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

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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.”

Shangri-La

Welcome to Mount Math-More

You know what this stuff is, right?

To the uninitiated, it’s just a big old mess of math supplies.

Well, actually, you’re right. That’s what it is. But really? That’s not what it is. You see, I’m a teacher. The desire for new school supplies runs in my veins. The yearly school supply order brings squeals of joy as I rip into boxes of bulletin borders, EXPO markers and scratch-and-sniff stickers. Back-to-school sales at local stores send me into near euphoria as I contemplate crayons with perfect tips and impossibly pink erasers. And a perfectly sharpened pencil? Don’t get me started.

So the thought of new school stuff is exciting enough already. But this pile of sheer math-y goodness isn’t for me. All of these materials – the thousands of cubes, the hundreds of dice, and more – all of them are going out to other teachers in my school. That’s what makes it even more exciting.

Every teacher who gets one of these kits is going to use it to differentiate math instruction in his or her classroom. And as a person whose job it is to support teachers in differentiation, this pile represents more than you can imagine.

I’m pretty proud of this pile. It’s a physical product of my belief that every kid deserves to learn something new every day. It’s a tangible reminder that I work with incredible colleagues who are ready and open to take on professional challenges. It’s only taken a few weeks for the order to arrive, but it takes years to develop the trust for teachers to open up their classrooms and their planbooks, and invite me in. It’s one thing when teachers ask me for books, worksheets, or lesson ideas. It’s quite another when teachers want to make changes to the way they teach. I’ve always felt in my heart that I could effect change outside of the walls of my own room, and I am finally seeing it happen. It’s humbling to be part of it all, actually.

Tomorrow afternoon, some teachers and I are going to have a packing party. We’re going to bag and box everything up. Kits are going out to teachers I’ve worked and planned with, with extras ordered for anyone who wants to jump on the bandwagon.

Until then, you can find me in my classroom. I’ll be taking a private moment in the presence of new school supplies. The polyhedra dice are calling. Such a sweet, sweet song…

Sage Advice

I couldn’t resist sharing this.

The school psychologist, social worker and I team up to lead a social group called self-science. It’s sort of like a cross between character ed and gifted ed. The group explores what it means (and doesn’t mean) to be a smart kid, and how to navigate some of the speedbumps that come along.

On the agenda for last week: Perfectionism. It’s good to want to BE good. It’s good to want to win, or to be the best. They are positive motivators, which help us in what several in the field call “The Pursuit of Excellence.” The trick is in recognizing when the pursuit of excellence works its way into perfectionism. What could we gather as a group? Perfectionism starts when bad or negative things happen as a result of our pursuit for excellence. Maybe other things don’t get done. Maybe we’re unkind to people around us. Maybe we tell ourselves mean things.

Further down in the discussion, then, was how we can use positive self-talk to help ourselves out. That’s when some magic happened. As a group, we were able to come up with this continuum for completing tasks. Grown-ups, take note. You will see yourselves in this continuum. I know I do.

PERFECTION – truly, impossible to achieve. Nobody gets here. Our brains know that (even if our hearts don’t sometimes).

OUR BEST – isn’t this what everyone tells us to strive for? Isn’t this what our teachers, parents and peers ask of us? But c’mon. Can we really expect this of ourselves EVERY single time? On EVERY single spelling assignment? And is EVERY single meal I cook for my family my BEST? No. That’s when we need to give ourselves permission to settle for

A JOB WELL-DONE – yes, we know what “our best” is. But it’s not always realistic. Let us be satisfied with something that reflects our efforts, but acknowledge that we occasionally have better things we want to do with our time. Like play. And read. And sleep.

A JOB DONE – sometimes, we make things more difficult than they need to be. Yes, creativity is wonderful. Yes, it can be interesting to make tasks more complex. But there are times when it just makes sense to get through it and get the task over with.

A JOB DONE WITHOUT EFFORT, SKILL, or TIME – I loved that the fifth graders game up with those criteria. Time, effort, and skill. Because really, aren’t these the standards by which we should judge our work?

A JOB NOT DONE – just as there is one end of the continuum, so must there be the opposite end. What we haven’t gotten to is how perfectionism can lead us to this end. Funny, isn’t it, how our pursuit of the highest level of task performance can create an obstacle so big it leads to the lowest level. That’s going to take some more thought.

 

Our lunch session was one of those days that left me once again completely amazed by the insight and depth my students bring to the table. Once again, I marveled at how much I can learn from a bunch of 10-year olds. Once again, I am excited to see where these conversations go, and which new discoveries await.

Life as a Missing Piece (Learning to Roll)

So there were many of you who read my earlier post, and you’ve asked me (or may have been wondering) how it’s going. What’s the latest?

Have things changed? Not really.

Am I happy with the way some things are? No, but it’s the way some things are.

Do I leave school happy each day? No, but I really do wish I did.

Sigh. Can good possibly come in any of this?

Right now I know that my career, my life, is at a crossroads. It’s all about choices.

I can continue to feel myself pulled down the path toward cynicism and burnout. I can bring others with me into negativity, if I so choose. But I can’t. I won’t allow myself to change who and what I am.

Another option? I can close my door, pull myself inward and protect the remaining optimism and idealism I have. Believe me, it’s incredibly tempting. But I can’t. I can’t cut myself off, stand back and expect things to heal.

Or?

I can try to move on.

I can stand in the hallway as the students come in, then greet them with smiles, hugs, and high-fives.

I can offer to teach my colleagues a new skill with Google apps.

I can play math games with the second-grade teachers.

I can set up a message board outside my room so kids can recommend books to me.

I can take student self-assessment in a new direction, one that I’m REALLY proud of (and will post about soon).

There you have it. It’s where I am, and it’s how things are. The problems and the pressures haven’t gone away. At the same time, I talk to students and parents all the time about how challenge presents us with a chance to grow. Why shouldn’t I be different, then? I’m oddly hopeful that this challenge may be a time of struggle, but in the end it will be my opportunity to thrive.

Don’t ask me how I’ll get there. I’m not quite sure.

In the meantime, I’ll continue as I did today, listening to my eight-year-olds discussing literary themes from Shel Silverstein’s “Missing Piece Meets the Big O.” Two of the themes they chose were change and transformation, and I can hear them debating the difference between the two. (Yeah, that’s right. They’re eight. Years. Old.)

The Missing Piece (just a triangle) sits alone looking for someone to be a part of, so that it can roll. It finds all sorts of characters and tries all sorts of gimmicks and tricks to get someone to pick him up, but nothing really works.

Along comes the Big O (a circle), and the missing piece wants to roll with it. The Big O says it’s already whole; perhaps the piece could roll by itself. Roll by itself!? But a missing piece is just a triangle, with sharp corners!

The Big O’s response? “Corners wear off and shapes change.”

Change. Transformation.

Lift, pull, flop…it began to move forward…Lift, pull, flop…and soon its edges began to wear off…Liftpullflop, liftpullflop, liftpullflop…

Change.

Transformation.

And a New Year Begins…

…complete with smiling faces and all. So where does that put me now?

Once again, I am re-energized by the eager young kids in front of me. I stood today out on the playground and again in the hallway as the students entered school today. The mood was positively electric and completely contagious. Maybe it was my breakfast coming back to haunt me, but I could swear my idealism was bubbling up inside me again.

I sat in a brief staff meeting and looked around at the faces of the teachers around me. People who had spent the past week working their tails off to get ready for Day One. People who (just like me) see every kid coming through that door as somebody’s child. People who share the same excitements and the same frustrations that I do. Colleagues.

Yes, the politics are still at play, standing expectantly over my shoulder. Yes, there are a thousand and one mini-crises that pop up each day. But today, thankfully, some of the resilience I’ve been seeking for so long has once again returned.

Tomorrow my first crop of students comes. I think they’ll be in my downstairs room, as opposed to the upstairs room I was just told I’m moving into. My desk isn’t in the room we’ll be in. There’s nothing on the walls. Just about all of my stuff is still in boxes.

But mark my words. Magic will happen.

On Returning to my Classroom

Okay, so usually? Each August? When you ask me about the start of school? I start getting goosebumps. Literally. Just get me started talking about new school supplies, about seeing happy faces that first day of school, of going back to that wonderful structure of learning rules and routines, of thinking about the incredible sense of possibility that a new year holds, of – – well, you get the idea.

This year? Well, I’m trying. I really am.

What makes it so different?

I have to confess that last year was rough. Not the kids. They’re never the problem. They’re the reason I get out of bed each day, and I tell them so regularly. Is it the parents, then? Naw. I so enjoy having the shared experience of knowing that wonderful person that is their child that even the speedbumps are manageable. And my colleagues are an incredibly dedicated group of professionals with a heartfelt desire to do well by our kids.

It’s everything else. The politics, the issues, questions about direction and priorities and leadership and change. Not to mention major construction.

I’ve mentioned before that in teaching (as in much of life), what I count on most is my sense of idealism. By this past June, it was nearly beaten out of me. I could physically feel my resilience draining away as I entered the building and roamed the halls. I hated that. I hate writing it even now. And I hate that it’s true.

More than anything, I was hoping that this summer could be a true break, where I could breathe, focus, and find my center again. I passed on a multitude of opportunities: workshops, classes, social get-togethers. There were a few meetings and classes here and there, including a math class taught with my math idol from the junior high. (THAT was a rush.)

I was hoping that I could look August in the eye and feel the same sense of romance that I have in previous years. Honestly, that’s not the feeling that I have right now.

Right now, I’m hoping that starting to set up my classroom tomorrow is going to get my blood pumping. Maybe taking the time to sort through boxes, to see new supplies arrive for the year, to dwell on some of the possibilities ahead. Maybe that will do it for me.

If not, I know that next Tuesday there will be hundreds of smiling, tan, eager-to-learn faces coming to greet me and the rest of my colleagues. I know that no matter how heavy I feel my burden is, I can count on those amazing people to pull me through. And they will.

And I’m hoping by the end of the year, I’ll still be a teacher who teaches with her door open. Who still goes into the staff lounge for lunch. Who still blogs about the excitement and adventure of teaching.

Who still gets goosebumps thinking about new crayons.