teacher. I was accountable. And I think that's what is really bothering me now. I know I'm still accountable. I'm clearly accountable to my students and to myself. I always have been--we all are, right? But I don't think it feels like that when it mostly feels like nobody really cares what you do. I want other teachers all up in my business, because I think it made me a better teacher. I want those conversations about what's best for kids, because I think it helps guide us to do what's best for kids. I don't really want to go back to the way I used to teach, because I think it's real easy for us all to forget that we are supposed to be here for them, not for us. We are supposed to be doing what is best for kids, not what is easiest for the adults. And I think that quite possibly, the powers that be might have lost sight of why we are here, and now, I close my door, and I might just be the only person who cares what happens in my classroom.
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