Search results matching tags 'teacher' and 'behavior management'

Afternoons

Anonymous — Tue, 12 Apr 2011 23:23:00 GMT

Afternoons were always rough, and usually, I over-planned them, taking the kids endlessly from one failed activity to another. So in February I tried something different and I spent all of my planning time on one really engaging activity, making Martin Luther King, Jr. books. The book was about 10 pages long, and I copied enough for all the kids. I even individually cut them and stapled them to make booklets. The activity seemed beautiful because of its simplicity. At 2:00, with approximately an hour until dismissal, I would sit the kids down and read the book aloud. Then, because the book was a reading level just under their grade level, I could have them take turns reading it aloud. Then, the best part, the books were in black and white, and after reading, they could color it! With over 10 pages, the coloring would take the whole afternoon, and it would run me right through until dismissal, easy.

So as the afternoon showed its first signs of deterioration, I brought out the book activity just a little earlier than planned, more like 1:45 instead of 2. No big deal because it was such a long activity anyway. I sat down all the kids, started to read the book, and they seemed happy to follow along with their own books. I didn’t have any class collections of books, so it was a big deal. Now, as I was reading, I noticed they were getting fidgety on the carpet, and I decided the story was a little long anyways so I stopped it short, “Let’s leave the ending for a surprise, now, you get to read the story; let’s all turn back to page 1…” Now some kids were getting really fidgety; they didn’t want to read anything, especially aloud, and Adam and Ryden started rolling up their books to use as bats, so I shifted gears again. I was great at shifting gears, just not driving, “Well, I think we have read enough on the carpet, guess what!? Now we get to go back to our seats and color them!” It was now 2:05, and I was praying that the coloring would last, but I forgot that my most difficult kids sprint through everything, especially coloring, and after ten minutes, Adam yelled, “I’m done, Mr. Slaughter!” Ryden chimed in, “Me too!” That meant there was a full forty minutes until dismissal. There were no worksheets to complete, no games set up, and no stations planned out. I told them they could spend the time reading their books or writing in their journals; no surprise that running around the classroom was much more fun than any of that. It was too late to escape it; I could only hold my hat for the tornado, but instead of thinking, “those darn kids,” I thought, “I won’t make that mistake again. They’ll never have a spare moment again.”

Even now, afternoons were still rough, but something had changed. Suddenly it didn’t matter if it was the kids’ fault or the parents’ fault, Price’s fault, or the principal’s fault; I was the *** teacher. I was the only one who could do anything about it. So after one particularly bad Monday afternoon, on Tuesday I kept the whole class in for recess, by myself; 25 versus 1, the odds weren’t good. Taking away recess was one of the classic teacher punishments that I could never do right. At first, I tried walking the whole class to recess and then escorting the trouble makers back to my room. As I dismissed all the good kids, the bad kids of the day just eyed the door. One would break for it, and as I would go for his arm, then the rest would break free - a classic jail break. Other times, I put the bad kids in the back of the line (always a bad idea), then after letting the good ones out to recess, I moved myself in front of the door to block anyone trying to make a break for it until I felt like they had served their time. But this was my break time too, and I started worrying more about the copies that I needed to make rather than the punishment I needed to dole out. There were other times when I was really upset with a certain student, and knowing he or she was incapable of walking with me back to class, I would physically drag him or her back; I just kept my head down, avoiding the stares from my fellow teachers and administrators. When Grandma James joined my class, my problem was solved: she could take the good kids to recess, and I could just stay in the room with the bad kids while getting my work done. But then I discovered that a group of bad kids could be tear apart a room really quickly. Then I finally conceded to staying back with just one kid, but even then there were times I had to sit at the door as the kid would repeatedly ram his shoulder up against me to break through. Taking recess was taking too much effort, and when it seemed like it wasn’t working I avoided it at all costs.

However Tuesday was a new day; I would hold the whole class in for recess. It could be the end of me. I just kept them busy with work, allowing each lesson to run a little long, and I didn’t mention a word about recess. Every few moments, I nervously glanced at the clock waiting for one of my smarter students to yell out, “Hey, aren’t we supposed to be outside?!” But nothing happened, and when I finally walked them down to the playground with only three minutes left of recess, I very calmly announced, “You only have three minutes left of recess because you were so horrible yesterday afternoon.” They seemed confused; I had never done this, and they must have thought I was lying. But the whole class was upset when I picked them up after lunch. They seemed ready to get their revenge by making my life *** for the afternoon, but then in my snootiest teacher voice I told them, “Well, you all lost your recess because Monday afternoon was so bad. Let’s see if you all need to lose another recess.” And they didn’t, at least not for that afternoon.

The Full Week- Pushing Through to Friday

Anonymous — Sat, 02 Apr 2011 23:13:00 GMT

Wednesday

On Wednesday the roller coaster swept right back down to Monday’s low. I thought it was my anger and negativity that caused the golden 15 minutes of silence so I ratcheted up the hostility even more. If I was *** off on Tuesday, this morning I was on fire, yelling and screaming at every little thing, “Keep your eyes on the book! Do you want recess?!” The kids were less confused and more despondent, and I was losing my own sense of control. Grandma James pulled me aside, “Calm down, Mr. Slaughter. All you keep on yelling is ‘SILENCE!’ Let the kids be kids. They are going to talk a little.” During my lunch break, I started thinking about my job search again, and I widened my search to more obscure jobs. I even applied to a job at the Zoo; I’d happily pick up poop every day. I wrote it over and over again in my journal: “I want to be home.” At least I was being honest.

I could tell you a hundred reasons why my behavior system was failing, but there was no way I could view it rationally. My fear of complete failure was making me second guess everything I was doing. It was fear that told me every inch that I gained was precious, and if there was any slight slip, I just might crash down. I had read and reread at least a half dozen self-help management books telling me all the different things I should try out, and then there was my insane class screaming that those methods meant nothing. I just inched myself along the tight rope with an abyss below and a shotgun behind.

That afternoon actually went better. The journaling was helping me calm down, and somewhere along that roller-coaster ride, my kids figured it was time to take a break. Maybe they were getting just as dizzy I was.

Thursday

By Thursday, I was getting closer to the end of the week, and I couldn’t even think about reaching it, out of fear that I would jinx it. Due to a combination of holidays and mental health days, I hadn’t made it a full week since the first week of November. Everything was going decently until the afternoon. Laila was back from her suspension for choking Tybee, and this time Laila was going after Anna. Anna was another cute girl in the class who had a lot of the boys’ attention. In the beginning of the year, I didn’t really like Anna because she couldn’t stop talking. By this time, I had moved her to a corner all by herself; she still managed to write notes and make hand gestures just to keep up with the latest gossip. At recess, she loved to lead cheers with the girls on the sidelines of the boys’ football games. Laila tried to take over the cheer game, but her cheers weren’t that good, and Anna left the game with most of the girls following right behind her, leaving Laila alone. When they were back in my class, Anna kept on looking up from her writing to bat eyes at Evan who sat right next to Laila. It was too much for Laila, and she leaned up on Evan, “What do you think of my drawing?” Evan ignored her.
Then Laila announced,“Evan wants to kiss Anna!”
“No I don’t!”
“Did you hear that Anna, he doesn’t want to kiss you because your breath stinks!”
Anna muttered under her breath, “Not like your momma’s.” Too bad it was just loud enough for half the class to hear it, including Laila.

Laila walked up to Anna’s desk, threw Anna’s writing on the floor, and stood there right in front of her desk. It was clear as daylight, Laila wanted a fight. But Anna didn’t flinch. She might have been holding back tears, but she kept her head up. As I was calling security, Laila raised her shoe and smudged dirt on Anna’s desk. Laila was practically begging for a fight, but Anna continued to just sit there. “Anna how about you sit with Tybee until security comes.” I let them excitedly chat about whatever they wanted to, but it was still too much for Laila to see Anna with such a bright smile. She walked over to Anna’s new table and raised her foot again. I secretly wished Anna would grab that foot and yank it over her shoulder, but Anna kept on talking with Tybee. With Laila’s back to me, I managed to sneak up behind and grab her wrist. Security arrived 30 minutes later and Laila was kicking and screaming obscenities at Anna while I was holding her on the carpet. Even though my anxiety was clouding my vision, something positive was emerging in the classroom. My good kids were trying to stand up to the bad kids; at least, someone was trying to.

After Thursday was done, there was just one more day to finish the full week, and I started to think about ways to get out again. In my journal, I wrote “We should do a map tomorrow and math games... I don’t think I can make it. What I would do just to escape…” There was one voice trying to stay positive, “you can do this!” but the other voice knew it was a lie. I had promised myself that I would be honest in my journaling, and it appeared that there was one safe and mandatory choice: I had to quit.

Friday

It was 8:37am, and I had to pick up the kids in three minutes. I wrote these exact words in my journal “I WANT OUT. GET ME OUT! ANXIETY IS KILLING ME!! Calm down… calm down. It’s going to be okay. It’s only one day. On Monday you’ll have the psychiatrist. It’s okay.” I had an appointment with a psychiatrist on Monday, and I hoped the appointment was just the thing to save me. The morning went decently, but I had to get treats during my lunch break for the grab bag that afternoon. As I was in the car driving, I wrote in hardly legible writing, “I’m in the car, and it’s back!! I need to QUIT. Come on Slaughter get a grip. Don’t let 7 year olds ruin your life… YOU CAN DO THIS!” Not only was I driving, but I was also stuffing a sandwich down with one hand, and writing with the other. I was in Memento, but instead of trying to find a killer, I was running from one.

I made it through the afternoon, and yes, I made it through a full week. Instead of cheering after getting off the roller coaster, I threw up. I knew that it was only two days before I had to get right back on it.

My Management System

Anonymous — Thu, 31 Mar 2011 22:53:00 GMT

When I started my second year, I set my rules, I set my consequences for breaking the rules, and it was working. It was so simple, and it was working, so I stuck to it. But then there were so many infractions, I became overwhelmed with all the consequences. Students were asked to apologize, shake hands, hug, make apology cards, and clean up messes, but the consequences weren’t affecting the behaviors. In fact, things were only getting more out of control. So after three weeks, I switched up. I brought in the elaborate system of stickers, rewards, and phone calls. Everyone’s name was on a board, and I wrote a letter for each time students did something great. If they earned five letters by the end of the day, it would spell GREAT, and they would get a sticker on a chart. If the students received three stickers in the week, then on Friday, they got to pick something from the magic grab bag. If they got twelve stickers in a month, then they received a ticket to a class party. When they were bad, I erased letters. When all their letters were erased, then they got an X, and after three Xs, it was a phone call. I tried to run this system as perfectly as I could because I believed it was the system that would save me. I let the system dictate how I managed the class because I couldn’t trust my own instincts; I had failed too many times before. It worked for some, but it really didn’t work for most.

Ryden was a student who was smart enough to use GREAT to play me. When I took away one of his letters, he would slam both hands on the desk, gripping the corners tightly as if he was holding himself back from charging me and stuffing my dry erase marker down my throat. He would yell, “Put back the letter!” Any normal teacher would say, “You don’t demand anything from me, you sit down and do your work or it’s another letter!”

The problem was that I had already done that so many times. I had called Ryden’s family again and again, but they weren’t answering the phones anymore. There were was one day I left three messages for three different instances of extreme behavior. One time, when I called his mom, in front of him and the whole class, I left the message, and then, he smiled, “She doesn’t give a s--- about your phone calls.” I called her right back and left another message, “Ms. Valrie, I just thought you should know Ryden just told me and the whole class you don’t give a s-h-i-t about my phone calls.” Ryden had reduced me to a twenty-seven year old tattle tale.

Plus, losing letters only caused Ryden to get more enraged. The assumption behind the system was that misbehaving students wanted to earn their letter back. When the teacher erased a letter, then the student would get right to work to earn it back as quickly as possible. For my most of my students, losing a letter was a public slap in the face, and the only response they knew was to retaliate. I was trapped in the logic of the system so I tried to negotiate a truce, “Alright, Ryden, just sit back down, get back to your work and you’ll get your letter back…” He would sit down, slowly, with his eyes still on the board, making sure I honored the promise. And just as his pencil touched the paper and the dry erase marker left the board, he crept back out of his seat, and the game began again.

Monday (part 2)

Anonymous — Tue, 29 Mar 2011 21:23:00 GMT

With half of my class off-task already, I was happy to line the kids up for afternoon PE. But PE only lasted until 2:30, leaving me with 45 minutes before the dismissal bell. By this time Ryden and Adam had had their fun; now it was Laila’s turn and she had her scope set on Tybee, both the smartest and the smallest girl in the class. Tybee sat towards the back of the room and just quietly did her work. She rarely asked any questions because she almost always knew how to do it, and she never complained. She would finish whatever work I had given her, then she would spend the remainder of the lesson making cards for her mom, or brother, or really anyone who wanted one. For the past week, she had been talking a lot with Quint, and Quint was a popular type, quite different from Tybee. Most people just accepted the way it was now that Tybee was sitting next to Quint at lunch, but Laila couldn’t turn a blind eye.

Laila was one of my most difficult kids. She was a fighter, but she was less emotional than the others and more calculated. Teachers had told me that she wasn’t coming back to Daley so I didn’t need to worry about her, but by the second week, she was there. When I talked to Laila’s mom about her fighting, she kept on saying, “I don’t know what to do with that child.”

During PE, Laila had told Tybee she was ugly, and there was no way that Quint could like her. Now they were both in class and Laila stared at Tybee from across the room, patiently waiting for her to make the first move. Tybee finally yelled, “What?” Laila responded, “How about you shut up before I make you shut up.” There was a quiet “ooh” that flowed from one side of the class to the other. I guessed it would end there because Tybee was too tiny to take on Laila, and Laila was a proven fighter. But then she uttered, “You can’t tell me to shut-up, you’re not my mom.” All of a sudden, everything slowed down. Everyone’s look said the same thing, “did she really just say that?” All eyes were on Laila now, and this was her moment. She knew exactly what to do because she had been doing it her whole life. She shot up out of her seat towards quiet Tybee as I pushed through chairs and tables to reach Laila before she got to Tybee. I was too late. Tybee had turned her chair away from Laila to avoid a direct punch, but Laila just pulled her braids down, so hard that she pulled her down to the floor, then jumped on her stomach and started choking her. Laila was actually choking her; she had her hands around Tybee’s neck. But she wasn’t squeezing. You see, Laila was only doing it for the show. She showed Tybee that she could hurt her, and she showed the whole class that no one talks back to her.

That evening at the grocery store I decided to check my blood pressure. My reading was at 160/80, meaning I had stage 2 hypertension. Not too much of a surprise. Grandma Lewis had been telling me I was on my way to a stroke.

THANKSGIVING BREAK

Anonymous — Sat, 26 Mar 2011 22:39:00 GMT

I got to spend the Thanksgiving Break with my wife’s family, and it was the first time I experienced a slight pause in the constant flow of school-related thinking. I was watching football while my wife went shopping with the girls, and instead of thinking about Ryden, I was thinking about Detroit, who were bound to lose because they always lost on Thanksgiving.

Things actually had gone slightly better that previous week, but to anyone who might walk in, it was still chaos. On the last day before break I had a cupcake party for all the kids who had earned enough stickers over the month. This party included almost the whole class because even when kids rarely earned any stickers, I usually forgave them if they acted nice to me the day of the party. It was another teacher sin that my kids were all too aware of, all of them except Gracyn. Gracyn had spent most of the day in the CHOICE room, and he was excused to my room right at the end of the day. Because he broke the cardinal sin of being mean to the teacher on party day, I refused to give him the coveted cupcake, and tears trickled down as he left the classroom. I was impressed; I had stuck to my guns, and he backed down. When I told him no, I was sure Gracyn would just push past me, pick up the tray of leftover cupcakes, and then run away from me around the room, simultaneously stuffing crumbs in his mouth. Then, half a dozen kids would shout to Gracyn for cupcakes as he would gleefully throw the cupcake chunks, over my head, to their outstretched hands as I, now the enraged teacher, would try to corner him, just like always. I would give up because the bell would ring and then I would dismiss the kids in a frenzy because, not only had they gotten extra cupcakes, but they also saw a great show. Then I would spend the rest of the afternoon cleaning up the smeared icing and cupcake bits crushed into the rug, too embarrassed to leave any of it for the custodians. But this time, there was no mess to clean up, at least, not one that was visibly smeared on the floor.

By now, my wife was very pregnant, and it was hard to ignore the fact that my life was going to change once again. I was counting on my newest daughter’s arrival to make me happy again because my family would take the forefront, and school anxiety would be pushed aside. But I still found a way to let anxiety affect even the positivity of a new daughter; I fantasized about staying at home with them instead of working, and I even worried that my anxiety would make me a bad dad to our new daughter. Maybe with a new daughter, I would be the great provider, thinking “who cares that work sucks, that’s life.” It was nice thinking about that on a 4 day holiday, but no matter what perspective I constructed, Monday was still coming; nothing could stop that.

Counting Down To Thanksgiving- Wednesday

Anonymous — Fri, 25 Mar 2011 22:39:00 GMT

My first year of teaching I loved falling into bed, with my head in the pillow, then drifting into sleep, effortlessly. It was my favorite 7 hours of the day. Sometimes after dinner, I let my face sink into the carpet and just passed out while my daughter crawled up and over me again and again. This year, I feared my bed. I knew that another day was coming, and I couldn’t stop hearing the tick-tock of the *** clock telling me that each second, I was getting closer, and there was nothing I could do to stop it. I’d scream in my head, “Stop thinking of those *** kids, go to sleep!” Now it was Wednesday night, I had made it through to Thanksgiving Break, and I still couldn’t sleep so I got up, left the bed, and I wrote it down, everything that was eating away at me. It was a mental detox, and there was a stench that exited my head and left itself on the paper. Journaling was becoming therapy.

I wrote about how two of my crazies, Gabe and Ryden, were absent and it had made the day so much more bearable. Absences were one of the few things that made me hopeful during a workday. There were quite a few students who didn’t show up on time, but my crazies usually showed up early, every day, even with nausea and high fevers. Typically, when I didn’t see one of my crazies at the cafeteria, I just pretended like I didn’t notice. It was a game I played by letting my happiness slowly seep in, like an IV drip. It was a slow and cautious happiness because deep down I knew they would just show up late. But on this Wednesday, two of them didn’t show up at all, and the day almost felt normal.

That afternoon, I got my results from my first observation of the year. This was the first year for Michelle Rhee’s new evaluation system which, by the end of the year, would tell me if I got fired, suspended pay, a standard raise, or a bonus. I figured that I would either get fired or have my pay suspended. This one was the first of two announced observations so I had the opportunity to carefully plan out the lesson. I even brought in a carrot to visually show how reading can be like eating; when you come to a big word or a big piece of food, you can break it down into parts. I thought it went well because everyone was seated perfectly, with their eyes on me, except for Gabe who was rolling the edge of the carpet around his body as if he was rolling himself into a human burrito. By this time in the year, everyone had learned to ignore Gabe because it was obvious something was just wrong with him. The lesson ended with Ms. Coen, the observer, physically restraining Gabe by bear hugging him, while seated on her chair so that she might continue observing me. I received a 2.44 out of 4, which meant that I was on track to get my pay suspended. It was hard to be relieved to get one out of the way because it was one of my two announced observations; there were three unannounced ones that were sure to sink me.

I had already been given feedback from the other announced observation, and this one was conducted by an “independent” evaluator from downtown. This observation, I at least knew that I had tanked it because I spent half the lesson in a corner, begging Gabe to take a few deep breaths so that he could stop trying to hit Evan and just do his work. I didn’t realize until later the teachers in my hall had an elaborate plan to trick the evaluators into thinking they had well behaved children. If a teacher saw an evaluator in the building then she would text her other teacher friends. When it was clear whose class would be evaluated, the teacher sent her trouble kids to another teacher ready to watch them during the observation. I was kept out of the loop, leaving me with all my crazies. The independent evaluator gave me a 2.0, and now I had an average of a 2.2. It was embarrassing, and I didn’t tell anyone. It didn’t matter because I was leaving in a few weeks anyway.

Counting the days until Thanksgiving - Tuesday

Anonymous — Wed, 23 Mar 2011 22:27:00 GMT

After a Monday afternoon that included one punch from Ryden and another from Mr. Franklin, it was hard for me to put the journal down without feeling the surge of failure rise again. It wasn’t helping me that Tuesday was coming. I wanted Ryden to be suspended for punching me; it would send a message, a message I could post above my door: you can run around the class and not listen to me, but if you wind up and punch me in the gut, then you’ve gone too far. That might not fit though, maybe just: Don’t Punch Me. Ryden was there bright and early the next morning…so much for the suspension and so much for the message.

At school Tuesday morning, I passed by Mr. Franklin in the office, and I asked him if Ryden would be suspended. He replied, “Well, you told me yesterday, right, and I haven’t seen the discipline administrator since then, so…” Right, I thought. Thanks a lot. I rarely pushed for kids to get suspended. In fact, I never did. Kids would spit in my face, and Franklin would come and ask if I wanted them to get suspended. I always said no. He didn’t like suspending kids, and I assumed it was never the right thing because it meant less time at school and more time at home, a place that was rarely a positive experience. Since then, I had learned something from Grandma James: every consequence or lack of consequence was a message to every kid in my class. If Ryden didn’t get suspended, it meant that kids could do anything they wanted in my class and not get punished. I was begging Franklin for a suspension, but he didn’t seem to care, and I started to hate him for it.

Relative to Monday, Tuesday actually was a “good” day, good because even though I was losing my mind, no one punched me. Franklin was added to the list of staff that I thought was supporting me, but now, wanted nothing to do with me. My kids were acting marginally better, but they still didn’t know what to expect from me. It seemed I was always on the verge of full tilt rage. In circle time, I had the kids greet each other by saying good morning and then shake hands with their neighbor. Quint was next to Amelia, and after he shook her hand, he wiped his hand on the floor. Amelia didn’t see it, and I was willing to let the thing pass unnoticed, until Evan said, “Quint wiped his hand on the floor; he needs to apologize.” Dammit. I also knew there was no way Quint would apologize on the spot, in front of the whole class. He was volatile, especially first thing in the morning. “Alright Quint, go ahead and apologize to Armoni.”
“No!”
“Then, walk back to your seat.”
“I don’t have to.”
“Fine! If you don’t move, then I’ll move you.” By this time, my eyes were glaring and my muscles were tight. I swiftly grabbed his wrist and dragged him across the carpet, onto the floor, and out the door.
“I’m telling my mom!”
“Tell her.”
I slowly walked back to the carpet, sat criss-cross, and started a song about friends.
“What was that about?” murmured Grandma James.
“I have no idea, Quint’s always like that.”
“No, I meant about you.”

Chapter 11: The First Crash

Anonymous — Tue, 08 Feb 2011 15:47:00 GMT

Just then, I started to falter. On my morning walk from the bus to the school, I kept my hope alive, walking around the police tape, believing, “maybe today I will beat them with love.” In the beginning of January, the class started to turn around, and things were finally falling into place; my reasons for taking on Daley were making sense. But without warning, the class turned worse, my facade of purpose started to fade away, and the real reasons for coming to Daley were slowly, painfully, exposing themselves.

After mostly everyone had been praising away at the class' progress, things went bad, and I turned inward. I became increasingly worried about holding it together in the class, and I made sacrifices, leaving some students to fend for themselves. Randy was one of my best students in the fall. He was far from the smartest, but he was intent on pleasing me. Whatever type of incentive program I had set up, he was following through much more than any other student at the time. But something happened in February. He was getting older, and he no longer cared about me or what I thought about him. Randy had a mom who always seemed depressed. Randy's grandmother on his mother's side would come in occasionally, and always blamed Randy's home life for behavior issues. Then there was Randy's other grandma; I loved this grandma. She was Randy’s father’s mother, and Randy’s father was in jail. She lived right across the street from the school, and she had no problems coming into school to set Randy straight. She told me that with his temper he might get himself shot someday; she wasn't joking around in the least. By the end of January, Randy started coming in with dark sunglasses on and one glove on his right hand. He didn’t care about learning to read anymore; he was more concerned about staring down Kyle, a bully who wouldn’t leave Randy alone. Someone was teaching him there were more important things in school than listening to a teacher. I tried to figure out what was going on at home, but mom just looked off beyond me as if she couldn’t explain it to me. When I spoke to Randy, I talked to him like my mom used to talk to me when I was in trouble, “You have changed; what happened to the old Randy?” There was a small glare in his eyes, "He’s gone, Mr. Slaughter."

It went from bad to worse when new students starting coming in. Mark, Trent, and Cole joined the class, and they became the tazmanian devils of the class. At least Sean and Lauren had some desire to do well in class; these three just scattered when I handed out their work. They were already way behind, so I did my teacherly duties by giving handing them out easier assignments that they could handle. I didn't really reach out to them; I pretended like they might reach out to me. They preferred to run around the class. I became less worried about their reading and more about their running. Just how they wanted it.

So when the NPR writer finally came to visit, things were “better” than they were in September, but worse than January. Instead of five to ten fights a day, it was more like one or two, and instead of students running around the classroom, it was more like they got up and out of their seat when they pleased. The writer didn’t quite have my perspective on the class' progress, and our interview turned to how difficult the year had been. I was expecting him to visit again later in the year to see how things had improved. Things didn’t get better, and I’m glad he didn’t come back to see it.

Later that year, it was announced that his report was now a broadcast on NPR. There were five segments focusing on different aspects of the school, with one focusing on student behavior. I was sure this was my moment in the sun, the recognition that I had earned after a year of hard work. The segment started with a recording of a raucous classroom with not a sound of a teacher. He explained I was trying to teach over student laughter as a student who was previously put out of the classroom was now crawling back in and hiding under my teacher table. It was Lauren. I was quoted saying, “I know that some teachers say you either have it or you don’t, and I just hope that some day, I get it.” After hearing it, I thought it was a tempered hope, just the right amount to get me through the multiple years of struggle before becoming one of the greats. Franklin brought it up later and said it sounded more like desperation. Maybe it was, maybe the hope was gone, maybe it was just a matter of time now.

A Lesson to Last the Whole Year Long

Anonymous — Tue, 02 Mar 2010 13:41:59 GMT

Returning to school each fall was always exciting for me. Exciting, but also caused me some stress, because I felt that my “first day of school” lesson plans were lacking. In the past, I’d done your typical “Decorate your portfolio with your name” lesson, or the “Make a name tag for your desk” lesson. Nothing new and exciting, I didn’t think, and I wanted a way to mix it up. Finally, I found something that pushed my students to put a part of themselves into their work. Literally.

Most of my students had never heard of a time capsule, but when I explained what it was they were into it. The capsule itself was nothing fancy, (toilet paper tubes!) but what went into the tube set the tone for our whole year. I asked the students to fill out half of a questionnaire, entitled “Today is the First Day of School”. It asked them to record some basic information about themselves, but also asked some deeper questions: “What is something you want to accomplish by the end of the school year?” and “What do you want your future self to remember about you now?” The bottom half of the questionnaire, entitled “Today is the Last Day of School” prompted the kids to re-answer the questions, nine months later. Obviously, lot changes in a year, and it was a lot of fun to watch the kids when they read what they had previously written. Getting to that moment, however, wasn’t my only goal. By presenting this project on the first day, I let the kids know what I expected of them. This wasn’t the kind of art class where we did a project and brought it home and never thought about it again. We were going to be putting a little bit of ourselves into all of our work. Who we were was going to grow and change, and therefore our artwork and our thought processes were going to grow and change too. By hanging our capsules from the ceiling for the year, we were always reminded of our past; one upward glance let us know that no matter how our day was going, we had already come a long way from that very first day in September.
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