Soapbox: The Way I see Things

What’s to Love?

So why is it, exactly, that I have taught for almost 18 years now without fear of burnout?

I consider this week, a week so crazy I think it took me until Thursday before I had a real planning time longer than 15 minutes. A week so nuts that I was up every night late grading, planning, and catching up on house work I couldn’t ignore.

What was there to love about a week like that?

That the third graders in my math group use the word “theory” when discussing how to do a tricky homework problem.

That a teacher told me I made her think of gifted kids from a new perspective.

That my former students, now big bad eighth-graders, gave me a cheerful greeting in the junior high hallway.

That the kids in my storytelling group recognize each others’ talents and eagerly cheer each other on. That they brag about each other to the substitute teacher.

That I have third through fifth grade kids in my writing group who choose topics for writing like abandonment. Children with siblings who have special needs. The rapid population of Heaven after the Mayan apocalypse. A poor kid and a rich one who find themselves drawn together. A shy hippo who has some really great friends.

That my fifth grade math students thank me after math every single day. Ok, so one of them confided in me that it was part of a bet (that he, of course, wasn’t part of), but I’ll take what I can get.

That I have a vocabulary group using the introduction of Beowulf in their study of the history of the English language.

That the kindergarten kid I worked with in math counts forward and backward through the ten thousands.

That every day, I get to look into the eyes of dozens of students and see sincerity, kindness, and an irrepressible love for learning.

They don’t just help me avoid burnout, they inspire me to come each day, each year, with renewed passion and energy.

Happy New Year: Finding Resolution

As a self-professed blonkie (read: blog junkie; yeah, you can trademark me on that one), I’ve cruised around to various posts listing new plans and resolutions for 2013.

So, of course, that set my mind spinning about what I could bring to the party.

I confess there was something getting in the way, though. There was some nagging feeling that kept me from sitting down and writing a post about my New Year’s resolutions. For a couple of days, I tried to figure out what it was.

It wasn’t for a shortage of things I wish to work on, either personally or professionally. Keep up on grading. Keep computer files organized. Get my house clean. Flip my classroom more. Take breaks from technology. Quit snacking so much. Try to do more centers. Blog more. Run more. Sleep more. The list goes on and on.

I’m forever an optimist, mentally visualizing my ideal teaching, my ideal life, my ideal self.

I’m also a perfectionist, which means I’m continually beating myself up for not being that ideal. Those things to work on? They play constantly in my head, like a tape loop that repeats itself.

That’s when it hit me. Why am I sitting here trying to make New Year’s resolutions when I’m really, in truth, doing it every day? Why should I make a special attempt on this holiday to focus on self-improvement when I’m critical of myself all the time? What is the point of using New Year’s as another opportunity to commemorate my shortcomings?

This year, I vote no.

It is more important to me that I begin to internalize the merits of self-worth. It is time to replace desire for perfection with the pursuit of excellence.

After all, how am I supposed to teach my students healthy responses to perfectionism if I can’t get there myself? Simply put, I can’t. I need a better way of doing business.

And you? Are you willing to toss aside traditional resolutions in favor of more attention to healthier, more positive thought patterns?

Who’s in?

Winter — Break??

I woke up this morning from yet another set of school dreams.

You know, I always have this bright shiny idea in my head that I’m able to compartmentalize, to truly break from teaching during a holiday. Not like I’ve been grading papers, checking school e-mail, or thinking about my students all the time.

Whatever.

It’s just that school dreams seem especially unfair. I mean, it’s enough that I think about school stuff of my own free will. But in my sleep? That’s my time to fly, to explore, to go beyond limits.

Yes, yes, I know school dreams hold meaning and significance. All dreams do. Take, for example, the dream where the kids are in my classroom and I’ve done absolutely nothing to prepare for them. I have no plan, no materials ready, no homework, no idea what I’m doing — and of course, the kids totally notice. Or the dream about how my students are in the classroom, but I’m not. Maybe I’m making copies, or hanging out talking to someone, or finding my way around the (of course) foreign school hallways – seemingly unworried about needing to get in and teach. I get it, I get it. There are definitely fears of incompetence and powerlessness behind those dreams.

So, my friends, tell me this. Exactly how should I interpret the latest installment, in which I am not only a Superintendent of Schools, welcoming irate parents into my office as I sit them down to my comfortable lime-green couches and chairs, but I am doing so as a heavy-set, middle-aged, African-American woman?

And for that matter, why school dreams every. Single. Night? Why won’t they leave me alone, if only for a day or two?

Consider me stumped. Ideas? Thoughts? Interpretations? I welcome them all.

Back on the Ice: Lesson Learned

Today was a hockey day.

I haven’t been in my full equipment since the middle of the summer. I know, I know. I had set out to learn how to play ice hockey, and take you along on my journey. I know it’s important to keep going with lessons and clinics. I know! Somehow, I’ve let myself take a backseat to my family’s schedule, volunteer obligations, and just plain old life.

The first thing I did today on the ice? I fell on my behind trying to close the gate to the rink. Yeah. You read right.

Out there scrimmaging with my kids, I felt even worse. All I remember is scrambling to stay up while my kids (and some others) pretty much went around me like I was a cone. Awesome. Talk about feeling foolish.

We only had a half hour on the ice today, but that was enough for me. Dejected and embarrassed, I slunk out to change into street clothes. Thinking that my skates were the issue, I took them to the shop for a good sharpening. I was told they didn’t need it (consider it -ahem- “user error”). Yeah. Thanks for pouring salt into the wound there.

So there I was, sitting with my hockey bag by the door as I waited for my boys to come out of the locker room. First thing my son says to me as he comes out? “Good job, Mom. You even stole the puck from me once.”

Hmm.

For those of you who know me, you are pretty familiar with how loudly I let perfectionism speak to me. Just when I was busy feeling silly, my own kid recognized my efforts as good enough for what I could do. And here it was. The voice of Realism, telling my voice of Perfectionism to sit down and shut up.

If you want me tomorrow, I’ll be out on the ice. Trying again. I’ve got pucks to steal.

The Monday Morning After: Expectations

What happens when you combine horrific news, intense sorrow, a night of unsettling dreams, a Monday morning where everyone in the family oversleeps, and school the week before winter break?

A day where I have abso-LUTE-ly no idea what to expect.

What will the mood of the kids be? Will they have heard the news? Will they be concerned, anxious, curious? I especially think of the deeply sensitive ones, those kids who are in tune to everyone else’s feelings around them, or who feel they must carry burdens of social justice on their young shoulders.

And how about me? When I see my students, how do I handle my feelings? The anger, the confusion, and – most importantly – fear? How do I protect my kids from the intensity of my own emotions, still very much raw and visceral? What would happen if they knew how utterly afraid and vulnerable I really felt?

Then it happened.

The school bell rang.

Something magical happens when the school bell rings. You teachers out there with me will understand completely. You get swept up in a tide of routines – greeting each other, collecting homework, sharpening pencils. You move from subject to subject, from class to class. There’s no time to dwell on the hypothetical, on the existential. Your concentration lies entirely with the children who need your attention. Before you know it, the day has gone by and it’s all been pretty okay.

It’s happened to me before, on days when family issues have given me grief, or when I’m feeling particularly upset about school politics. Everything can go wrong up until 8:30 a.m. I’ve had days so frustrating I’ve cried on the way to school, or at my desk with the door closed. And then the kids come in. Those are the days we throw ourselves into learning with reckless abandon, and I remember why I got out of bed in the first place.

So what happened today? My fifth grade math students came to visit me. At first, the major news they debated was the bad officiating at the Bears-Packers game. (Priorities, I know.)

After the morning announcements, however, I had one student raise his hand and ask if we could sing the National Anthem in honor/support of the people of Newtown. Not sure how the singing would go over, I suggested that perhaps we could have a moment or two of quiet reflection, and he thought that would be a good alternative.

The kids in my room had all heard the news, had all expressed their shock and sadness. Now it was my turn. Ugh. Here goes, I thought. I told them how important each one of them is to me, and reminded them of the heroes and helpers that day, and reassured them that these situations are incredibly rare, and made sure they knew that I – and any other adult in our building – would have done exactly the same thing for them were they in that situation. That was all they needed.

Then it was off: to Fibonacci numbers and the Golden Ratio, to frequently misspelled words, to works of fiction with characters we can care about, to reading and interpreting line graphs, to creating puzzle books, to discussing the history of the Indo-European language family. Yes, the history of the Indo-European language family.

In short, everything I could possibly expect (or hope for). And tomorrow, I get to do it again.

What I Can’t (and Can) Understand: A Teacher’s Reflection

It’s 11:22. So far this weekend I’ve easily spent five hours on school stuff – by the standard of most weekends, a light load.

Perhaps I have a light load, but a heavy heart.

Lunchtime on Friday was when I heard about Sandy Hook. We teachers talked about the events at the table and taught our afternoon classes, still somewhat numb. We walked all of the students outside at the end of the day. I know it choked me up to see all of the parents hugging their children extra tight.

All weekend, I’ve been trying to comprehend it. I can’t. I can’t imagine the terror of those ten minutes. I can’t fully understand the turmoil those families are enduring. I cannot fathom how the Sandy Hook School community could possibly get through its first day back when it is time. I can’t understand any of it.

Well, let me correct that. Because I’ll tell you what I can understand. I can understand the determination with which those teachers tried to protect their kids. Because my kids? They’re MY kids. Yes, every bright and smiling face I see in the hallway, each eager learner who walks in my door is officially a lovey of mine. And as I’ve often said: once a lovey, always a lovey. My students are my children forever. Just ask the twenty-somethings I still keep in touch with. I want to know how their lives are, what they’re doing, whether or not they are safe and happy. Because they matter to me as much as my own children do. I hope some of my former students are reading this blog, and that they hear from me how incredibly important each one of them has been in my life.

Meanwhile.

I have nine different preps for tomorrow, some of which I’ve planned more than others. But I still can’t shake the feeling that right now, in light of the last few days, so much of that really doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter how good my spelling packets look. It doesn’t matter how well I’ve organized the sample graphs for the math lesson, whether or not I’ve put smiley stickers on the kids’ homework, or whether or not I have all of my copies ready.

What matters to me is what has always mattered to me:

Every child in my care is worthy of respect, of dignity, of love. Every child needs to learn, to laugh, to play, to work through frustrations, to make mistakes, to fail sometimes. Every child needs an environment that is safe physically and emotionally. Every child in my care deserves to know that learning is important, but being a decent human being is paramount.

And I have always been – and still am – willing to do anything to make that happen.

Getting in the Game

I confess, I drove to hockey tonight with trepidation.

Last time was fun, but I did spend the whole time trying to re-learn how to skate. As much as I know that learning takes time, and as much as I’m ready to do what it takes to build my skills, I worried how many times I’d spend hockey practice trudging back and forth on the ice.

Miracle of miracles. My body remembered what it needed to in order to skate forward. So that meant I got to participate in the drills.

Bad news: The coach ran a ton of partner drills. I kept picturing myself as THAT student – the one who’s always a day late and a dollar short, continually unable to hold up her end of the bargain. The one nobody wants as a partner.

Good news: The guys out there all seemed to remember that they were beginners like me too, and were remarkably kind and patient.

Bad news: Maybe I could go forward, but I can’t turn worth a darn.

Good news: The coach taught me what to do when I turn, so maybe next time that’ll come along too.

Bad news: I looked like Frankenstein when skating with the puck. I’ll let you picture it yourself.

Good news: I was one of the most accurate passers out there.

So I won’t lie. I’m pumped up. I’m excited about what I’ve learned, and I am ready for more. Bring it on!

Learning Curve

So this week, I did it. I dropped the other shoe. Skate, if you will. Because tonight I went to my first instructional hockey lesson. Call it a precursor to mid-life shenanigans, if you want to. For me, it’s more the end of a long period of hemming and hawing – I’ve been playing hockey on the driveway and talking about learning to skate for a long time now.

I thought about putting this post on my personal blog, but thought, if I’m an educator, doesn’t it make sense to share my journey here? The whole thought of having something new and challenging to learn is incredibly exciting to me, and I want to make sure I remember that magic for my students.

All right, here’s what I learned tonight:

1. It takes a lot of effort to put a hockey jersey on over pads. I broke a sweat in the locker room.

2. Tighten hockey pants AFTER tying skates.

3. When you go out to the rink and there’s a guy in the middle spreading puddles with a broom, you’re probably not going to skate on the highest-quality ice.

4. The quality of ice doesn’t matter. There’s no whining in hockey. Shut up and skate. (And no, I didn’t whine, thank you very much.)

5. You know that put-your-feet-where-you-can, stand-in-whatever-way-will-keep-your-butt-from-falling approach so many of us take to public skating? Yeah, that doesn’t cut it. Time to completely re-learn how you ice skate.

6. To skate like a hockey player, bend your knees, straighten your back and head, push back and away with the inside of your skates, bring your feet together.

7. If all of those steps in #6 seem like a lot of things to remember, well…yeah. You’re right. It is a lot to remember. So you’ll need to practice it up and down the ice until you get it. Lather, rinse, repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

8. You might not get it all the first night. It’s your job to come back and try again.

9. Hockey’s hard. That’s just a statement of fact. I refuse to whine.

10. It’s also fun. Way fun. But this is something I’m learning for myself – not for any credentials, not for anyone else. This is mine, and I’m ready to roll.

Stay tuned for more updates on my Great Hockey Journey…

My Turn

So. For the past several weeks I’ve hosted an informal writing group in my room. Not just for kids who are good at writing. Kids who are passionate writers. Voracious writers. Put-that-pencil-down-already-and-come-to-breakfast writers.

The group hosts about 10 second through fifth graders who come on and off, although I have a core of 5 who always come, and would come every day if I’d offer it.

I started by simply allowing them the time to write, with the idea that they would eventually work with one another to discuss their writing and inspire each other to better things.

A few weeks ago, though, I decided that the opportunity was too great – these kids were capable of great things in their writing. Why not have them do some activities to work on their craft a bit?

So I issued a challenge: write a story in 100 words or less. Many of you writers out there have picked up this challenge before. What I love about it, and what makes it so tricky for kids, is that this challenge forces us as writers to cut to the heart of what we’re trying to say. Flowery descriptions are nice, but if they don’t move the story along, cut it out. There are times, as the group discussed, where the pace of the action needs to pick up. This challenge is practice.

And what’s the point of issuing a challenge if I don’t take myself up on it, too? Below is what I’ve written over the course of our lunchtime meet-ups. I spent more time working the ending than on most of the rest of it, thanks to the help of my younger cohorts. No title yet, but if you have a suggestion, I’d love for you to leave it in the comments section. Happy reading!

——

She glanced down the hallway. No sign of him yet. She dropped to the floor and slithered. If he couldn’t see her, he couldn’t get her. Heart thudding against the linoleum, she inched toward the exit.

A noise. Footsteps? Or blood pounding in her ears?

Faster now, her sweaty palms dragged her closer to escape.

A figure approached.

Panic-stricken, she leapt for the door, breathing in the safety of the world outside.

A hand grabbed her shoulder.

“Going somewhere?”

She turned, eyes taking in the doctor’s stare, the hand brandishing the syringe.

“This flu shot won’t hurt a bit.”