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.
Saturday, March 26, 2011
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."
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)