Musings from a Not-So-Master Teacher

I remember having a few bad teachers.  Actually, I really just remember having about three.  Three out of forty is a pretty low number when I think about it.  Maybe I grew up in a "good school" or maybe I was a teacher's pet.  Yet, when I think about it, I had some damn good teachers.  They created memories that last forever.  I know that sounds so cliche, but they taught me how to read and write, how to add and subtract, how to engage in history, how to balance a checkbook, how to get along with others, what it means to question injustice in the world.  I feel as if I recieved an amazing education. 

Anyone? Anyone?

I mention this because it's easy to focus on the negatives.  I do this.  I tell stories about bad teachers in my school, when there are actually maybe a total of three or four out of sixty-something staff members.  Seeing how 90% is an A, I'm convinced most teachers are actually doing a great job.  So, I made a list of what I notice about teachers:

1. They almost all work extra hours without pay: Whether it's grading papers late at night or volunteering to chaperone a dance or tutoring a kid before school, teachers work extra without being thanked
2. They almost all have a sense of humor.  Contrary to the way we are depicted in movies and the way they market things to us (prim and proper posters with apples and kittens and junk like that) most teachers realize that they need to have a sense of humor to make it in such a draining profession.
3. They are usually great story-tellers.  In fact, some of the stories seem too crazy to be true . . . until you've been in a classroom. 
4. They almost are adaptable, but skeptical.  Teachers can handle change, but they want to know that there is an underlying cause.  "Jaded" veterans and skeptical newbies both realize that heavy-handed mandates from the top are an assault on academic integrity. 
5. They almost never teach for the money (go figure) or the vacation.  In fact, most of them realize that vacation is usually a make-believe concept that they don't experience in the midst of the conferences and classes they take.
6. They almost all share ideas.  I've worked in a sales environment where people hoard.  Teachers usually share ideas with one another in an informal process of collaboration.
7. They are usually in touch with the present reality.  For some reason it seems that most teachers I know seem in touch with the younger generation in ways that others miss. 
8. They are tough. Although many are tired and beat down, but they are also resiliant.  The weakest leave quickly.  Teaching is not for the faint of heart. 
9. They have an uncanny ability to discover where the cheapest items are and how to get past the "limit" listed in an advertisement. 
10. They almost all care about the students.  Even teachers who might be punks to other teachers have a huge heart for students. 

Our district has thrusted upon us yet another heavy-handed, micromanaged solution.  It is a specific, prescribed lesson plan format that every teacher must use.  It's yet another move toward the standardization of education.  I feel that slowly they are invading every aspect of my vocation and transforming me into a prototype.  The following is a list of the assaults on my profession:

• Blackboard Configuration - that's right, they tell us exactly how to organize our whiteboard and we must follow it (it's in our evaluations)
• Word Walls - I have to waste my space jumbling up words on a wall in order to make them happy
• Lesson Plan Template
• Curriculum Maps
• Scripted Curriculum - one class period a day is spent with scripted curriculum.  The district markets it as something easy for us, as a sort-of mid-day break, if you will. 
• Every quarter we must take a three-day Galileo test.  In all, we lose close to three weeks a year in testing (rather than teaching students)
• Common Assessments - All teachers in each department must follow the exact same schedule and students must take common assessments. This year, we get to develop our own department common assessments.  I don't mind it, because the process is grassroots and collaborative. Yet, how long will it be before the common assessments are district-mandated? 

I know that I probably seem too negative here.  However, it is in the subtle acts like a Lesson Plan Template that teachers lose their professional autonomy and academic freedom.  The district now tells me what to teach, how to assess it, what my room should look like, when I should teach what information and with what strategies. From the planning to the delivery to the assessment, Big Brother is there for me, looking over my shoulder and encouraging uniformity. 

I don't like "Freedom Writers."  It might sound like sacrilige to mention it around teachers, but I think the movie sends the wrong message about teaching. It's a quiet, implicit message - so subtle people miss it in the midst of the melodrama and inspiring stories.  It is the idea that my career defines my life; that I should spend all of my time and energy being the best teacher I can be.  It's easy to slip into this myth.  I can watch "Stand and Deliver" and miss the fact that Jaime never stands up for his family or delivers the faithfulness his wife and children need.  After watching "Dangerous Minds," I can slip into a dangerous mindset that says, "I can pull all of my students out of poverty by teaching them poetry." 

The problem with silverscreen superteachers is that they are not authentic.  They last two hours. There's no skin, no depth - just moving fragments of light, twenty feet tall on a blank screen.  The world I inhabit requires me to hold my urge to pee for four class periods.  It's a world where my lunch can all too easily be a bag of Cheez-Its and a candy bar.  And my sons are not side characters who will come and go.  To them, I'm their main character and they cry if I show up right before their bedtime. 

I mention this because I slipped into the silverscreen superteacher mindset last year.  In third quarter, I worked on restructuring our school and creating a technology magnet and attempting to find scholarships for students.  I threw myself into the IMPACT program and, in the process, grew irritated by any sign of student apathy.  Somewhere in the fourth quarter, I hit a wall.  I walked into my classroom and felt a gnawing sense that I had lost something.  It wasn't as dramatic as a panic attack, but I felt disconnected to the students and to my family and even to myself. 

The problem with burn-out is that, it happens so subtly.  For me, I was so busy, I could not question whether I was burnt out.  I knew a few things; that I felt a little irritated and that I had gained weight and that I resented "wasted" time when other teachers stopped by on my prep period. 

So, here's what I changed.  It's not a formula.  I'm not sure if it will help anyone, but this is what had to change for me:

• Take care of myself physically: I started to run again and to avoid eating as much junk food.  I told myself that I would let papers go ungraded if it meant running. I have more energy and I've gone from 220 pounds to 190 in a period of four months. 
• Take care of myself spiritually: I engaged with church.  I prayed when I ran.  I turned off the radio in the car and prayed there.  I began to think about God differently - as if he wasn't an item on my to do list; as if he actually wanted to be with me.  My wife and I joined a small group and I actually let myself be vulnerable. 
• Take care of myself relationally: I began to engage with people again. I started spending more time with people, asking questions and drawing out their story.
• Take care of myself mentally:  In my case, this meant carving out time for writing. I began working on a book, where I could process what I was thinking about teaching
• Take care of my schedule:  I stuck to a set schedule. Rather than letting the school define my schedule, I defined it. I gave myself a curfew of five o'clock and left work everyday at five; which meant another hour a day that I spent with my family.  I began to delegate tasks to students, so that I could focus on teaching and assessing.  Thus, I let students edit all of our videos and work on the website.  I let the students organize the service activities.  They felt empowered.  I had more free time and as a result, I feel like I got to know my students
• Take care of my identity: I began redefining my role - I quit the committees.  I stopped working quite as hard on my master's.  It felt like such a relief to think of just my classroom rather than the whole school. 

For decades, social critics have lamented at the loss of civic virtue among American citizens.  Theories abound regarding the impetus for this shift toward apathy.  Some blame urbanization and the loss of the local, grassroots communities.  In a transient society, where isolation and individualism are the norm, it is understandable that civic institutions would decline.  Others blame the mass media for providing a distract dose of entertainment.  Following the Roman notion of panem et circenses, Americans seem more interested in the bread and circus than in changing society.  Still, others suggest that it is less an issue of technology, media, urbanization or the sense of community.  It is the idea that citizens feel disenfranchised by those in authority.  Whether it is a political, social or civic institution, there is a sense that democracy is simply a façade, while the real power brokers negotiate on the golf course.  It is not that people are apathetic, it is that they don't believe in civic efficacy.

The Maricopa Community College governing board meeting suggests that there is validity in this last assertion. I had to go to one last night for a college class. For all the high-minded verbiage about “accessibility” and “open meetings,” it was hollow jargon.  The meeting included no political discourse, no public participation, none of the debate expected from civic participation.  Instead, it was all a ritual, a panem et circenses, designed to distract the attending public enough to believe that they are the stakeholders in the educational system. 

The ritual conveyed a tone of formality.  With the exception of one board member, each person wore a shirt and tie (and many of them wear a full suit).  It was apparent in the symbolism and style that there is an underlying metaphor of education as a business.  The typed, clear, bullet-pointed agenda has a professional quality.  The top of the page included a vision and mission statement – two items one would see in a corporate meeting rather than a town hall.   In the back, in shiny, fancy gold letters was the logo for the college district. The tone of voice was official and professional, lacking in passion.  In content, money dominated the conversation.  One woman boasted about the district winning an award for successful accounting and financial responsibility.  Another woman explained the details of an insurance plan for retirees.  Still, another dialogue dealt with whether sports could make money at games if they prohibit the sale of alcohol.  Thus, the entire meeting adhered to the corporate message that money was the measure of success.

Within this model, there were still subtle reminders that this was a civic institution.  The meeting began with the reciting of the Pledge of Allegiance and nobody in the audience participated in any form of social protest by doing otherwise.  There was an American flag behind a raised platform, with a state flag on the left and another flag (perhaps a Maricopa County Colleges flag) on the right.  Here, the use of height and positioning suggested deliberate symbolism.  Is it meant to remind people of freedom?  Does it serve to keep those attending from feeling as if it is entirely a corporate entity?  Does it work as a pacifier, subtly pushing an indoctrination of silence that begins in elementary school, subconsciously censoring people in the name of reverence for one's nation?  Do these symbols help shape the way people speak and thus the way they create the institution itself?  Or is it simply an archaic reminder of what a governing board meeting used to be, when a community college connected to the community? 

On a civic level, it is no wonder that the meeting was so sparsely attended. There were few opportunities for people to participate.  For example, even though they asked the public if they would like to speak, they did not explain the procedure to the public.  After asking the question, they remained silent, but the body language suggested that the governing board had little interest in engaging in a dialogue with the public. The members had a tense, awkward expression that worked as a barrier against the “Citizens Interim.”  This suggests that the environment is more powerful than the legislation.  The Open Meeting Law is supposed to guarantee a certain transparency between the public and the political apparatus.  However, at the human level, in the body language and with the symbolism, there is a silent social contract that says, “If you leave us alone, we’ll leave you alone.”  The public, in turn, does their part by failing to speak and, for the most part, failing to attend. 

The physical climate reinforced the sense of public apathy.  For example, the room itself had the design of a social hierarchy.  At the top, the Governing Board members sat in elevated seats, with plush backs and faux wood finish.  In a sense, they had mini-thrones designed to amplify their status.  Below them, the less important personnel sat; though they were still raised.  However, the public sat in folding chairs, directly on the ground, forced literally to look up to the board members.  Furthermore, the seating itself inhibited democratic participation.  By placing people in rows and the members up front, the physical space was not designed for an open, Socratic dialogue.  Instead, they adopted a style one would see in a concert hall (with an elevated stage) or better yet a traditional, hierarchical church. 

The language and content further reinforced this barrier to civic participation.  The meeting was short and contained little dialogue. Instead, the board members had reached consensus at a previous time – most likely in a committee room, where the public was not invited.  Thus, they skipped almost every agenda item. Using parliamentary style, the language felt archaic and formal, with “permission to speak” and “say I.”  One wonders where the action really occurs and to what degree the public can actually participate in the political process. Between the formal language and the lack of content, the semantic environment prevented authentic dialogue between the board and the public.  

The result was a democratic apathy, not because the citizens were apathetic about community colleges.  Instead, the system itself promoted civic apathy.  The business model reinforced the hierarchical structure; while the physical climate and the semantic environment subtly discouraged participation.    

When I began as a new teacher, I hated the constant barrage of advice.  Most of it didn't help.  "Make sure you have the students keep binders."  Actually, I avoid binders as much as possible.  "Make sure you have a solid seating chart."  Truthfully, it's worked better for me to have no seating chart and then move certain students around who can't handle the newfound responsibility.  "Wear a shirt and tie."  Students don't care what I wear. Really.  On casual Fridays they act the same as when I dress in a suit. 

So, I'm going to add to the massive, collective, unsolicited teacher advice:

1. The staff lounge is a powerful drug.  At the right time, its Den of Cynicism can save a life.  Too much and you overdose, killing the passion and desire to teach. 

2. If possible, plan a few weeks ahead of time and do all your photocopying at the beginning of a unit.  This obviously works better for secondary education teachers. I keep file folders for each day.

3. I assign homework on Tuesday and make it due the next Tuesday.  This way students in sports, church and other activities can have extra time.  It also means less passing out and collecting of papers.

4. I try and do as much preventative discipline as possible - eye contact, space proximity, tone of voice, engaging lesson.  When a kid causes a problem, I give an in-class time-out, because I don't like sending a student the message that I need someone else to handle my discipline.  I then talk to the kid after class and almost never write a referral. 

5. I don't have a lot of rules.  But I do have a procedure chart I show the students.  We brainstorm questions, like: Can I sharpen my pencil?  Can I throw away trash?  Who can I talk to? Then, I take the questions and add it to the chart with individual, partner, small group, whole class to it.  It's worked pretty well for me so far. 

6. Take chances.  It's the only year where other teachers will expect you to make mistakes.  So do creative lessons.  Try new techniques.  It's better to fall down a bunch than to be overly cautious.  The best thing we did my first year was to create an overly ambitious class project - an online magazine.  It turned out to be pretty bad, but over the years, it's become something I am proud of. 

7. Don't pay attention in staff meetings.  Find something meaningful to do - like grading papers or writing lessons.  If you can fake that you are paying attention, the staff meeting can become an extra prep period for you. 

8. Don't try and grade everything you assign.  Instead, you're better off providing quality feedback on a few items than writing meaningless encouragement on everything. 

9. I try and send home five positive notes per week and by the end of the quarter, every parent has read something positive about their child.  It then makes discipline calls far easier. 

10. Ignore guys like me who try and give you too much advice.  Chances are, what works for them will not work for you.  Smile and nod and say, "Gee, I never thought of that." They'll feel appreciated and you can go back to doing your own thing. 

My friend Dan points out that there are over thirteen varieties of the same pretzel. This doesn't even include stadium soft pretzels. Rather, he is referring to the ways that manufactures create pretzels - mini twists, large (thin) twists, fat twists (they look like deyhdrated bagels), thick logs, thin sticks, long sticks, short sticks, pretzel bites (as if people really needed this. How many bites does it take to eat a standard pretzel?)

"Why is there such a need for so many types of pretzels? Are they really that popular?" Dan has a point, here. The greatest compliment to a pretzel is to hide its pretzel-ness with something sweet. The only time I love pretzels is if they are chocolate covered pretzels or pretzels with peanut butter inside of them. We know, intuitively, that pretzels suck. Or at least, we know that they are boring.

When asked about the best cuisine, nobody ever says, "Pretzels. Man, I can't think of anything better. On a hot afternoon, I just want to lay by the pool with a bag of those. In the dead of winter, I want to cozy up to a blanket with a bowl of salty fat pretzel knots. When I feel down and depressed, nothing comforts me like the taste of a stack of pretzel sticks."


In terms of snack foods, the pretzel is the socially awkward cousin we invite along only because he is a part of the family. We go out of our way, when we see a bowl of Chex mix, to eat everything but the pretzel. Often, this leads to a half-empty bowl of flavored pretzels swimming in a sea of flavor. Even then, the patented Chex flavoring is not enough to save this socially awkward snack food poser.

I think we package pretzels in so many shapes and sizes to disguise the fact that they are really pretty boring. Which makes me think of curriculum. It seems that textbook companies constantly create new editions, CD Roms, work books and other accessories to add a sense of flair to something that is essentially boring. It seems that the colorful photographs and cleverly written stories (often untrue) in our new social studies book disguise the fact that the book is essentially a one-thousand-page parade of meaningless, uncontroversial facts.

I'm still a fairly new teacher, but I have seen so many fads come and go. The same ideas become repackaged (so that performance objectives are now learning goals and cooperative learning is now called collaborative co-instruction) with fancier language. But in the end, a pretzel is still a pretzel.

I love how Socrates always ends his dialogues unanswered.  The end seems to be a multifacted mystery rather than a three-point outline.  Similarly, throughout the gospels, Jesus tells parables that confound and confuse his audience.  It seems counterintuitive that two of the greatest teachers of all times were both difficult to understand.  As a teacher, I learned the art of checking for understanding and simplyifying concept for the social context of my students. 

Before teaching the Great War, I attempt this concept of deliberate confusion.  I tell a parable.  It's quick, but it captures the students' attention: A man meets a person who claims to be a genie.  When given his first wish, he feels benign, so he asks for world peace.  The genie (who some believe worked for the Pentagon) orders the launching of a nuclear weapon on Moscow.  Within minutes, the entire world is obliterated. 

I tell the students to write a reflection.  Most students describe how we have to be careful what we wish for.  Not exactly the point.  Others suggest it's a demonstration on why humanity is messed up and will never accomplish the goal of world peace.  Yet, as we begin the dialogue, we start talking about the paradox of whether it takes violence to cause peace, about whether destruction can lead to creation, about whether world peace is attainable. Students link it to the Progressives and this sparks a dialogue about the chain reaction of the alliance system and the beginning of World War I.  It's a difficult discussion and many students leave frustrated that I failed to tell them the "right answer."

The dialogue was unpredictable - often meandering from pop references to philosophical musings.  Yet, as students described World War I, the death of Progress and the birth of modernism, almost every student used the little parable as an analogy.  I doubt that they would have learned the causes of World War I if I had simply presented a bulleted outline and offered a depiction of events in chronological order. 

It makes me wonder if maybe I should be more confusing.  Perhaps I simplify things too often to make things more memorable when the most memorable lessons are those that do not come easy.

In our country, we have to be twenty-one to consume alcoholic beverages and eighteen to do pretty much everything else.  The rationale is that there are some things children should be able to do and some things children should not be allowed to do.  It makes a lot of sense to me.  I honestly don't believe a sixteen year old should drive.  I am a little skeptical of a fifteen year old's ability to mother.  It just seems that there are some things that require life experience.

I mention this because I've noticed that schools seem to be tracking students earlier and earlier to determine future career paths.  For example, at our school, the local district explained to students that they had to choose a school (one magnet for business, another for technology, another for future university students, another as a cosmotology school) and a program within each school.  Thus, they explained to fourteen year olds that they had to start thinking about what they wanted to do with their lives. 

"I know you're young," a counselor explained, "but if you go into this journalism program, you can get college credit and earn a degree by the time you turn twenty."  Thus, a child could enter the work force before he could legally enjoy an ice cold Hefeweizen. 

When I was fourteen, I wanted to be a baseball announcer and an engineer and a movie director.  It changed from week to week.  Yet, I had four years of high school to get to know my own identity and another two years of college to think through hard questions about life before I ever chose a major.  It seems to me that fourteen might be a little young to decide upon a future career. 

Why do we tell a child that he must be sixteen to drive, eighteen to fight for his country and twenty one to drink, but we ask him, at fourteen, to choose his life direction? 

Every year, at this point in the summer, I get nightmares about the next school year.  My first year of teaching, I had nightmares that Al-Qaeda took over our school when we didn't make AYP.  Kids enrolled in classes like "suicide bombing" and "sniper 101."  They had Arabic written on my board and loud speakers played propaganda.  Last year, I had a dream that kids went absolutely crazy and nothing I could do would change it.  Last night I had a dream that my classroom was being rennovated while I was teaching, so there were loud machines, it was blazing hot, etc.  Then, they asked me to do more paperwork, including a binder where I had to keep a tally of each kid who answered a question.  They went so crazy on the micromanaging that they sent me a memo about how to use the restroom (including which way to wipe . . . yeah, I know, I must have a really messed up mind).  Finally, they put me on a teacher improvement plan.

I was wondering if this is normal.  Do other teachers have nightmares before the school year begins? Is this typical?