I think my body subconsciously understands--and acts as an accomplice--when I have to do something I don't want to do. Yesterday, it aided me by keeping me in bed until 4pm. I was not sick, unless you count sick of grading.
Our final class projects before Christmas break include speeches and Christmas storybooks. But I really wish we could do one giant all-class project. We would, utilizing teamwork and good communication skills, of course, build a giant flaming volcano centerpiece for our classroom (a precursor to Lord of the Flies?). Then I would walk by it with an armload of grading one day and accidentally trip, expelling the papers into the flames. We could roast marshmallows over the homework embers and sing Joy to the World, and that, my friends, would lead into a discussion on the true meaning of Christmas vacation!
I am going to go back to my bed now.
Showing posts with label teaching. Show all posts
Showing posts with label teaching. Show all posts
11 December 2011
09 December 2011
My 8th Graders: A Tribute
My kids frequently ask which class is my favorite. I pull that old mom trick and tell them, "You're all my favorite, just for different reasons."
So today, I'd like to tell you a little bit about my favorite 8th graders: they're the funniest group by far, the perfect blend of humor and compassion and weirdness. The dynamics of a four-kid class could be really awkward if it didn't contain the right personalities, but theirs just fit.
One of them, whom I frequently refer to as "Leprechaun," has a sharp, quick wit. When he misspelled a word on yesterday's vocab quiz, his friend jokingly scribbled, "Learn to spell!" across his paper. Leprechaun, noticing that the boy had misnumbered his own paper, wrote back, "Learn to count!" And they both burst into laughter.
That second boy, he has a tender heart. His inordinate amount of compassion sometimes leaves him upset when something bad happens to a character in a book. The other day, hunters were pacing the fields across from school, dead rabbits dangling from their belts. He ran to the window, crying, "Go home! Don't kill the animals!"
It was the idea of turtle soup that had him reeling today. "I can't believe it. Turtle soup. Why would they do that? They're eating turtles! I have four turtles!"
And Leprechaun, deadpan, turns to him. "Well, now you have three."
My third boy sings non-stop. If ever I find a Disney song trapped in my brain at 11:00, I know it's him I have to thank. He sings and laughs, laughs and sings. Meanwhile, my girl takes it all in stride. She's mostly quiet, though she likes to jump in now and then, stirring the pot or setting the boys straight.
Most days, something like this happens: Boy 3 (who is reading Things Not Seen, about an invisible boy) is trying to explain to the others why the main character has to walk around naked. (Because it's more awkward to wear clothes and not have a visible face than it is to walk around without clothes and avoid all notice--of course!) This devolves into a hilarious conversation of which I don't remember much, except that it ends with me sitting at my desk, shaking my head silently and laughing.
"Look at Ms. C. She's laughing at us."
"She always laughs at us."
Then they all laugh, too. This is third period. This is 8th grade.
I love it.
So today, I'd like to tell you a little bit about my favorite 8th graders: they're the funniest group by far, the perfect blend of humor and compassion and weirdness. The dynamics of a four-kid class could be really awkward if it didn't contain the right personalities, but theirs just fit.
One of them, whom I frequently refer to as "Leprechaun," has a sharp, quick wit. When he misspelled a word on yesterday's vocab quiz, his friend jokingly scribbled, "Learn to spell!" across his paper. Leprechaun, noticing that the boy had misnumbered his own paper, wrote back, "Learn to count!" And they both burst into laughter.
That second boy, he has a tender heart. His inordinate amount of compassion sometimes leaves him upset when something bad happens to a character in a book. The other day, hunters were pacing the fields across from school, dead rabbits dangling from their belts. He ran to the window, crying, "Go home! Don't kill the animals!"
It was the idea of turtle soup that had him reeling today. "I can't believe it. Turtle soup. Why would they do that? They're eating turtles! I have four turtles!"
And Leprechaun, deadpan, turns to him. "Well, now you have three."
My third boy sings non-stop. If ever I find a Disney song trapped in my brain at 11:00, I know it's him I have to thank. He sings and laughs, laughs and sings. Meanwhile, my girl takes it all in stride. She's mostly quiet, though she likes to jump in now and then, stirring the pot or setting the boys straight.
Most days, something like this happens: Boy 3 (who is reading Things Not Seen, about an invisible boy) is trying to explain to the others why the main character has to walk around naked. (Because it's more awkward to wear clothes and not have a visible face than it is to walk around without clothes and avoid all notice--of course!) This devolves into a hilarious conversation of which I don't remember much, except that it ends with me sitting at my desk, shaking my head silently and laughing.
"Look at Ms. C. She's laughing at us."
"She always laughs at us."
Then they all laugh, too. This is third period. This is 8th grade.
I love it.
01 December 2011
On Aging
Today was my 6th grader's half-birthday. I like to celebrate summer birthdays during the school year because, in elementary school, I always felt a little left out when kids brought cupcakes and chocolate into class and we all sang "Happy Birthday." My birthdays were spent outdoors with trees, pools, and cousins. (Clearly, the grass is always greener... I would later learn that the school-birthday kids envied the summer birthday kids because they never had to follow up a party with homework.)
Last week, the half-birthday was on my mind, so I asked him, "What year were you born in, anyway?"
"2000."
I think my jaw actually unhinged itself from the rest of my skull and clattered to the floor. Kids born in 2000 are still supposed to be finger-painting and speaking one-syllable words, aren't they?! I did not mention to him that 2000 was the year I went to prom--twice, and in the same awkwardly fitting dress, dancing an arm's length away from both dates and avoiding all possible forms of eye contact, small talk, and pleasure. (We likely would have danced two arm's lengths away, had the whole concept of dancing not required us to actually touch. Come to think of it, I don't think I've danced much closer than that with any man in the eleven years following prom.)
So I refrained from the prom reference because a) that's just awkward, and b) I'm already throwing out things that date me: using Full House clips to demonstrate cause-and-effect, asking if anyone knows such-and-such a Disney song. The seventh graders have asked how old I am, and since there's a safe age gap between them and myself, I answer honestly: 27. This, I have found, is a better approach than the tricky let's-integrate-math-into-the-English-curriculum approach, wherein you say, "Well, I was born in 1984. You figure it out."
Upon hearing "1984," their mathematical brains immediately stop functioning and flip over to that part of the brain that stores information from the Guinness Book of World Records, like how long the world's longest toenails are. They rummage around in that brain sector for awhile. Instead of subtracting 1984 from 2011 to get 27, they decide (much more practically) that 1984 was after dinosaurs but before color TV, and then they look at you like they're waiting for you to sprout a cane.
---
The 7th and 8th graders are writing letters to authors, which is the kind of thing I wish I'd done in middle school. I got to hear Lois Lowry speak in Minot during my fourth grade year; at that point, I hadn't read Number the Stars or The Giver or any of her books that I'd later fall in love with. I didn't get to The Giver until 8th grade, at which point I drafted multiple letters begging Ms. Lowry to clear up the ambiguous ending and tell me what really happened.
Out of embarrassment, I never sent them.
Years later, she would write a sequel and then a third companion to The Giver, neither of which was remotely as good. She attributed the new books to all the letters sent in by pleading fans who needed to know what happened next. No disrespect toward Ms. Lowry is intended, but in some small way, I'm glad my discarded letters were not part of the contribution.
Anyway, I started drafting a new letter to Lois as an example for my kids. "Are you really gonna send this one to him?" an 8th grade boy asked.
"Her. And yes, I really might."
"It's not a him!" another boy piped in. "You keep calling her him!"
That somehow devolved into a conversation in which the boys decided that I should really be sending more fan mail to male authors. One suggested his favorite: "John Flanagan!"
"You're right. I hear that works all the time: write a letter to a random guy you've never meet and tell him how much you like his books, fall in love, get married. Also," I pointed out, "John Flanagan is in his 60's."
Then again, I was born in 1984, so we probably have a lot in common.
Last week, the half-birthday was on my mind, so I asked him, "What year were you born in, anyway?"
"2000."
I think my jaw actually unhinged itself from the rest of my skull and clattered to the floor. Kids born in 2000 are still supposed to be finger-painting and speaking one-syllable words, aren't they?! I did not mention to him that 2000 was the year I went to prom--twice, and in the same awkwardly fitting dress, dancing an arm's length away from both dates and avoiding all possible forms of eye contact, small talk, and pleasure. (We likely would have danced two arm's lengths away, had the whole concept of dancing not required us to actually touch. Come to think of it, I don't think I've danced much closer than that with any man in the eleven years following prom.)
So I refrained from the prom reference because a) that's just awkward, and b) I'm already throwing out things that date me: using Full House clips to demonstrate cause-and-effect, asking if anyone knows such-and-such a Disney song. The seventh graders have asked how old I am, and since there's a safe age gap between them and myself, I answer honestly: 27. This, I have found, is a better approach than the tricky let's-integrate-math-into-the-English-curriculum approach, wherein you say, "Well, I was born in 1984. You figure it out."
Upon hearing "1984," their mathematical brains immediately stop functioning and flip over to that part of the brain that stores information from the Guinness Book of World Records, like how long the world's longest toenails are. They rummage around in that brain sector for awhile. Instead of subtracting 1984 from 2011 to get 27, they decide (much more practically) that 1984 was after dinosaurs but before color TV, and then they look at you like they're waiting for you to sprout a cane.
---
The 7th and 8th graders are writing letters to authors, which is the kind of thing I wish I'd done in middle school. I got to hear Lois Lowry speak in Minot during my fourth grade year; at that point, I hadn't read Number the Stars or The Giver or any of her books that I'd later fall in love with. I didn't get to The Giver until 8th grade, at which point I drafted multiple letters begging Ms. Lowry to clear up the ambiguous ending and tell me what really happened.
Out of embarrassment, I never sent them.
Years later, she would write a sequel and then a third companion to The Giver, neither of which was remotely as good. She attributed the new books to all the letters sent in by pleading fans who needed to know what happened next. No disrespect toward Ms. Lowry is intended, but in some small way, I'm glad my discarded letters were not part of the contribution.
Anyway, I started drafting a new letter to Lois as an example for my kids. "Are you really gonna send this one to him?" an 8th grade boy asked.
"Her. And yes, I really might."
"It's not a him!" another boy piped in. "You keep calling her him!"
That somehow devolved into a conversation in which the boys decided that I should really be sending more fan mail to male authors. One suggested his favorite: "John Flanagan!"
"You're right. I hear that works all the time: write a letter to a random guy you've never meet and tell him how much you like his books, fall in love, get married. Also," I pointed out, "John Flanagan is in his 60's."
Then again, I was born in 1984, so we probably have a lot in common.
30 November 2011
Miss Awful
My 7th and 8th graders just read a story about a terrible teacher. She is strict and bony with witch's eyes; she makes the students march to their rigidly lined-up desks and tells them their spelling indicates they will become dregs of society.
(This was written before Facebook statuses made it easy to keep grammatical errors on permanent display. I still don't think the kids believe me when I tell them that there are people out there who will rank your intelligence by your writing. Also, they really don't believe that résumés with typos get thrown out. Sometimes I don't even believe it myself. I once proofread a résumé for a someone. After I'd marked it with a thousand friendly corrections and suggested that it be retyped, that person told me, "Well, I don't really care; I'll just turn it in like this." The next day, she got the job.)
Anyway, we began our reading yesterday by talking about the characteristics that make a good teacher. (This was partially compelled by an oh, crap moment: the mom in the story reflects on the school's welcoming atmosphere--but lack of rigorous grammar instruction. We all acknowledged that good teacher must exert equal parts strictness and compassion. I then mentally willed them not to tell their parents that their English teacher struggles with a severe imbalance. I'll let you guess which side is not my strong suit. :)
The story ends with the kids stripping the leaves from the teacher's plant, an act of defiance. With teary eyes, she tells them that her aim was only to make them better citizens; if just one of them... And the slapdash little hero steps up to the desk, spelling correctly (for the very first time) the word "flower."
"Teachers are people, too," I told them (to which a boy cheekily responded, "What? Teachers don't sleep here?"), "--and we're going to write thank you cards to some of the teachers in this building." The point was reflection and encouragement, and I didn't expect to be a recipient of many of the cards, especially since I was trying to point them toward other staff members. Still, at the end of the period, one boy handed me a big, white sheet of folded paper, filled with crunched-up pencil letters.
This boy completely bombed last week's test; I'd allowed him to retake it. Entering my room 7th period, his face was wound up with trepidation. "What'd I get? What'd I get?" I handed him the test, which, averaged alongside the other test, scooted his grade up to a cool number in the lower 70's. Still, he let out a giant, "YEEESSSSSSSSS!" and left the room, grinning in Cheshire fashion.
Earlier that day, I had read his card: Dear Ms. C Thanks for giving me an extra try. In the English test you are an awesome English Teacher thanks for all.
That's exactly how he spelled it, full of random capital letters and weird punctuation, and grammar and writing and good communication are what I came here to teach. But, I am learning over and over, they're not the most important thing.
(This was written before Facebook statuses made it easy to keep grammatical errors on permanent display. I still don't think the kids believe me when I tell them that there are people out there who will rank your intelligence by your writing. Also, they really don't believe that résumés with typos get thrown out. Sometimes I don't even believe it myself. I once proofread a résumé for a someone. After I'd marked it with a thousand friendly corrections and suggested that it be retyped, that person told me, "Well, I don't really care; I'll just turn it in like this." The next day, she got the job.)
Anyway, we began our reading yesterday by talking about the characteristics that make a good teacher. (This was partially compelled by an oh, crap moment: the mom in the story reflects on the school's welcoming atmosphere--but lack of rigorous grammar instruction. We all acknowledged that good teacher must exert equal parts strictness and compassion. I then mentally willed them not to tell their parents that their English teacher struggles with a severe imbalance. I'll let you guess which side is not my strong suit. :)
The story ends with the kids stripping the leaves from the teacher's plant, an act of defiance. With teary eyes, she tells them that her aim was only to make them better citizens; if just one of them... And the slapdash little hero steps up to the desk, spelling correctly (for the very first time) the word "flower."
"Teachers are people, too," I told them (to which a boy cheekily responded, "What? Teachers don't sleep here?"), "--and we're going to write thank you cards to some of the teachers in this building." The point was reflection and encouragement, and I didn't expect to be a recipient of many of the cards, especially since I was trying to point them toward other staff members. Still, at the end of the period, one boy handed me a big, white sheet of folded paper, filled with crunched-up pencil letters.
This boy completely bombed last week's test; I'd allowed him to retake it. Entering my room 7th period, his face was wound up with trepidation. "What'd I get? What'd I get?" I handed him the test, which, averaged alongside the other test, scooted his grade up to a cool number in the lower 70's. Still, he let out a giant, "YEEESSSSSSSSS!" and left the room, grinning in Cheshire fashion.
Earlier that day, I had read his card: Dear Ms. C Thanks for giving me an extra try. In the English test you are an awesome English Teacher thanks for all.
That's exactly how he spelled it, full of random capital letters and weird punctuation, and grammar and writing and good communication are what I came here to teach. But, I am learning over and over, they're not the most important thing.
22 November 2011
Excuses
Best one I've heard so far: "I couldn't finish my homework because I was in Austria, and I couldn't bring my book." I love it because it's true--at least the Austria part.
20 November 2011
Michael Scott: Getting me through Sunday
This is the best representation I have found of what happens to me when it comes time to grade papers. It's called The Procrastination Cycle. (Courtesy of Hyperbole and a Half)
Right now, I have a monstrous paper mountain sitting by my side, and I think I've figured out how to get through it: grade one class, watch one episode of The Office. Grade the next class, watch another episode. I haven't watched TV regularly for almost ten years. This is what homework does to me!
(I also need to direct my gratitude toward the Mulan and Hercules soundtracks for adding to my productivity.)
On a side note, a few of us went to Madrid yesterday. There were all sorts of street performers out, as usual, including many patriotic Mickey Mouses. My favorite, though, was the silver Jesus we met earlier this summer--having a good conversation with Jack Sparrow. They stood talking for a minute; then Jesus with his cross and Jack with his suitcase walked away together, and I thought, You know, that's just like Him.
Right now, I have a monstrous paper mountain sitting by my side, and I think I've figured out how to get through it: grade one class, watch one episode of The Office. Grade the next class, watch another episode. I haven't watched TV regularly for almost ten years. This is what homework does to me!
(I also need to direct my gratitude toward the Mulan and Hercules soundtracks for adding to my productivity.)
On a side note, a few of us went to Madrid yesterday. There were all sorts of street performers out, as usual, including many patriotic Mickey Mouses. My favorite, though, was the silver Jesus we met earlier this summer--having a good conversation with Jack Sparrow. They stood talking for a minute; then Jesus with his cross and Jack with his suitcase walked away together, and I thought, You know, that's just like Him.
11 November 2011
11 Things
In honor of 11.11.11 (and because I forgot to have my kids cheer at 11:11 this morning), let's celebrate this acutely mathematical moment with 11 random awesome things from the past week:
11. Watching a students-vs-staff game of football after school. I spent 8 years attending high school and college football games and still don't know the rules. Still don't care to. But I love the ambiance of football, and I love that even our little school in Spain can participate in such an autumnal tradition.
10. Said by a 9th grader during a presentation: "It is wrong to ascribe the death of Poe to rabbis."
9. 7th grade boy: "Does this say 'Babe Ruth'?"
Me: "Yep. Babe Ruth. One of the greatest baseball players of all time."
Boy: "Babe Ruth? That's a guy?"
Me: (internal Sandlot moment)
8. While discussing rhyme scheme--and after reading the line in The Raven that says, "While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping/As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door."
8th grade boy: "It was just P. Diddy/He said, 'Here, I found your kitty!'"
7. During a class project--a TV interview with Montresor from "The Cask of Amontillado"--one student's tender heart kept itself on display.
Interviewer: "So, why would you kill your friend?"
Boy: "Why wouldn't I? Oh, I'm sorry, that's so mean!"
6. Tuesday night. Girl: "When you finish that book, can I read it?"
Me: "Sure."
Wednesday morning. Book is waiting on her desk. She runs to me, wraps me in a hug, and cries, "Thank you!" Girl is seen toting said book around all afternoon.
5. Written on my whiteboard after yearbook club: "Ms. C = best teacher EVER." Only because I have the best 8th graders ever. Thanks, kiddo.
4. Going all the way to Barcelona and finding out that the supply of Barcelona Starbucks mugs had run out. Then coming into school and being handed a Starbucks bag. Yes, Caitlin brought me one of the magical and elusive treasures this morning...after finding it in Madrid.
3. Waiting in my email inbox, the sweetest gift from a friend at home: un cheque regalo (gift card) from Amazon.es. For the kids.
2. Starting a new lit. unit titled "Places in the Heart"--and talking a bit about what we mean when we say "heart." The page had a picture of the big love sculpture in Philadelphia, and I commented, "This statue--it's like a shrine to love. Anyone know where this is?"
Said the boy who's been sopping himself up with dreams of love all week: "My bedroom!"
(He meant that quite innocently, but they laughed for about a thousand years anyway.)
1. In that same romantic vein: writing similes and metaphors. I asked one boy to compare a heart to a box. "Oh, I know, I know!" said Leprechaun, nearly bursting out of his chair. "My heart is a box full of you!"
It probably doesn't hurt that the potential object of his affection is sitting next to him in class.
Happy 11:11pm on 11.11.11, everyone!
11. Watching a students-vs-staff game of football after school. I spent 8 years attending high school and college football games and still don't know the rules. Still don't care to. But I love the ambiance of football, and I love that even our little school in Spain can participate in such an autumnal tradition.
10. Said by a 9th grader during a presentation: "It is wrong to ascribe the death of Poe to rabbis."
9. 7th grade boy: "Does this say 'Babe Ruth'?"
Me: "Yep. Babe Ruth. One of the greatest baseball players of all time."
Boy: "Babe Ruth? That's a guy?"
Me: (internal Sandlot moment)
8. While discussing rhyme scheme--and after reading the line in The Raven that says, "While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping/As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door."
8th grade boy: "It was just P. Diddy/He said, 'Here, I found your kitty!'"
7. During a class project--a TV interview with Montresor from "The Cask of Amontillado"--one student's tender heart kept itself on display.
Interviewer: "So, why would you kill your friend?"
Boy: "Why wouldn't I? Oh, I'm sorry, that's so mean!"
6. Tuesday night. Girl: "When you finish that book, can I read it?"
Me: "Sure."
Wednesday morning. Book is waiting on her desk. She runs to me, wraps me in a hug, and cries, "Thank you!" Girl is seen toting said book around all afternoon.
5. Written on my whiteboard after yearbook club: "Ms. C = best teacher EVER." Only because I have the best 8th graders ever. Thanks, kiddo.
4. Going all the way to Barcelona and finding out that the supply of Barcelona Starbucks mugs had run out. Then coming into school and being handed a Starbucks bag. Yes, Caitlin brought me one of the magical and elusive treasures this morning...after finding it in Madrid.
3. Waiting in my email inbox, the sweetest gift from a friend at home: un cheque regalo (gift card) from Amazon.es. For the kids.
2. Starting a new lit. unit titled "Places in the Heart"--and talking a bit about what we mean when we say "heart." The page had a picture of the big love sculpture in Philadelphia, and I commented, "This statue--it's like a shrine to love. Anyone know where this is?"
Said the boy who's been sopping himself up with dreams of love all week: "My bedroom!"
(He meant that quite innocently, but they laughed for about a thousand years anyway.)
1. In that same romantic vein: writing similes and metaphors. I asked one boy to compare a heart to a box. "Oh, I know, I know!" said Leprechaun, nearly bursting out of his chair. "My heart is a box full of you!"
It probably doesn't hurt that the potential object of his affection is sitting next to him in class.
Happy 11:11pm on 11.11.11, everyone!
03 November 2011
More notable middle school sayings
You may remember the "sociable fellow" from the other day, the one who couldn't recall a single awkward memory. He and another boy had done a particularly good job reading aloud in class--these are two of the three boys I'm usually getting after because they blurt out answers or fall out of chairs or just can't figure out why they are standing up while waving a pencil in the air. I pulled them aside after the bell rang to make sure they knew I had noticed something good about them. "I just wanted to let you two know that you're doing great at showing expression without being over-the-top. Thank you."
The one smiled vaguely, nodded, and walked away. But the sociable fellow beamed. "I know, Ms. C. The people in this class are all over the place, but I behave myself."
Um...not exactly what I was going for. Not wanting to crush his spirits with the truth, I tried to rephrase the compliment: "Well, everyone in this class can be a little crazy at times." (Emphasis on the everyone.) "But today I was really pleased with your reading and the way you put your heart into it."
"Yes, I listen much better than the other kids. Sometimes they are just not paying attention." No wonder it's so hard to think of a time he felt left out! It's hard to be on the outside if you're sociable enough to reinterpret everything you hear. :)
---
"Leprechaun" returned to class after two days of being sick. He was simultaneously pale and flushed, eyes drooping. He hadn't finished the homework, so I excused him from the room to work on the assignment while the others corrected theirs. "If I don't come back," he groaned, "don't call an ambulance. Call the morgue."
That prompted the others to plead, "Can we act dead before he comes back in the class?"
"Sure," I said, and with that, they drooped into various comatose positions on the floor. That is, until I told Leprechaun he could come back in. He stepped through the door, glanced at the boy sprawled across a desk on his back, and asked, "Why do you look like a cockroach?" It all went downhill from there, 'cause you can't laugh and be dead at the same time.
---
One of 3 boys in English 9 (3 boys, I should mention, and 13 girls) noticed an upcoming assignment worksheet on the corner of my desk and groaned, "Group work. I do not like working in the group."
"Why not?" I asked.
"I like to do this in Korean. No one in the class speaks Korean. Well, [boy] does, but he is a patriot!"
I'm still trying to figure that one out.
---
Finally, one of the 8th graders swept into the room today with a dreamy look cast over his face. He was smiling a goofy smile into the air until I asked, "What is happening?"
"I finished my book last night...and everyone got married! It was sooooo cute!" He dropped into his desk. "I just can't stop smiling! I have been smiling all morning." Once the other students had entered, he handed the girl his book and cried, "Read the last page! It's so sweet! Read it out loud!" And we all listened as she read about the marriage ceremony and the final kiss. Meanwhile, the boy was nearly melting out of his clothes, so warm and mushy had he become in the glow of this fictional love.
In the middle of the lesson, I noticed him gazing off again and smiling. "All right, come back to me."
He snapped to attention but grinned the entire rest of the class. "They all got married! I'm just so happy right now. I can't stop smiling."
With kiddos like this, I can't, either.
The one smiled vaguely, nodded, and walked away. But the sociable fellow beamed. "I know, Ms. C. The people in this class are all over the place, but I behave myself."
Um...not exactly what I was going for. Not wanting to crush his spirits with the truth, I tried to rephrase the compliment: "Well, everyone in this class can be a little crazy at times." (Emphasis on the everyone.) "But today I was really pleased with your reading and the way you put your heart into it."
"Yes, I listen much better than the other kids. Sometimes they are just not paying attention." No wonder it's so hard to think of a time he felt left out! It's hard to be on the outside if you're sociable enough to reinterpret everything you hear. :)
---
"Leprechaun" returned to class after two days of being sick. He was simultaneously pale and flushed, eyes drooping. He hadn't finished the homework, so I excused him from the room to work on the assignment while the others corrected theirs. "If I don't come back," he groaned, "don't call an ambulance. Call the morgue."
That prompted the others to plead, "Can we act dead before he comes back in the class?"
"Sure," I said, and with that, they drooped into various comatose positions on the floor. That is, until I told Leprechaun he could come back in. He stepped through the door, glanced at the boy sprawled across a desk on his back, and asked, "Why do you look like a cockroach?" It all went downhill from there, 'cause you can't laugh and be dead at the same time.
---
One of 3 boys in English 9 (3 boys, I should mention, and 13 girls) noticed an upcoming assignment worksheet on the corner of my desk and groaned, "Group work. I do not like working in the group."
"Why not?" I asked.
"I like to do this in Korean. No one in the class speaks Korean. Well, [boy] does, but he is a patriot!"
I'm still trying to figure that one out.
---
Finally, one of the 8th graders swept into the room today with a dreamy look cast over his face. He was smiling a goofy smile into the air until I asked, "What is happening?"
"I finished my book last night...and everyone got married! It was sooooo cute!" He dropped into his desk. "I just can't stop smiling! I have been smiling all morning." Once the other students had entered, he handed the girl his book and cried, "Read the last page! It's so sweet! Read it out loud!" And we all listened as she read about the marriage ceremony and the final kiss. Meanwhile, the boy was nearly melting out of his clothes, so warm and mushy had he become in the glow of this fictional love.
In the middle of the lesson, I noticed him gazing off again and smiling. "All right, come back to me."
He snapped to attention but grinned the entire rest of the class. "They all got married! I'm just so happy right now. I can't stop smiling."
With kiddos like this, I can't, either.
28 October 2011
Of Books and Bobcats
"How many people in here have ever had something happen to them that made them feel so stupid and different and out of place?" We all raised our hands--yes, me too. And I told them about the time in first grade that I claimed I had a bobcat living in my garage. I had meant "tomcat," except I kind of also meant "bobcat," just because I thought bobcats were cool and that everyone would think I was also cool for having one such creature so accessible.
The problem with being in elementary school is that, though elementary kids don't always see things clearly, they can be quite good at seeing straight through them. While I tried to backpedal and claim that it was only a tomcat in the garage, no one forgot. Ever. Ten years later, schoolmates were still asking how the bobcat in my garage was doing. The confidence that had compelled shy, stringy little me to profess such a blatant lie had pushed me into shame. I have no idea why that burns at me today. I haven't cared about the bobcat since at least 1999.
I shared the bobcat story with my 8th graders, then asked again, "Have you felt that way? Have you felt so very far on the outside of things?" They were nodding. "Everyone does. Especially if you're living here in Spain, in a place where you'll never quite belong."
We read "A Rice Sandwich," an excerpt from The House on Mango Street. Sandra Cisneros, the author, grew up always feeling a little out of place in Chicago, where she lived with her Mexican father. The story was short--a page and a half, about a little girl who wants to eat her lunch at school instead of walking the four blocks home every day. Her mother writes her a permission note, and after being scolded by the nuns who run the school, she eats in the canteen like the other kids. She eats her rice sandwich--the family has no lunch meat--in the corner, realizing that even though she's finally sitting where she dreamed she'd sit, she still doesn't belong. She isn't like them. She may never be.
I read it with the 7th graders and was fine, but something caught me the second time around. One of my boys (we'll call him "Leprechaun" for now, as that potluck quip was his) is starting to display a particular sensitivity toward the hurts of others, and a few times during the reading, he said with complete sincerity, "That's so sad." I don't know what did it, but there was just something about the way he said it. I'm discovering in him this undercurrent of compassion that I hadn't seen at first. We finished the story, and he said it again: "That's so sad." And I swear the tears coming to my eyes were, just briefly, the same ones pushing up behind his.
There's something that can happen here if we let it, something I don't really remember doing in my high school English classes, and this is it: caring. If we just read stories to pick them apart, to find antagonists and plots and irony, then we are missing the fact that kids need more than an academic vocabulary with which to describe the stuff they read. Underneath every analysis and evaluation and literary essay ever written, beneath all the layers of program and curriculum sitting on top of reading--if you scrape it all away, underneath you will find, simply, fundamentally, a heart. Books matter because they change us, they make us think, they seep into the pores of our being and don't allow us to walk away without somehow shedding like snakeskin some part of our former selves. Reading stretches us to fit the proportions of someone else's life and thoughts; even if they're imaginary, the shift in perspective isn't.
For one boy, there is a page and half that he'll probably forget about in due time--characters, location, all of that pushed behind other stuff. But for one minute, that story poked him right in the heart and reminded him--and me--that everyone fights a battle. In that, we're all the same, no matter how different we are: six-year-olds with garage bobcats and teenagers living outside passport countries and little girls eating cold, slimy sandwiches in Chicago.
Most of the time, I tangle my mind up in knots trying to figure out how to teach this kind of thing. It's daunting, and I end up stopping ideas before they start. In the meantime, we'll keep reading. Keeping stepping out of our own skin and into someone else's. Keep hoping that somewhere along the line, the story hits us just right, shatters us to pieces so we can be put back together a little less crookedly next time.
The problem with being in elementary school is that, though elementary kids don't always see things clearly, they can be quite good at seeing straight through them. While I tried to backpedal and claim that it was only a tomcat in the garage, no one forgot. Ever. Ten years later, schoolmates were still asking how the bobcat in my garage was doing. The confidence that had compelled shy, stringy little me to profess such a blatant lie had pushed me into shame. I have no idea why that burns at me today. I haven't cared about the bobcat since at least 1999.
I shared the bobcat story with my 8th graders, then asked again, "Have you felt that way? Have you felt so very far on the outside of things?" They were nodding. "Everyone does. Especially if you're living here in Spain, in a place where you'll never quite belong."
We read "A Rice Sandwich," an excerpt from The House on Mango Street. Sandra Cisneros, the author, grew up always feeling a little out of place in Chicago, where she lived with her Mexican father. The story was short--a page and a half, about a little girl who wants to eat her lunch at school instead of walking the four blocks home every day. Her mother writes her a permission note, and after being scolded by the nuns who run the school, she eats in the canteen like the other kids. She eats her rice sandwich--the family has no lunch meat--in the corner, realizing that even though she's finally sitting where she dreamed she'd sit, she still doesn't belong. She isn't like them. She may never be.
I read it with the 7th graders and was fine, but something caught me the second time around. One of my boys (we'll call him "Leprechaun" for now, as that potluck quip was his) is starting to display a particular sensitivity toward the hurts of others, and a few times during the reading, he said with complete sincerity, "That's so sad." I don't know what did it, but there was just something about the way he said it. I'm discovering in him this undercurrent of compassion that I hadn't seen at first. We finished the story, and he said it again: "That's so sad." And I swear the tears coming to my eyes were, just briefly, the same ones pushing up behind his.
There's something that can happen here if we let it, something I don't really remember doing in my high school English classes, and this is it: caring. If we just read stories to pick them apart, to find antagonists and plots and irony, then we are missing the fact that kids need more than an academic vocabulary with which to describe the stuff they read. Underneath every analysis and evaluation and literary essay ever written, beneath all the layers of program and curriculum sitting on top of reading--if you scrape it all away, underneath you will find, simply, fundamentally, a heart. Books matter because they change us, they make us think, they seep into the pores of our being and don't allow us to walk away without somehow shedding like snakeskin some part of our former selves. Reading stretches us to fit the proportions of someone else's life and thoughts; even if they're imaginary, the shift in perspective isn't.
For one boy, there is a page and half that he'll probably forget about in due time--characters, location, all of that pushed behind other stuff. But for one minute, that story poked him right in the heart and reminded him--and me--that everyone fights a battle. In that, we're all the same, no matter how different we are: six-year-olds with garage bobcats and teenagers living outside passport countries and little girls eating cold, slimy sandwiches in Chicago.
Most of the time, I tangle my mind up in knots trying to figure out how to teach this kind of thing. It's daunting, and I end up stopping ideas before they start. In the meantime, we'll keep reading. Keeping stepping out of our own skin and into someone else's. Keep hoping that somewhere along the line, the story hits us just right, shatters us to pieces so we can be put back together a little less crookedly next time.
27 October 2011
Middle schoolers say the darndest things.
After being told that they could read the story individually or with a partner
Boy: "I don't wanna be single!!!"
Others: (Laughter in large quantities)
Boy: "I mean, you know, I want a partner! Reading single!"
And from a high school kid who is not in my class...
"Can I see what books you've got? I have already read everything in the library that I am potentially interested in."
After a huge bee zoomed in the window, around the room, and back out again
"Now it's going to go write an email to its friends. A bee-mail!"
A thing I never anticipated having to say to a class
"Um, please leave the owl's pants on!"
Finally, the coordinating conjunction songs they so proudly created last week. (Coordinating conjunctions = for, and, nor, but, or, yet, so = FANBOYS.) This resulted from a conversation that went like this:
Me: "Okay, everyone's going to get a word. You're for, you're and, you're nor, you're but..."
Boy: "She said I was the butt!"
Me: "But. One t. B-U-T. You don't have to be the but."
Boy: "No, I wanna be the but!"
He most certainly did. Evidence below.
Boy: "I don't wanna be single!!!"
Others: (Laughter in large quantities)
Boy: "I mean, you know, I want a partner! Reading single!"
And from a high school kid who is not in my class...
"Can I see what books you've got? I have already read everything in the library that I am potentially interested in."
After a huge bee zoomed in the window, around the room, and back out again
"Now it's going to go write an email to its friends. A bee-mail!"
A thing I never anticipated having to say to a class
"Um, please leave the owl's pants on!"
Finally, the coordinating conjunction songs they so proudly created last week. (Coordinating conjunctions = for, and, nor, but, or, yet, so = FANBOYS.) This resulted from a conversation that went like this:
Me: "Okay, everyone's going to get a word. You're for, you're and, you're nor, you're but..."
Boy: "She said I was the butt!"
Me: "But. One t. B-U-T. You don't have to be the but."
Boy: "No, I wanna be the but!"
He most certainly did. Evidence below.
07 October 2011
Twelve Euros Away (A week in review)
While completing a grammar exercise
British girl: "We spell this word differently. Is it okay if I spell it the way I normally do?"
Me: "Sure."
(A few minutes later)
Girl: "I spell colour with a u. Is it okay if I keep the u in?"
Me: "Sure."
(A few minutes later)
Girl: (with a bit of a grin) "This sentence says 'my backyard,' but we wouldn't call it a backyard; it's a 'back garden.' Can I write that?"
Me: "You know what's it talking about, so just copy it the way it is."
(And another few minutes later)
Girl: "This says 'we're going on vacation'; can I change it to 'holidays'?"
Me: "Well, it is an American textbook. I know you'd say it differently at home, but just so we're all writing the same thing, please keep it the same."
Boy: "Why do you need to write it differently, anyway?"
Girl: "I just hate American English!"
-----
There is a small shelf of books in my classroom. While the school library is pretty great, I'm always recommending books to the kids, then finding out that our library doesn't have them. If I keep books in my room and introduce the titles during class, they're more apt to check them out and read them. All of that led to all of this:
Boy: "Ms. C, can we donate books to your library?"
Me: "Yes! That'd be awesome!"
The next day, the boy brings his copy of The Last Hero and proudly finds it a place on the shelf.
Boy: "Ms. C? The next book just came out. My mom was looking online, and at bookdepository.com, you can get it for only 12 euros!"
Me: "Okay, thanks. I'll check it out after class."
(Several minutes later, in the middle of a class activity)
Boy: (raises hand)
Me: "Do you have a question?"
Boy: "No, um, I just wanted to make sure that you knew that if you order that book soon, it's only 12 euros at bookdepository.com."
Me: "Right. I will check that out."
(As he walks out the door after class)
Boy: "Ms. C! That book--don't forget--12 euros at bookdepository.com."
BAHAHAHA! He has no idea that while he was doing his homework, I ordered the book from amazon.es (for only 11,32).
-----
My yearbook graphics man (the one who believes in Russian Santa) almost didn't sign up for yearbook this year; he was talked into it because he needed extra credits. However, he now takes his role very seriously. When I divided our massive yearbook club into two groups and said they could alternate weeks, he told me, quite resolutely, "I am the designer. I need to be here." Who can argue with that?!
So here was the conversation at the beginning of this week's club:
Boy: "Who are the other designers?"
Me: "Anna and Luisa.*"
Boy: "Okay. Today I am going to teach them what to do!"
(Ten seconds later, one of the girls enters the room)
Boy: "Luisa, sit down! Today I am going to teach you how to do everything!"
*Names have been substituted to ensure student privacy. All rights reserved.
-----
Finally, remember when our water went crazy and leaked under the house and the water company sent us a 438,00€ bill? And remember when I said I'd be interested in seeing how people fix water leaks underneath cement houses?
My curiosity was satisfied that day. Here's how they fix it.
The outside wall in the front, beneath my bedroom window:
Bathroom:
Back hallway:
Kitchen:
Back patio:
There's no tile missing here, but I thought you'd like to see the column that came with the house.
Either Spaniards really like to smash things apart (see also: The Great Toilet Smashing of Summer 2011), or I haven't been hanging around with enough construction workers.
Anyway, the water is fixed, and I must be going. I'm off to a delightful rotic date with Sarah (yes, rotic; that's "romantic" without the "man"), followed by picking up my packages of 12-euro books and lesson planning for more of that dreadful American English.
British girl: "We spell this word differently. Is it okay if I spell it the way I normally do?"
Me: "Sure."
(A few minutes later)
Girl: "I spell colour with a u. Is it okay if I keep the u in?"
Me: "Sure."
(A few minutes later)
Girl: (with a bit of a grin) "This sentence says 'my backyard,' but we wouldn't call it a backyard; it's a 'back garden.' Can I write that?"
Me: "You know what's it talking about, so just copy it the way it is."
(And another few minutes later)
Girl: "This says 'we're going on vacation'; can I change it to 'holidays'?"
Me: "Well, it is an American textbook. I know you'd say it differently at home, but just so we're all writing the same thing, please keep it the same."
Boy: "Why do you need to write it differently, anyway?"
Girl: "I just hate American English!"
-----
There is a small shelf of books in my classroom. While the school library is pretty great, I'm always recommending books to the kids, then finding out that our library doesn't have them. If I keep books in my room and introduce the titles during class, they're more apt to check them out and read them. All of that led to all of this:
Boy: "Ms. C, can we donate books to your library?"
Me: "Yes! That'd be awesome!"
The next day, the boy brings his copy of The Last Hero and proudly finds it a place on the shelf.
Boy: "Ms. C? The next book just came out. My mom was looking online, and at bookdepository.com, you can get it for only 12 euros!"
Me: "Okay, thanks. I'll check it out after class."
(Several minutes later, in the middle of a class activity)
Boy: (raises hand)
Me: "Do you have a question?"
Boy: "No, um, I just wanted to make sure that you knew that if you order that book soon, it's only 12 euros at bookdepository.com."
Me: "Right. I will check that out."
(As he walks out the door after class)
Boy: "Ms. C! That book--don't forget--12 euros at bookdepository.com."
BAHAHAHA! He has no idea that while he was doing his homework, I ordered the book from amazon.es (for only 11,32).
-----
My yearbook graphics man (the one who believes in Russian Santa) almost didn't sign up for yearbook this year; he was talked into it because he needed extra credits. However, he now takes his role very seriously. When I divided our massive yearbook club into two groups and said they could alternate weeks, he told me, quite resolutely, "I am the designer. I need to be here." Who can argue with that?!
So here was the conversation at the beginning of this week's club:
Boy: "Who are the other designers?"
Me: "Anna and Luisa.*"
Boy: "Okay. Today I am going to teach them what to do!"
(Ten seconds later, one of the girls enters the room)
Boy: "Luisa, sit down! Today I am going to teach you how to do everything!"
*Names have been substituted to ensure student privacy. All rights reserved.
-----
Finally, remember when our water went crazy and leaked under the house and the water company sent us a 438,00€ bill? And remember when I said I'd be interested in seeing how people fix water leaks underneath cement houses?
My curiosity was satisfied that day. Here's how they fix it.
The outside wall in the front, beneath my bedroom window:
Bathroom:
Back hallway:
Kitchen:
Back patio:
There's no tile missing here, but I thought you'd like to see the column that came with the house.
Either Spaniards really like to smash things apart (see also: The Great Toilet Smashing of Summer 2011), or I haven't been hanging around with enough construction workers.
Anyway, the water is fixed, and I must be going. I'm off to a delightful rotic date with Sarah (yes, rotic; that's "romantic" without the "man"), followed by picking up my packages of 12-euro books and lesson planning for more of that dreadful American English.
10 September 2011
Which English do you speak?
While talking about which household chore they dislike the most:
Boy (Australian): "I hate going outside and brushing."
Other kids (grown up in Spain): "Brushing?!"
Boy: "Yes, brushing, you know, brushing the leaves."
Kids: "Oh! Sweeping!"
My brain: "Oh! What? Oh. Raking. Right."
Boy (Australian): "I hate going outside and brushing."
Other kids (grown up in Spain): "Brushing?!"
Boy: "Yes, brushing, you know, brushing the leaves."
Kids: "Oh! Sweeping!"
My brain: "Oh! What? Oh. Raking. Right."
09 September 2011
Ms. C has left the building.
Rather, she will--in about forty minutes!
I have been here almost every night until about 9pm, trying to make my lesson plans and my brain play nice together. Teachers, that is a really helpful thing to remind your students when they are weeping over the hour of the homework they had to do last night. (If you are a particularly vicious kind of person, you can say it with kind of a snarl: "Well, I was here for five hours making worksheets--just because I love you guys so much." But that's just a general example, not one obtained from my own personal experience. ;)
I don't mind public speaking a bit, but when the monologue is mainly unscripted as with teaching, my brain is always playing tag with my tongue. I sometimes feel like this wits-vs-voice showdown is playing out in front of class, with my poor mind always lagging a few minutes behind, trying to wipe up the mess my mouth just made. For example, while defining "suspense," today, I said something like, "You know, when you're just really on the edge of your sheet? I mean, the edge of your seat. Maybe you're on the edge of your sheet if you're reading in bed." And in this way, I impart my supreme wisdom and awkwardness to the next generation.
But I look out my classroom's west window and see this, and then I look at the faces of those kids filling up the seats, and I think that it's okay to be a little awkward in front of such a great audience.
I mean, I really am looking forward to the day when I will be done with lesson plans and photocopies by 5:30, to that moment when I am no longer spending two hours getting ready for every fifty minutes I teach. It's part of the rhythm in this imaginary song called "Someday After September," a song which is subtitled "I Will Be a Real Person Again." It's how it is, and I hope I'm not sounding too negative about it. I'm tired, yes, and I'm a little overwhelmed, but I like being in this place.
Last night, I sat at this desk writing responses to 7th grade book journals. Halfway through, I was trying to make realistic goals, wondering how long it would take to get beyond these surface 2-sentence back-and-forth exchanges about their books--when I opened up to a page-long letter. She shared a little about her book, then asked me what I thought of something--a rather personal kind of question, the tiniest hint of need for affirmation. And so I thought for awhile, penned a page in response, decided I didn't like it, ripped the page out, and re-wrote the thought.
I handed it back to her this morning, wondering if she'd think my response was cheesy or weird or heavy-handed. She whipped it off her desk immediately, gasping when she saw all that handwriting (or maybe she was just stunned by my profuse use of White-Out). And then she smiled and looked up at me, then down again, then into the journal again, rereading the page and smiling just enough to let me know that she's probably going to write another page back this time, maybe even two. Now maybe I'm romanticizing this little exchange, and maybe she'll write back, "Um, that was weird. But thanks. I like Dawn Treader, too. It is a good book," and that will be the end of it. But I kinda don't think so, and that's the part that makes my awkward little heart smile.
I think we spend a lot of life likening our purpose to a unicorn, talking about it as if it's this mysterious, mythical entity out there somewhere, and we must go discover it and capture it and then our lives will be complete. But I don't think it's like that. I don't think anyone has to wait. Even though we're always in the process of becoming, what's the point of being who we are now if that person has nothing to contribute? Maybe we do have some grand future destiny to fulfill, or maybe we're just the person who writes letters back and forth to a middle school girl for the rest of forever, and that's it. It's just as grand a calling as anything. We spend most of our lives in the mundane and the ordinary; I can't suppose that's an accident. I think it's because those are the places where we have the most opportunity to love.
Even when "love" just means answering "Can we please never read Sylvia Plath in your class again?" with a hearty "yes."
I have been here almost every night until about 9pm, trying to make my lesson plans and my brain play nice together. Teachers, that is a really helpful thing to remind your students when they are weeping over the hour of the homework they had to do last night. (If you are a particularly vicious kind of person, you can say it with kind of a snarl: "Well, I was here for five hours making worksheets--just because I love you guys so much." But that's just a general example, not one obtained from my own personal experience. ;)
I don't mind public speaking a bit, but when the monologue is mainly unscripted as with teaching, my brain is always playing tag with my tongue. I sometimes feel like this wits-vs-voice showdown is playing out in front of class, with my poor mind always lagging a few minutes behind, trying to wipe up the mess my mouth just made. For example, while defining "suspense," today, I said something like, "You know, when you're just really on the edge of your sheet? I mean, the edge of your seat. Maybe you're on the edge of your sheet if you're reading in bed." And in this way, I impart my supreme wisdom and awkwardness to the next generation.
But I look out my classroom's west window and see this, and then I look at the faces of those kids filling up the seats, and I think that it's okay to be a little awkward in front of such a great audience.
I mean, I really am looking forward to the day when I will be done with lesson plans and photocopies by 5:30, to that moment when I am no longer spending two hours getting ready for every fifty minutes I teach. It's part of the rhythm in this imaginary song called "Someday After September," a song which is subtitled "I Will Be a Real Person Again." It's how it is, and I hope I'm not sounding too negative about it. I'm tired, yes, and I'm a little overwhelmed, but I like being in this place.
Last night, I sat at this desk writing responses to 7th grade book journals. Halfway through, I was trying to make realistic goals, wondering how long it would take to get beyond these surface 2-sentence back-and-forth exchanges about their books--when I opened up to a page-long letter. She shared a little about her book, then asked me what I thought of something--a rather personal kind of question, the tiniest hint of need for affirmation. And so I thought for awhile, penned a page in response, decided I didn't like it, ripped the page out, and re-wrote the thought.
I handed it back to her this morning, wondering if she'd think my response was cheesy or weird or heavy-handed. She whipped it off her desk immediately, gasping when she saw all that handwriting (or maybe she was just stunned by my profuse use of White-Out). And then she smiled and looked up at me, then down again, then into the journal again, rereading the page and smiling just enough to let me know that she's probably going to write another page back this time, maybe even two. Now maybe I'm romanticizing this little exchange, and maybe she'll write back, "Um, that was weird. But thanks. I like Dawn Treader, too. It is a good book," and that will be the end of it. But I kinda don't think so, and that's the part that makes my awkward little heart smile.
I think we spend a lot of life likening our purpose to a unicorn, talking about it as if it's this mysterious, mythical entity out there somewhere, and we must go discover it and capture it and then our lives will be complete. But I don't think it's like that. I don't think anyone has to wait. Even though we're always in the process of becoming, what's the point of being who we are now if that person has nothing to contribute? Maybe we do have some grand future destiny to fulfill, or maybe we're just the person who writes letters back and forth to a middle school girl for the rest of forever, and that's it. It's just as grand a calling as anything. We spend most of our lives in the mundane and the ordinary; I can't suppose that's an accident. I think it's because those are the places where we have the most opportunity to love.
Even when "love" just means answering "Can we please never read Sylvia Plath in your class again?" with a hearty "yes."
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