To the show that never ends! Though you may have thought it did (and rightfully so-- particularly my Russian readers who somehow found this blog when 99% of traffic is currently through Facebook). My unintentional and unannounced hiatus has been the result to a very busy end of the school year. It was the least stressful June wrap-up of my career, despite everyone in my immediate family (even my dog) getting ill or needing medical attention, but I was too busy during most of April and May to update the blog. However, like Emerson, Lake, and Palmer, I am now inviting you come (back) inside and gaze into the Teacher / Parent Fun House Mirror. Today's reflection focuses on the parent side of the mirror-- after all, it is Father's Day.
Something that I realized last night and today as it relates to the teacher / parent dynamic is that emotionally speaking, I am much more responsive to mushy stories about parenting than I am about teaching. I've read feel-good, look-what-we-accomplished tales from the classroom, but none had me as choked up as an article I read last night about the Stanley Cup. (You can read it here, but the actual Grantland website appears to be in a state of flux at the moment...) The quotes from players about how they celebrated with their fathers made me a teary-eyed mess. However, I realized today that those emotions weren't just brought on by the father angle, or the fact that I love hockey. Cracking open an as-yet unread issue of Sports Illustrated from May (I told you I was busy!) gave me an opportunity to read an article about Mother's Day, and bam, I was crying again. While I am a firm believer in the existence of a "man cycle" -- the Mother Health blog has an entry about it -- I do not think these emotions were attributable to my hormonal patterns.
I believe they have everything to do with how I was raised, and how my father showed me that emotions are meant to be felt and shared, not hidden away. I was always given the impression that there was not, nor should there be, any shame in crying. Which probably explains why I well up at the end of The Catcher in the Rye, or when my son transitioned into a "big boy" (he calls it a "good boy") bed. My tendency to wear my heart on my sleeve has yet to steer me wrong, but what of this realization that the reading or watching the experiences of other parents, but not teachers illicit a more emotional response?
I guess it could be as simple as the fact that even though I was a teacher first, I will never retire from being a parent. I could not go on strike from being a parent. The government could never take away my right to bargain with my soon-to-be three-year-old. In short, I am a parent for life, and a teacher for as long as I can be until it is no longer a means of supporting my family, or until robots replace me-- which could happen simultaneously, of course. And though I normally only cry when things are beautifully innocent or heartwarming, the day T1000's replace teachers could be the rare case when sadness triggers my tears.
Sunday, June 19, 2011
Saturday, March 26, 2011
Accept No Substitutes
After an odd week where I was out of the classroom on more days than I was in it (due to an ill child and two days of curriculum meetings) I have had more experiences with substitute teachers in the span of five days than I would typically have in an entire marking period. My three subs ran the gamut from "amazing at dealing with snafus" to "incapable of clicking through a PowerPoint presentation." My students, on the other hand, were consistent. No names were left on the rabble-rouser list, and at no point did the students try to undermine the intended goals of the class hour. This put me in the awkward position of lauding my students for what should be the norm. If the adult in the room isn't me, high-schoolers are still old enough to stick to a plan and follow directions. Whether it is attributable to the classroom environment I establish or not, I haven't had an instance in my seven years where all hell broke loose while I was gone.
So, when I did return yesterday, I thanked the students, told them that I appreciate the way they behaved, and told them that the results were exactly what I had expected. But it still feels like this all boils down to me praising something that shouldn't be praiseworthy, akin to a member of my carpool telling me that he appreciates my use of the turn signal and the fact that I didn't hit any other cars while driving us to work. That would get really old (and rather creepy) really fast.
I then think about my son, and how so much of what I say to him is praise for doing basic things. "Good using words," "Good listening," "Good petting the puppy gently," "Good eating." At his age, he needs a tremendous amount of direction and guidance. I see him as this blank slate, on which everything I say or do makes a mark. So, I make a concerted effort to praise him when what he is doing is what I want or expect him to do. I wonder when that will stop-- when I won't feel like I must congratulate him on the awesome job he does with climbing up stairs or brushing his teeth. I also wonder if what I am doing now will help him be the sort of kid who, regardless of whether the adult in a room is the regular classroom teacher, a flaky substitute, or a robot (it's ten years until he's in high school-- it could happen), will do not just what the teacher expects of him, but what I expect of him. That's the type of student I was in high school, but what if the marks I make on his blank slate don't produce the same results? I guess I'll wait until my son's name appears on the rabble-rouser list before I worry too much about that-- in the meantime, I'll stick to complimenting him on how well he cleans up his toys.
So, when I did return yesterday, I thanked the students, told them that I appreciate the way they behaved, and told them that the results were exactly what I had expected. But it still feels like this all boils down to me praising something that shouldn't be praiseworthy, akin to a member of my carpool telling me that he appreciates my use of the turn signal and the fact that I didn't hit any other cars while driving us to work. That would get really old (and rather creepy) really fast.
I then think about my son, and how so much of what I say to him is praise for doing basic things. "Good using words," "Good listening," "Good petting the puppy gently," "Good eating." At his age, he needs a tremendous amount of direction and guidance. I see him as this blank slate, on which everything I say or do makes a mark. So, I make a concerted effort to praise him when what he is doing is what I want or expect him to do. I wonder when that will stop-- when I won't feel like I must congratulate him on the awesome job he does with climbing up stairs or brushing his teeth. I also wonder if what I am doing now will help him be the sort of kid who, regardless of whether the adult in a room is the regular classroom teacher, a flaky substitute, or a robot (it's ten years until he's in high school-- it could happen), will do not just what the teacher expects of him, but what I expect of him. That's the type of student I was in high school, but what if the marks I make on his blank slate don't produce the same results? I guess I'll wait until my son's name appears on the rabble-rouser list before I worry too much about that-- in the meantime, I'll stick to complimenting him on how well he cleans up his toys.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Reach for the Stars
After reading this article, which gives new meaning to "oops," I can think of quite a few school districts that would have appreciated a share of the millions of dollars that were spent on this-- to borrow a word from a beer commercial-- travishamockery. I have to laugh at the word "likely" being used in the headline, because when I am not sure where my keys are, I'm not satisfied with knowing their "likely" location, let alone a quarter of a billion dollar spacecraft. I'm sure the men and women at the National Aeronautics and Space Administration are quite upset, and so am I. It's not that I think NASA and its projects are completely useless, it's just that I can think of so many other earthy endeavors, education only one of them, that would be better recipients of taxpayer funds. And while public perception of what is spent by NASA and the actual percentage of the Federal Budget that they receive are worlds apart, it doesn't change the fact that I think the funds are misappropriated.
Were a student to tell me that he or she wanted to become an astronaut, I would find it difficult to choose between simply encouraging the dream or supporting the interest in science while nudging him or her toward a vocation that could pay dividends for the occupants of this planet. As it is, I haven't had a student tell me that, most likely because the phrase, "I want to be an astronaut when I grow up" is much more commonly heard in an elementary school setting. And at that point, the dream is very unlikely to come true, as evidenced by the fact that every third male walking down the street isn't wearing firefighting gear, a police badge, or a space suit. Do I want my son to become any of these three things? Not particularly, but I won't discourage him from expressing early and often what his career interests are. At age two and a half, we aren't there yet, but if his imaginative play is any indication of what he will some day become, the best bet right now would be Santa Claus.
I do know that there are any number of unrealistic and probably not-too-beneficial-to-the-world (one Justin Beiber is enough, dammit) dream careers that my son may one day aspire to. I'll deal with that when I get there. My actual fear is that he will set his sights on a more grounded career path that I don't like, for whatever reason. In 1997, I decided I wanted to teach high school, even though I was still just a tenth grader. I knew what I wanted to be, and I got nothing but encouragement from my teachers and family. Before my 21st birthday, I was teaching high school. I set a goal and received support on my way to it-- any critics among those I cared about were silent. I can't know for sure that I'd be where I am today if someone had voiced disagreement or doubt, so I am grateful that no one did.
A fear much larger than the prospect of a misplaced set of keys, or even a phone-booth-sized 278 million dollar satellite, looms on the horizon. What if the biggest obstacle between my child and his future career ends up being me?
Were a student to tell me that he or she wanted to become an astronaut, I would find it difficult to choose between simply encouraging the dream or supporting the interest in science while nudging him or her toward a vocation that could pay dividends for the occupants of this planet. As it is, I haven't had a student tell me that, most likely because the phrase, "I want to be an astronaut when I grow up" is much more commonly heard in an elementary school setting. And at that point, the dream is very unlikely to come true, as evidenced by the fact that every third male walking down the street isn't wearing firefighting gear, a police badge, or a space suit. Do I want my son to become any of these three things? Not particularly, but I won't discourage him from expressing early and often what his career interests are. At age two and a half, we aren't there yet, but if his imaginative play is any indication of what he will some day become, the best bet right now would be Santa Claus.
I do know that there are any number of unrealistic and probably not-too-beneficial-to-the-world (one Justin Beiber is enough, dammit) dream careers that my son may one day aspire to. I'll deal with that when I get there. My actual fear is that he will set his sights on a more grounded career path that I don't like, for whatever reason. In 1997, I decided I wanted to teach high school, even though I was still just a tenth grader. I knew what I wanted to be, and I got nothing but encouragement from my teachers and family. Before my 21st birthday, I was teaching high school. I set a goal and received support on my way to it-- any critics among those I cared about were silent. I can't know for sure that I'd be where I am today if someone had voiced disagreement or doubt, so I am grateful that no one did.
A fear much larger than the prospect of a misplaced set of keys, or even a phone-booth-sized 278 million dollar satellite, looms on the horizon. What if the biggest obstacle between my child and his future career ends up being me?
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
Magic Words
They are called "magic words," but nothing really amazing or surprising happens when one says "please" or "thank you." And it isn't exactly a magical moment when I hear students use these niceties, though I do appreciate it when a kid expresses gratitude upon receiving an assignment. In some instances, the expression could very well be ironic. Imagine it's near the end of 6th hour... a Friday-- do kids really mean "thank you" when a teacher chooses this moment to introduce a project or essay? Suddenly, the weekend that was to be free from homework has become a Saturday and/or Sunday of hard labor. Yet some students still say "thanks" as I hand out the sheets of paper that detail their weekend's demise. Those who say nothing are probably better off for it. If a student is considering saying a phrase ending in "you" in a case like this, "thank" probably isn't the first choice for what comes before it. Maybe in those instances it is some form of magic that prevents a teenager's brain from allowing his or her mouth to utter something regrettable.
Actual situations like the one described above are rare, to be sure, and perhaps the "thanks" is as much a Pavlovian response as it is anything else. But the other day, two students who had approached me with questions on an essay helped each other in the process of getting clarification from me. I was struck by how, before returning to their respective desks, each one took the time to thank the other. It was the sort of exchange that should be commonplace, and it made me long for the good ol' "citizenship grade" like the ones my elementary school teachers had at their disposal. I personally don't know of any public high schools that have a mark for rating a student's civility, but an e-mail to each of the students' parents has a more personal touch anyway. Since the unfortunate pattern of teacher/parent communication tends to begin when something is going wrong in the classroom rather than going right, it is always a pleasure to be on the sending end (and I'm sure on the receiving end) of an e-mail that says, "Your child is kind and polite. In fact, earlier today..."
Though it will be a few years before I will have an opportunity to open such an e-mail, I have enjoyed witnessing firsthand my son's recent outburst of politeness. Although he still often needs to be reminded of the existence of "please" so that his requests don't sound like demands, he has mastered the art of the "thank you." He recently won his first-ever prize from a claw machine game, and he was quick to express his gratitude. "Thank you veddy much box," he said, tightly squeezing his new purple teddy bear. Last weekend, several minutes after we returned from buying groceries, he rushed over to me as though he had forgotten something. He looked up at me, wrapped his arms around my legs, and said, "Thank you Daddy drive me blue car home." In that moment, it was easy to see why they are called "magic words."
Actual situations like the one described above are rare, to be sure, and perhaps the "thanks" is as much a Pavlovian response as it is anything else. But the other day, two students who had approached me with questions on an essay helped each other in the process of getting clarification from me. I was struck by how, before returning to their respective desks, each one took the time to thank the other. It was the sort of exchange that should be commonplace, and it made me long for the good ol' "citizenship grade" like the ones my elementary school teachers had at their disposal. I personally don't know of any public high schools that have a mark for rating a student's civility, but an e-mail to each of the students' parents has a more personal touch anyway. Since the unfortunate pattern of teacher/parent communication tends to begin when something is going wrong in the classroom rather than going right, it is always a pleasure to be on the sending end (and I'm sure on the receiving end) of an e-mail that says, "Your child is kind and polite. In fact, earlier today..."
Though it will be a few years before I will have an opportunity to open such an e-mail, I have enjoyed witnessing firsthand my son's recent outburst of politeness. Although he still often needs to be reminded of the existence of "please" so that his requests don't sound like demands, he has mastered the art of the "thank you." He recently won his first-ever prize from a claw machine game, and he was quick to express his gratitude. "Thank you veddy much box," he said, tightly squeezing his new purple teddy bear. Last weekend, several minutes after we returned from buying groceries, he rushed over to me as though he had forgotten something. He looked up at me, wrapped his arms around my legs, and said, "Thank you Daddy drive me blue car home." In that moment, it was easy to see why they are called "magic words."
Monday, February 21, 2011
What is and What Should Never Be
When I started this blog, I made some rules for myself. For example:
One of her own former students very articulately addresses how he feels about the situation in the first article, and I couldn't agree with him more, at least regarding her behavior. I don't share his opinion that "[h]igh school kids don't want to do anything..." In fact, much of what Ms. Monroe was complaining about reflects more about her ability to manage a classroom and motivate students than it does about the state of today's youth. Every teacher struggles with a particularly challenging student or even a group of them during a school year, but resorting to what Natalie Monroe did is unacceptable, from both a parental and educational perspective. Those "applauding her for taking a tough love approach" and members of the Facebook group that support her should be ashamed of themselves. I laud the students who notified the powers that be about the blog, and I hope that if any teacher were to ever rain insults down in a general or specific manner on my son, he wouldn't hesitate to get an administrator or another teacher involved. I recognize that public employees and everyday citizens in this country are experiencing a real and valid surge in union solidarity in light of the debacle in Wisconsin, but if any teacher directly or indirectly calls my boy "rat-like," you can damn well bet I'll want him/her fired. If publicly insulting students is what's best for kids, come next September, Central Bucks East High School will still have at least one teacher in its hallways who has demonstrated a frightening lack of empathy and a tendency toward lapses in judgment-- not the least of which is that she continues to defend her actions rather than admit that she has erred.
- I will write this blog anonymously.
- I will focus on how my job as a teacher and my role as a parent simultaneously impact each other.
- I will write positive, thought provoking, or humorous things, but if I must be negative about something, I will try to do so constructively.
- I will never write about a student in a way that he or she could feel slighted by what I said, partially because of the anonymity I am maintaining.
- I will give credit where credit is due. (Thanks to Jimmy Page and Robert Plant for the name of this blog entry.)
One of her own former students very articulately addresses how he feels about the situation in the first article, and I couldn't agree with him more, at least regarding her behavior. I don't share his opinion that "[h]igh school kids don't want to do anything..." In fact, much of what Ms. Monroe was complaining about reflects more about her ability to manage a classroom and motivate students than it does about the state of today's youth. Every teacher struggles with a particularly challenging student or even a group of them during a school year, but resorting to what Natalie Monroe did is unacceptable, from both a parental and educational perspective. Those "applauding her for taking a tough love approach" and members of the Facebook group that support her should be ashamed of themselves. I laud the students who notified the powers that be about the blog, and I hope that if any teacher were to ever rain insults down in a general or specific manner on my son, he wouldn't hesitate to get an administrator or another teacher involved. I recognize that public employees and everyday citizens in this country are experiencing a real and valid surge in union solidarity in light of the debacle in Wisconsin, but if any teacher directly or indirectly calls my boy "rat-like," you can damn well bet I'll want him/her fired. If publicly insulting students is what's best for kids, come next September, Central Bucks East High School will still have at least one teacher in its hallways who has demonstrated a frightening lack of empathy and a tendency toward lapses in judgment-- not the least of which is that she continues to defend her actions rather than admit that she has erred.
Sunday, February 13, 2011
"Light Bulb" vs. "Wow" Moments
While reading applications as our department attempts to fill two mid-year openings, I noticed that nearly every applicant answered the question about what the most rewarding thing is about being a teacher in almost the same way. The response was commonly about the "light bulb moment"-- when a student realizes something that he or she had never understood up until that point. I don't think there is necessarily anything bad about this answer. In fact, that was the answer I gave when I applied. But now I realize that it is the wrong answer. The most rewarding part of teaching is not the moment when the kid "gets it" and suddenly understands a never-before-understood concept-- and it shouldn't be. After all, isn't that my job, to make kids understand things they didn't understand before? Could the biggest reward in my career field be doing what I'm supposed to do? Teachers need to have high expectations for students, but this "light bulb moment" response implies that expectations are rather low if these moments are so gratifying. But I don't fault people who gave that answer, or my seven-years-ago self, because it is only with years of experience that I realized what the right answer is, at least for me-- and it's something that I see and hear my son do almost on a daily basis.
The most rewarding thing for me as a teacher is when a student says something that I've never before had a student point out during a discussion of literature-- when he or she comes up with something that I, after having read the text we are dealing with so many times, had never considered before. These instances are pretty rare, but they fill me with a remarkable and perhaps un-nameable feeling. It isn't pride, because I (probably) had nothing to do with whatever the student said, but it's close. Maybe the best way to describe these instances is by calling them "wow moments," as in, "Wow, I'd never thought of it that way before..." "Wow moments" are more rewarding to me than "light bulb moments" because they can't be anticipated. I should and do start a poetry lesson saying, "All of these kids will understand slant rime (which they'd never heard of before until that day) by the time we are done discussing it" but it would be silly to expect all of them to analyze or interpret the poem in a way that neither I nor any of the other students in the room, let alone any of the other students I've ever had in the past, had ever conceived of.
These moments also occur in the parenting side of my life-- except that I can expect my son to wow me each and every day. On a Monday he's calling one of his creations that that he brought home from pre-school (a brown construction paper animal on a stick) a "teddy bear," but suddenly two days later he pointed to it and correctly called it a "gwoun-hog." Of course he heard the correct term from his mom and I and at pre-school, but it was his unprompted switch in that moment to the proper term that wowed me. Yesterday he picked up a toy-- a girl wearing pink cowboy attire (the kid loves horses)-- and came up with "hat boy"-- pretty close to "cowboy," and little off on the gender, but a "wow moment" just the same. But my favorite "wow moment," surpassing all of the amazing ones that I've experienced as a teacher, happened on Friday, when, before I could ask him my routine question of, "What happened at school today?" he offered this up as we pulled out of the parking lot: "Dah-dee, I play choo choo game at school." It was the first time he prompted the sharing of his day, and one of the first times that the initial share wasn't about nap or snack. (Not that those things aren't important!) He's becoming, as I've said before, a "small man," and I have the pleasure of being there and sharing in the "wow."
The most rewarding thing for me as a teacher is when a student says something that I've never before had a student point out during a discussion of literature-- when he or she comes up with something that I, after having read the text we are dealing with so many times, had never considered before. These instances are pretty rare, but they fill me with a remarkable and perhaps un-nameable feeling. It isn't pride, because I (probably) had nothing to do with whatever the student said, but it's close. Maybe the best way to describe these instances is by calling them "wow moments," as in, "Wow, I'd never thought of it that way before..." "Wow moments" are more rewarding to me than "light bulb moments" because they can't be anticipated. I should and do start a poetry lesson saying, "All of these kids will understand slant rime (which they'd never heard of before until that day) by the time we are done discussing it" but it would be silly to expect all of them to analyze or interpret the poem in a way that neither I nor any of the other students in the room, let alone any of the other students I've ever had in the past, had ever conceived of.
These moments also occur in the parenting side of my life-- except that I can expect my son to wow me each and every day. On a Monday he's calling one of his creations that that he brought home from pre-school (a brown construction paper animal on a stick) a "teddy bear," but suddenly two days later he pointed to it and correctly called it a "gwoun-hog." Of course he heard the correct term from his mom and I and at pre-school, but it was his unprompted switch in that moment to the proper term that wowed me. Yesterday he picked up a toy-- a girl wearing pink cowboy attire (the kid loves horses)-- and came up with "hat boy"-- pretty close to "cowboy," and little off on the gender, but a "wow moment" just the same. But my favorite "wow moment," surpassing all of the amazing ones that I've experienced as a teacher, happened on Friday, when, before I could ask him my routine question of, "What happened at school today?" he offered this up as we pulled out of the parking lot: "Dah-dee, I play choo choo game at school." It was the first time he prompted the sharing of his day, and one of the first times that the initial share wasn't about nap or snack. (Not that those things aren't important!) He's becoming, as I've said before, a "small man," and I have the pleasure of being there and sharing in the "wow."
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
If You Choose Not to Decide...
That's right, Rush, you still have made a choice. 'Tis the season in high schools for course selection. Freshmen, sophomores, and juniors are determining what the next steps in their high school careers will be. As a teacher of English, I try to help students pick literature and composition classes that will help them get where they want to be at the end of high school, challenge them, and interest them all at the same time. With literature classes, I stress that students should choose a class they would be highly interested in. If a student doesn't love Shakespeare, taking our school's Shakespeare class because it might look impressive on a transcript is, in my opinion, a bad decision. When given a choice in the matter, life is too short to spend time, even just a semester, studying something because some university might approve.
For some kids, they already know what they want, and all they really need me for is a signature telling the counselors that I okayed their choice. I have seen over the years that these kids do not fit the stereotypical "nerd" profile, and in fact, they don't fit any stereotype at all. They employ a variety of means of expression, manners of dress, and are not defined by any one social label, but what they have in common is knowledge of self. They know what they like, as opposed to merely knowing what they don't like. But in truth, most students don't have a strong opinion on the matter of which literature class to take. Their opportunity to have an opinion is impeded by their lack of knowledge of self when it comes to reading for enjoyment. For once, I don't think this can be blamed on apathy, because students who aren't sure of what to choose when they look at the list of literature class options seem genuinely confused about what to do and earnestly seek my advice on which class I recommend for them. I think a lot of their ignorance of their own literary interests can be connected to how infrequently they read anything that they actually want to read, aside from text messages from friends and status updates on Facebook, of course. Since the studies mentioned in this article from Education World predate the ubiquity of smartphones in the hands of teenagers, I would imagine that Sustained Silent Reading programs are even more beneficial today. Many students now inhabit a world where the internet is literally available to them at all times, yet they choose to do other things with it than immerse themselves in the world of eBooks and online magazines that can be accessed through it anytime, anywhere.
And then I think of my son, who right now has a deep, burning interest in books-- particularly those featuring things on wheels, things that float, animals and their living quarters, and bunnies that are sleeping and/or are about to go to sleep. What will he be reading in ten years? And how? Will he be the first generation to carry all of his textbooks on a tablet or e-Reader? Will a chip implanted in his wrist project a 3-D image of words into the space in front of his eyes with a verbal command? Okay, that one is probably a "no," but while I don't have the answers to the other questions, I know that I will do all I can to infuse in him a knowledge of self when it comes to literature-- to know what the likes and what he doesn't when it comes to reading, so that if and when he has the opportunity to decide which type he will be immersed in for a semester of high school, he won't need his teacher, or me, at all.
For some kids, they already know what they want, and all they really need me for is a signature telling the counselors that I okayed their choice. I have seen over the years that these kids do not fit the stereotypical "nerd" profile, and in fact, they don't fit any stereotype at all. They employ a variety of means of expression, manners of dress, and are not defined by any one social label, but what they have in common is knowledge of self. They know what they like, as opposed to merely knowing what they don't like. But in truth, most students don't have a strong opinion on the matter of which literature class to take. Their opportunity to have an opinion is impeded by their lack of knowledge of self when it comes to reading for enjoyment. For once, I don't think this can be blamed on apathy, because students who aren't sure of what to choose when they look at the list of literature class options seem genuinely confused about what to do and earnestly seek my advice on which class I recommend for them. I think a lot of their ignorance of their own literary interests can be connected to how infrequently they read anything that they actually want to read, aside from text messages from friends and status updates on Facebook, of course. Since the studies mentioned in this article from Education World predate the ubiquity of smartphones in the hands of teenagers, I would imagine that Sustained Silent Reading programs are even more beneficial today. Many students now inhabit a world where the internet is literally available to them at all times, yet they choose to do other things with it than immerse themselves in the world of eBooks and online magazines that can be accessed through it anytime, anywhere.
And then I think of my son, who right now has a deep, burning interest in books-- particularly those featuring things on wheels, things that float, animals and their living quarters, and bunnies that are sleeping and/or are about to go to sleep. What will he be reading in ten years? And how? Will he be the first generation to carry all of his textbooks on a tablet or e-Reader? Will a chip implanted in his wrist project a 3-D image of words into the space in front of his eyes with a verbal command? Okay, that one is probably a "no," but while I don't have the answers to the other questions, I know that I will do all I can to infuse in him a knowledge of self when it comes to literature-- to know what the likes and what he doesn't when it comes to reading, so that if and when he has the opportunity to decide which type he will be immersed in for a semester of high school, he won't need his teacher, or me, at all.
Saturday, February 5, 2011
Give Us Your Babies...
Whenever teachers are presented with new initiatives at meetings, there are those who respond to the proposals with a heavy sigh and an either verbal or non-verbal statement that amounts to, "This too shall pass." I have witnessed several such instances, where an idea is put forth, exalted, and forgotten by nearly everyone two or three years later. On the other hand, I am currently involved with some initiatives that seem so fundamentally important to "doing what is best for kids" (a mantra that I try to live by as a parent and teacher) that I'm amazed they haven't been done before. Or maybe they have, but they too passed and are only now coming back around again. That's the trouble with educational reform, from the perspective of many teachers: what is best for kids sometimes seems so plain-as-day that when a subject gets discussed with new buzzwords or a shifted focus, the enthusiasm that should accompany it can be overshadowed by a "haven't we been here before?" mentality.
The parental perspective of school reform is very different, and different in a way that is so significant that I'm ashamed I didn't realize it until a meeting last month. As some of the major building blocks of K-12 education face changes across the nation, one administrator talked about our district's decision a few years ago to begin the use of Everyday Mathematics. Aside from the anticipated complaints from teachers that were partially rooted in what is described above, the administrator was also fielding complaints from parents who were concerned about this change. In talking about how he responded to parents, he told those of us in the meeting that we have to remember a school district essentially says to parents, "Give us your babies. Trust us with your kids for a majority of their waking hours in a day," and then turns around four years into the process and says, "Oh, wait, there's a better way to teach math (or reading, or science)." Of course parents will respond with concern, and they should. School reform is in some ways an admission that a school district hasn't been doing what's best for kids, because otherwise the reform wouldn't be necessary. What does the school district say then?-- "Okay, give us another one of your babies, but this time, they'll get seven years of the "right" kind of math instead of just four like that other baby you gave us..." I, for seven years, have been teaching teenagers, and I think because they are so close to getting a driver's license and so far removed from getting potty trained, it became easy to stop thinking of these kids as somebody's babies.
All of this has crystallized something for me: that I, as a parent, am not ready for my baby to be the school's baby. My baby still wears diapers. My baby still wants either "roni-en-cheese" or a "buddorsticky sandwich" for every meal. My baby isn't ready for Everyday Math, or any other kind of math, for that matter! But he will be-- soon. In less than time than I may like to admit, the announcement of a new school initiative will not be the occasion for eye rolling, note taking, or "we can do this!" cheerleading. It may be the first time that I play the role of the concerned parent who picks up the phone and asks, "What are you doing to my baby?"
The parental perspective of school reform is very different, and different in a way that is so significant that I'm ashamed I didn't realize it until a meeting last month. As some of the major building blocks of K-12 education face changes across the nation, one administrator talked about our district's decision a few years ago to begin the use of Everyday Mathematics. Aside from the anticipated complaints from teachers that were partially rooted in what is described above, the administrator was also fielding complaints from parents who were concerned about this change. In talking about how he responded to parents, he told those of us in the meeting that we have to remember a school district essentially says to parents, "Give us your babies. Trust us with your kids for a majority of their waking hours in a day," and then turns around four years into the process and says, "Oh, wait, there's a better way to teach math (or reading, or science)." Of course parents will respond with concern, and they should. School reform is in some ways an admission that a school district hasn't been doing what's best for kids, because otherwise the reform wouldn't be necessary. What does the school district say then?-- "Okay, give us another one of your babies, but this time, they'll get seven years of the "right" kind of math instead of just four like that other baby you gave us..." I, for seven years, have been teaching teenagers, and I think because they are so close to getting a driver's license and so far removed from getting potty trained, it became easy to stop thinking of these kids as somebody's babies.
All of this has crystallized something for me: that I, as a parent, am not ready for my baby to be the school's baby. My baby still wears diapers. My baby still wants either "roni-en-cheese" or a "buddorsticky sandwich" for every meal. My baby isn't ready for Everyday Math, or any other kind of math, for that matter! But he will be-- soon. In less than time than I may like to admit, the announcement of a new school initiative will not be the occasion for eye rolling, note taking, or "we can do this!" cheerleading. It may be the first time that I play the role of the concerned parent who picks up the phone and asks, "What are you doing to my baby?"
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Shy as a Whistle Pig
Well, it is Groundhog Day, and the one in Pennsylvania saw no shadow for only the 16th time. Legend has it that if he sees his shadow, the reason he goes back into his stump, or hole, or wherever, is due to fright, even though in reality a groundhog (also known as a whistle pig or woodchuck) is a rather tenacious creature. Even if prognosticators like Punxsutawney Phi are afraid of their shadows, is that such a bad thing? More to the point, is a student necessarily worse off if he or she is more of a shrinking violet in the classroom? I can't speak from experience on this matter, at least from the student standpoint. As a third grader I was once punished with the loss of outdoor recess privileges because I overzealously answered a question by shouting out my response when the teacher was deliberately ignoring me so that other students could be given a chance to participate in the class. I was still the very same, "Ooh, ooh, pick me!" type in high school too. But I certainly don't see that approach as the only means of being successful now that I'm the one doing the question asking and not the hand raising. Ever year I have several students who fit the category of "shy" that do exceedingly well in the class. Through assessments, particularly essays, these students demonstrate knowledge and skills that are no less well developed than their more vocal and actively involved peers.
When I consider how this relates to my son, it doesn't seem to, at least for now. At the moment, it is very difficult to imagine him being anything besides outgoing. He talks almost non-stop, and even if some translation is required (fish is currently "shiFF"), he yearns to be social with both family and new acquaintances. While I know his current gregarious nature is not an absolute guarantee that he will be as genial ten years from now, it is hard to envision him any other way. Regardless of whether or not my son, or any future children I may have, ends up being an introverted teen or an extroverted one, I know that both sides of the coin can be successful in the classroom-- and one side of it is a lot less likely to end up alone at a desk while everyone else is playing at recess.
When I consider how this relates to my son, it doesn't seem to, at least for now. At the moment, it is very difficult to imagine him being anything besides outgoing. He talks almost non-stop, and even if some translation is required (fish is currently "shiFF"), he yearns to be social with both family and new acquaintances. While I know his current gregarious nature is not an absolute guarantee that he will be as genial ten years from now, it is hard to envision him any other way. Regardless of whether or not my son, or any future children I may have, ends up being an introverted teen or an extroverted one, I know that both sides of the coin can be successful in the classroom-- and one side of it is a lot less likely to end up alone at a desk while everyone else is playing at recess.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Resolute Beginnings...
The new year is a month old. If you’ve kept up with your resolution(s), give yourself a pat on the back! (Unless your resolution was to stop being self-congratulatory, of course.) My resolutions were to do something productive that involves writing and to stop procrastinating. I started this blog yesterday, so it looks like I’ve been more successful with the former than the latter. While the new year started thirty days ago for most of the world, among high school teachers, the start of the second semester brings much more “new” than the first of January. While "new semester resolutions" don’t figure prominently into discussions among teachers, we do view the new semester as a chance to build new bridges with the less successful students in our year-long classes, and, for those who teach semester long courses, to start things off on the best note possible with those incoming students.
When I meet new students, I consider how I would want my son to act toward a teacher upon meeting him or her for the first time. First and foremost, I would want him to speak one-on-one with the teacher, if only for a brief introduction. I know that many teachers initiate this, but for those that don’t, I hope he is willing (whether he’s completely comfortable doing so or not) to take a moment and speak directly to the teacher. Perception fuels reality, and I want him to realize that first impressions are very important-- according to studies, like this from Web MD and this from Science Daily (which focuses specifically on student / teacher interactions) they tend to be quite accurate too. Of course, first impressions do have the potential to be wrong, but they are certainly hard to shake. I hope that my son, who is currently carefree enough to greet nearly everyone at the grocery store, particularly if the person bears even a remote resemblance to my father or father-in-law, will be able to able to hold onto a sliver of that trait and unabashedly connect with his teachers, but refrain from writing his first impression of them in stone. So, I resolve to help my son become this sort of person. But, unlike a New Year's resolution, this one won't be deemed a success or failure by the time the groundhog sees his shadow.
When I meet new students, I consider how I would want my son to act toward a teacher upon meeting him or her for the first time. First and foremost, I would want him to speak one-on-one with the teacher, if only for a brief introduction. I know that many teachers initiate this, but for those that don’t, I hope he is willing (whether he’s completely comfortable doing so or not) to take a moment and speak directly to the teacher. Perception fuels reality, and I want him to realize that first impressions are very important-- according to studies, like this from Web MD and this from Science Daily (which focuses specifically on student / teacher interactions) they tend to be quite accurate too. Of course, first impressions do have the potential to be wrong, but they are certainly hard to shake. I hope that my son, who is currently carefree enough to greet nearly everyone at the grocery store, particularly if the person bears even a remote resemblance to my father or father-in-law, will be able to able to hold onto a sliver of that trait and unabashedly connect with his teachers, but refrain from writing his first impression of them in stone. So, I resolve to help my son become this sort of person. But, unlike a New Year's resolution, this one won't be deemed a success or failure by the time the groundhog sees his shadow.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Three, Two, One, Make Rocket Go Now!
After being a teacher for seven and a half years and a father for two and a half, I have concluded that I spend many of my spare mental moments considering what, if anything, I can do to A) prevent my son from being like some of the students I've taught and B) prod him in the direction of being like some of the other students I've taught. So, rather than just allow those thoughts to escape like lightning bugs on a summer evening, I have decided to trap them in this blog where they will eventually end up burnt out and on the bottom of the jar. Perhaps before their lights go out for good, they can offer you some insight into your own parenting, or answers about the uniquely conformist segment of the human population known commonly as the American teenager.
Since I am not yet 30 years old, I labor under the illusion that I am still "hip" in some ways, but there is a litany of things about the world of today's teens that irks/frightens/mystifies me-- and that's before I even think about their behavior on Facebook! One of the primary things that teaching teenagers has done for me as a parent is what inspired the name of this blog. I often feel as though my experience teaching high schoolers allows me to hold a metaphorical fun house mirror up to my son. Though the reflection is certainly not wholly accurate, there are portions of his nascent personality that will undoubtedly be a part of him into and even well beyond his teenage years. What can I do to nurture him, equip him to be successful and happy, and just generally not screw him up? Furthermore, how can my career help me (and perhaps, vicariously, you) do this? My answer to those questions will be the backbone of this blog. Perhaps more importantly, the meat on those bones will be this blog's ability to crystallize the ephemeral moments that all parents encounter as their toddler becomes a pre-schooler or their pre-schooler becomes a little person that gets on a bus and goes to "work" each day, living an entire existence that we, as parents, aren't privy to. The moments that, when the child graduates from high school or gets married, we'd love to have on video to show everyone just how far they've come, and perhaps, just how little they have changed. I will end this first blog post with one such example. In the past three days, my son has stopped calling trucks "ruffs," abandoned "choo-choo" for train, and suddenly given up his staunch refusal to call our dog anything other than "puppy." It seems as though he is transitioning from a little boy into, as he says, a "small man." Perhaps it seems that way because he is.
- Teacher - Father -
Since I am not yet 30 years old, I labor under the illusion that I am still "hip" in some ways, but there is a litany of things about the world of today's teens that irks/frightens/mystifies me-- and that's before I even think about their behavior on Facebook! One of the primary things that teaching teenagers has done for me as a parent is what inspired the name of this blog. I often feel as though my experience teaching high schoolers allows me to hold a metaphorical fun house mirror up to my son. Though the reflection is certainly not wholly accurate, there are portions of his nascent personality that will undoubtedly be a part of him into and even well beyond his teenage years. What can I do to nurture him, equip him to be successful and happy, and just generally not screw him up? Furthermore, how can my career help me (and perhaps, vicariously, you) do this? My answer to those questions will be the backbone of this blog. Perhaps more importantly, the meat on those bones will be this blog's ability to crystallize the ephemeral moments that all parents encounter as their toddler becomes a pre-schooler or their pre-schooler becomes a little person that gets on a bus and goes to "work" each day, living an entire existence that we, as parents, aren't privy to. The moments that, when the child graduates from high school or gets married, we'd love to have on video to show everyone just how far they've come, and perhaps, just how little they have changed. I will end this first blog post with one such example. In the past three days, my son has stopped calling trucks "ruffs," abandoned "choo-choo" for train, and suddenly given up his staunch refusal to call our dog anything other than "puppy." It seems as though he is transitioning from a little boy into, as he says, a "small man." Perhaps it seems that way because he is.
- Teacher - Father -
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