Tuesday, March 28, 2006
peta
There is a large rat in my classroom. He has appeared three times in the past two days. He scurries behind cabinets when the yelling begins.
Personally, I am not afraid of rats or mice. My complaint, my issue with this rodent is that his appearance is seriously, seriously disruptive. About third of the kids bolt out of the room, about a third jump on desks, and a third swear they can kill it. I am reduced to standing in the front of the room and repeating: It's just a rat. He'll be gone in a second..
Today, I went to an administrator. They sent a custodian, who asked if the rat in question was dead. ??????? If it was dead, why would I need help disposing of it? I have a dustpan and a broom. When they learned it was a living, breathing, scurrying rat I needed help with, they had nothing for me. There are rules about living rats. Living rats can't just be killed, they have to be trapped humanely and released into the wild (otherwise known as the parking lot) where they can simply scurry back to the school.
Frustrated, I asked if I could just bring some rat poison from home. NO!!!, I was told. Evidently, there are strict rules against having poison at school. I could, potentially, lose my job if I took the killing of the rat into my own hands.
It's good to know that with all the drugs, weapons, and gangs in public schools, we have standards and our rats are perfectly safe.
Personally, I am not afraid of rats or mice. My complaint, my issue with this rodent is that his appearance is seriously, seriously disruptive. About third of the kids bolt out of the room, about a third jump on desks, and a third swear they can kill it. I am reduced to standing in the front of the room and repeating: It's just a rat. He'll be gone in a second..
Today, I went to an administrator. They sent a custodian, who asked if the rat in question was dead. ??????? If it was dead, why would I need help disposing of it? I have a dustpan and a broom. When they learned it was a living, breathing, scurrying rat I needed help with, they had nothing for me. There are rules about living rats. Living rats can't just be killed, they have to be trapped humanely and released into the wild (otherwise known as the parking lot) where they can simply scurry back to the school.
Frustrated, I asked if I could just bring some rat poison from home. NO!!!, I was told. Evidently, there are strict rules against having poison at school. I could, potentially, lose my job if I took the killing of the rat into my own hands.
It's good to know that with all the drugs, weapons, and gangs in public schools, we have standards and our rats are perfectly safe.
Labels: save as draft
veil of tears
DON PEDRO
Your silence most offends me, and to be merry best
becomes you; for, out of question, you were born in
a merry hour.
BEATRICE
No, sure, my lord, my mother cried; but then there
was a star danced, and under that was I born.
Much Ado About Nothing, Act II, Scene 1
I make assumptions. I base them on what I've heard, or seen on the news, or watched in a movie, or read in a book. I make them by mentally putting myself in the situations that others are in and using my own lens of experience to try to figure out what it must be like to be "them". This is not empathy.
There are lots of problems among the poor. In the south, these problems tend to be tied in an unfair majority to race. I've grown up hearing white, middle-class people talk about these problems as if they are authorities on the subject. I've heard them discussed in the church. I've heard them talked about linked with politics, over coffee, in the food court of the mall after church. People giving opinions and offering solutions or simply writing the poor off with blame. As if it is all their own fault, and if they lived correctly, like we do, then everything would be fixed and we'd all get along.
In the past three years, most of my assumptions have been shattered. I've got no new insight or wisdom to offer, just a stone in my stomach and a constant brokenness.
One assumption I've always had fell apart yesterday. There are a lot of teenage mothers at my school, I've always had pregnant girls in class. I've stopped believing what everyone says (assumes): that they want to get pregnant, that it is cultural, and intentional. Still, I've always believed that once they are pregnant, their family circles around them and they are supported by mothers grandmothers aunties sisters friends. I've assumed that the baby daddies attended the birth, waiting until they took a prideful look at what they begot before they skipped out, stopped calling, and didn't even pay for diapers.
This is what it is like on The Learning Channel. I've watched Maternity Ward. When there is a teen mom, it's not the same as births involving married women, but it's still exciting and happy. It's still birth. It's still a miracle. The newborns are cradled in family arms and welcomed with a balloon.
I've had a pregnant student this semester. I got a bag of baby clothes for her over the weekend - pretty little dresses with matching hats. I took them to school to give to her, and found out that she had been hospitalized for preeclampsia. Since the hospital is down the street from my house, I decided to stop by and drop off the clothes. I figured that she probably would not return to school once the baby was born, so I might not see her again. I was only going to drop things off, not go in and see her. I assumed that, since she is a minor, I would not be allowed to actually visit. I also did not want to interrupt her with her family. There is something sacred about birthing rooms. It did not feel like my place.
I had never been inside of a poor hospital before. I've always been careful about the places I pick to have medical procedures and tests run. All the birthing centers I've been in with friends and family have been home-like, hotel-like facilities. Bright. Happy. Ribbons on doors. Smiling nurses with storks on their scrubs.
I had a hard time even finding labor and delivery. After wandering, I finally saw a computer-printed and laminated sign pointing the way. Still, I got lost and had to ask a janitor for directions. He pointed to a door in front of me and said I had to call to go through. I assumed that it was the wrong door when I saw it, because it was so antiseptic and institutional.
Inside the birthing center, I explained that I was a teacher, and the nurses did not hesitate to give me my student's room number. I told them that I did not want to go in. I did not want to disturb her. I just wanted to leave something. The nurses insisted that I take it to her. You won't be disturbing her. She's not in labor yet.
Inside her hospital room, it was dark. There was no mother or grandmother or auntie or friend. She was totally alone. It occurred to me that the unthinkable might happen: She could actually go into labor and deliver alone. It's true that family might come later, but maybe not. If a child hospitalized with life-threatening complications and the looming possibility of preterm labor does not pull family to the bedside, what does? I realized that, without a doubt, there are some teenage girls that do give birth alone. This, to me, is horrific.
Right before I left, I glanced back into the room and saw, next to the hospital bed, my students small backpack. No other suitcase. No books or magazines to pass the time. I paused. Do you need anything? Is there anything I can get for you before I go?. She shook her head, and I told her I was praying. I don't normally tell students I am praying for them, but in this case, I made an exception, I needed to offer something.
In the elevator and on the way home, I cried.
I am praying today for a dancing star.
Your silence most offends me, and to be merry best
becomes you; for, out of question, you were born in
a merry hour.
BEATRICE
No, sure, my lord, my mother cried; but then there
was a star danced, and under that was I born.
Much Ado About Nothing, Act II, Scene 1
I make assumptions. I base them on what I've heard, or seen on the news, or watched in a movie, or read in a book. I make them by mentally putting myself in the situations that others are in and using my own lens of experience to try to figure out what it must be like to be "them". This is not empathy.
There are lots of problems among the poor. In the south, these problems tend to be tied in an unfair majority to race. I've grown up hearing white, middle-class people talk about these problems as if they are authorities on the subject. I've heard them discussed in the church. I've heard them talked about linked with politics, over coffee, in the food court of the mall after church. People giving opinions and offering solutions or simply writing the poor off with blame. As if it is all their own fault, and if they lived correctly, like we do, then everything would be fixed and we'd all get along.
In the past three years, most of my assumptions have been shattered. I've got no new insight or wisdom to offer, just a stone in my stomach and a constant brokenness.
One assumption I've always had fell apart yesterday. There are a lot of teenage mothers at my school, I've always had pregnant girls in class. I've stopped believing what everyone says (assumes): that they want to get pregnant, that it is cultural, and intentional. Still, I've always believed that once they are pregnant, their family circles around them and they are supported by mothers grandmothers aunties sisters friends. I've assumed that the baby daddies attended the birth, waiting until they took a prideful look at what they begot before they skipped out, stopped calling, and didn't even pay for diapers.
This is what it is like on The Learning Channel. I've watched Maternity Ward. When there is a teen mom, it's not the same as births involving married women, but it's still exciting and happy. It's still birth. It's still a miracle. The newborns are cradled in family arms and welcomed with a balloon.
I've had a pregnant student this semester. I got a bag of baby clothes for her over the weekend - pretty little dresses with matching hats. I took them to school to give to her, and found out that she had been hospitalized for preeclampsia. Since the hospital is down the street from my house, I decided to stop by and drop off the clothes. I figured that she probably would not return to school once the baby was born, so I might not see her again. I was only going to drop things off, not go in and see her. I assumed that, since she is a minor, I would not be allowed to actually visit. I also did not want to interrupt her with her family. There is something sacred about birthing rooms. It did not feel like my place.
I had never been inside of a poor hospital before. I've always been careful about the places I pick to have medical procedures and tests run. All the birthing centers I've been in with friends and family have been home-like, hotel-like facilities. Bright. Happy. Ribbons on doors. Smiling nurses with storks on their scrubs.
I had a hard time even finding labor and delivery. After wandering, I finally saw a computer-printed and laminated sign pointing the way. Still, I got lost and had to ask a janitor for directions. He pointed to a door in front of me and said I had to call to go through. I assumed that it was the wrong door when I saw it, because it was so antiseptic and institutional.
Inside the birthing center, I explained that I was a teacher, and the nurses did not hesitate to give me my student's room number. I told them that I did not want to go in. I did not want to disturb her. I just wanted to leave something. The nurses insisted that I take it to her. You won't be disturbing her. She's not in labor yet.
Inside her hospital room, it was dark. There was no mother or grandmother or auntie or friend. She was totally alone. It occurred to me that the unthinkable might happen: She could actually go into labor and deliver alone. It's true that family might come later, but maybe not. If a child hospitalized with life-threatening complications and the looming possibility of preterm labor does not pull family to the bedside, what does? I realized that, without a doubt, there are some teenage girls that do give birth alone. This, to me, is horrific.
Right before I left, I glanced back into the room and saw, next to the hospital bed, my students small backpack. No other suitcase. No books or magazines to pass the time. I paused. Do you need anything? Is there anything I can get for you before I go?. She shook her head, and I told her I was praying. I don't normally tell students I am praying for them, but in this case, I made an exception, I needed to offer something.
In the elevator and on the way home, I cried.
I am praying today for a dancing star.
Labels: save as draft
Thursday, March 23, 2006
to my son
It was not easy to conceive you. There were many months that my heart expanded like an iron balloon inside my chest with disappointment and fear that there might never be a you.
When I did get pregnant with you, I was nauseous to almost epic proportions: losing weight instead of gaining all the way through the end of my second trimester. For five months, I puked every single afternoon in the middle of Jeopardy. My sickness was so violent that my cheeks and eyes became spotted with red-speckles of broken blood vessels. I looked as if I was being beaten.
You tried to come early and I was sent to bed for a month. The hideous medicine they gave me to in order to keep you safe made my hands shake so hard that I could not hold a book to read.
Labor lasted twenty-two hours after my water broke. I had planned to have a natural birth, but when the doctor asked me about pain medication I remember telling him that ANYTHING was fine. That he could even hit me in the head with a hammer if necessary.
I have monitored your breathing in the middle of the night. I've driven across town to retrieve a Spaghettio-stained scrap of yellow blanket (and let you fall sleep with the nasty thing, waiting until it was safe to sneak away and wash). I have held your head over the toilet and splashed cool water on the back of your neck. I have allowed you to wipe your nose on my shirt.
I've been frightened for you, sitting in the ER while you got shots or x-rays or stitches. Once, you were hospitalized for pneumonia and I crawled into your oxygen tent and curled up like a cat until my body fit inside the metal hospital crib, just so I could be where I could touch you.
I have been a carrier of Purell. I've cut your restaurant food into small pieces and checked to make sure it was properly cooked. I've been vigilant about choking hazards. I've pulled over to the side of the road in a panic to make double sure your seatbelt is secure. I have pushed my face right up to yours and talked to you in a whisper about Disneyworld to keep you calm while you were stitched up or your blood was drawn. I've shielded your face from the sight of doctor's needles. I've cleaned up your blood and forced myself to keep the fear out of my voice.
For awhile you did not eat anything but scrambled eggs. I snuck wheat germ into them with the cheese. I bought you gummy bears that said they had a days supply of vegetables and fiber inside of them.
Now, somehow, you are nine. You are long limbed and know how to do things on the computer I don't understand. You eat off the adult menu. And you refuse to wear a jacket. Or even long sleeves
I tell you to put on something warm and you roll your eyes. You sigh. You deflate somehow - as if I have ruined something inside you, as if I am trying to take away some part of your deepest essence, as if you are Arden- The Boy Who Feels No Cold , and I am your evil nemesis: She Who Demands Long Sleeves.
It's not a weekly battle. We go through this daily. I keep telling myself to give up, to let you go out in the cold, but then I hear that there is a frost warning, or that clouds will gather towards late afternoon, and I think how I know you are going to be outside every second you can and before I can stop myself I am speaking: Put on a jacket.
This morning, you went back to your room sullenly. I heard you mutter under your breath: Great last words.
Here is what I want you to know:
If I do die before seeing you again, and my last words to you really end up being Arden, go get a jacket, I hope that in time you will understand.
It is not summer yet. The winds are unpredictable. Clouds have a way of gathering. A day that starts off with sun can end in drizzle or worse. If that should happen, I want to know that you can reach in your backpack and pull out something to make you warm, and dry, and safe.
Yet, you are nine. You will go out no matter what, and I will not be with you for most of your day. If it starts to rain, or the weather dips into the 30s, you will be the one deciding what to do and chances are you'll still return to me with arms like ice, swearing that you are not cold.
Still, just in case you need it. Just in case you find yourself wishing it was there. Take a jacket. Know that I love you.
When I did get pregnant with you, I was nauseous to almost epic proportions: losing weight instead of gaining all the way through the end of my second trimester. For five months, I puked every single afternoon in the middle of Jeopardy. My sickness was so violent that my cheeks and eyes became spotted with red-speckles of broken blood vessels. I looked as if I was being beaten.
You tried to come early and I was sent to bed for a month. The hideous medicine they gave me to in order to keep you safe made my hands shake so hard that I could not hold a book to read.
Labor lasted twenty-two hours after my water broke. I had planned to have a natural birth, but when the doctor asked me about pain medication I remember telling him that ANYTHING was fine. That he could even hit me in the head with a hammer if necessary.
I have monitored your breathing in the middle of the night. I've driven across town to retrieve a Spaghettio-stained scrap of yellow blanket (and let you fall sleep with the nasty thing, waiting until it was safe to sneak away and wash). I have held your head over the toilet and splashed cool water on the back of your neck. I have allowed you to wipe your nose on my shirt.
I've been frightened for you, sitting in the ER while you got shots or x-rays or stitches. Once, you were hospitalized for pneumonia and I crawled into your oxygen tent and curled up like a cat until my body fit inside the metal hospital crib, just so I could be where I could touch you.
I have been a carrier of Purell. I've cut your restaurant food into small pieces and checked to make sure it was properly cooked. I've been vigilant about choking hazards. I've pulled over to the side of the road in a panic to make double sure your seatbelt is secure. I have pushed my face right up to yours and talked to you in a whisper about Disneyworld to keep you calm while you were stitched up or your blood was drawn. I've shielded your face from the sight of doctor's needles. I've cleaned up your blood and forced myself to keep the fear out of my voice.
For awhile you did not eat anything but scrambled eggs. I snuck wheat germ into them with the cheese. I bought you gummy bears that said they had a days supply of vegetables and fiber inside of them.
Now, somehow, you are nine. You are long limbed and know how to do things on the computer I don't understand. You eat off the adult menu. And you refuse to wear a jacket. Or even long sleeves
I tell you to put on something warm and you roll your eyes. You sigh. You deflate somehow - as if I have ruined something inside you, as if I am trying to take away some part of your deepest essence, as if you are Arden- The Boy Who Feels No Cold , and I am your evil nemesis: She Who Demands Long Sleeves.
It's not a weekly battle. We go through this daily. I keep telling myself to give up, to let you go out in the cold, but then I hear that there is a frost warning, or that clouds will gather towards late afternoon, and I think how I know you are going to be outside every second you can and before I can stop myself I am speaking: Put on a jacket.
This morning, you went back to your room sullenly. I heard you mutter under your breath: Great last words.
Here is what I want you to know:
If I do die before seeing you again, and my last words to you really end up being Arden, go get a jacket, I hope that in time you will understand.
It is not summer yet. The winds are unpredictable. Clouds have a way of gathering. A day that starts off with sun can end in drizzle or worse. If that should happen, I want to know that you can reach in your backpack and pull out something to make you warm, and dry, and safe.
Yet, you are nine. You will go out no matter what, and I will not be with you for most of your day. If it starts to rain, or the weather dips into the 30s, you will be the one deciding what to do and chances are you'll still return to me with arms like ice, swearing that you are not cold.
Still, just in case you need it. Just in case you find yourself wishing it was there. Take a jacket. Know that I love you.
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
blogging about what may or may end well
There are nine weeks of school left. This week, I started a film making unit with my honors students. Today, I will start a biography-writing unit with fourth period. In a few weeks, I'll start teaching Faulkner to my honors kids.
There are times in teaching when I commit to an idea with no real solid idea how things are going to turn out: Could be fabulous - but then again, it could be a disaster.
I am not totally sure where or how the filming and editing part of our movie project will happen. In theory, the necessary equipment exists; but it is in other classrooms. Today the proposals are due. We will see what happens.
I'm going to try to post daily updates here as a sort of reflective process on the whole experience. I'm guessing that they will either be an encouragement or a warning to starting educators about getting outside the proverbial box.
In the meantime, I carry this knowledge like a mantra: If all else fails, there are always worksheets.
There are times in teaching when I commit to an idea with no real solid idea how things are going to turn out: Could be fabulous - but then again, it could be a disaster.
I am not totally sure where or how the filming and editing part of our movie project will happen. In theory, the necessary equipment exists; but it is in other classrooms. Today the proposals are due. We will see what happens.
I'm going to try to post daily updates here as a sort of reflective process on the whole experience. I'm guessing that they will either be an encouragement or a warning to starting educators about getting outside the proverbial box.
In the meantime, I carry this knowledge like a mantra: If all else fails, there are always worksheets.
Labels: save as draft
Monday, March 20, 2006
Arithmetic
Arithmetic is where the answer is right and everything is nice and
you can look out of the window and see the blue sky -- or the
answer is wrong and you have to start all over and try again
and see how it comes out this time.
-Carl Sandburg
Spring is in the air. Last week, there were five fights severe enough to require ice packages or handcuffs just on my hall at school. Four of my honors kids are suspended for a week for fighting.
I don't know what makes them melt down this time of the year. I would attribute it to stress over testing or graduation, except I teach on a freshman hall, and the ninth graders are fighting just as much as the upperclassmen. Maybe its just that, as summer break approaches, they get nervous. Time off of school is great, but it is also a change, and they don't exactly embrace changes. Then again, maybe my across-the-hall colleague is right. She says that, at this point, a bunch of these kids are actually going to make it. This is the Devil's last shot to get them, she says. Her words sink their teeth into my bones.
I pace the hall between classes and yell at the kids to get inside a classroom. There's no need to stnad around outside! Get where you need to go!.
I am five feet two inches tall, but I can clear a hallway when I mean to.
My repeaters are worried about their grades (and for good reason). Last week, they all wanted to see their grades. I have one student who works halfway hard to keep his grades up because I taught his cousin last year. and she has threatened his life if he does not pass my class. I showed him his grade: 82
He got all upset. I had an 84! He demanded. I had an 84 and I've just been making 80's. How could I have dropped to an 82?
I looked at him as if he must be kidding, and commented that an eighty is lower than an eighty-four - so it brought his average down.
He looked at me as if he did not understand, so I pulled out a piece of paper. Look, I said as I did the math: 80=84=164 :: 2/164 = 82
My student stared at the problem is disbelief. For real?
I tried to contain my frustration. Yes for real. This is called math. Don't tell me you have never seen it before.
He was skeptical, but knew better than to challenge me personally. He shook his head gently. I don't think my other teachers do that......
I assured him. Trust me. ALL your teachers do this: It's called averaging grades.
Suddenly, a light went on. He got it. So you mean, if I made a ninety, my grade would go up?
I do not know how he managed to make it through 11 plus years of school with no understanding of the way grades are averaged. I only know that I am responsible for teaching him literature and composition, and days like this make me feel very old and very tired.
you can look out of the window and see the blue sky -- or the
answer is wrong and you have to start all over and try again
and see how it comes out this time.
-Carl Sandburg
Spring is in the air. Last week, there were five fights severe enough to require ice packages or handcuffs just on my hall at school. Four of my honors kids are suspended for a week for fighting.
I don't know what makes them melt down this time of the year. I would attribute it to stress over testing or graduation, except I teach on a freshman hall, and the ninth graders are fighting just as much as the upperclassmen. Maybe its just that, as summer break approaches, they get nervous. Time off of school is great, but it is also a change, and they don't exactly embrace changes. Then again, maybe my across-the-hall colleague is right. She says that, at this point, a bunch of these kids are actually going to make it. This is the Devil's last shot to get them, she says. Her words sink their teeth into my bones.
I pace the hall between classes and yell at the kids to get inside a classroom. There's no need to stnad around outside! Get where you need to go!.
I am five feet two inches tall, but I can clear a hallway when I mean to.
My repeaters are worried about their grades (and for good reason). Last week, they all wanted to see their grades. I have one student who works halfway hard to keep his grades up because I taught his cousin last year. and she has threatened his life if he does not pass my class. I showed him his grade: 82
He got all upset. I had an 84! He demanded. I had an 84 and I've just been making 80's. How could I have dropped to an 82?
I looked at him as if he must be kidding, and commented that an eighty is lower than an eighty-four - so it brought his average down.
He looked at me as if he did not understand, so I pulled out a piece of paper. Look, I said as I did the math: 80=84=164 :: 2/164 = 82
My student stared at the problem is disbelief. For real?
I tried to contain my frustration. Yes for real. This is called math. Don't tell me you have never seen it before.
He was skeptical, but knew better than to challenge me personally. He shook his head gently. I don't think my other teachers do that......
I assured him. Trust me. ALL your teachers do this: It's called averaging grades.
Suddenly, a light went on. He got it. So you mean, if I made a ninety, my grade would go up?
I do not know how he managed to make it through 11 plus years of school with no understanding of the way grades are averaged. I only know that I am responsible for teaching him literature and composition, and days like this make me feel very old and very tired.
Labels: save as draft
Wednesday, March 15, 2006
you've probably seen this, but if not:
Thursday, March 09, 2006
plays well with others
Amy at the School Library Journal blog tagged me:
Four non-library jobs I have held:
waitress at Cracker Barrel
storytime lady
nanny
grocery bagger
Four authors, books, or series I read over and over again:
I don't read books over and over. There are too many waiting in line.
Four movies I can watch over and over:
Howl's Moving Castle
Lady Jane
Alice in Wonderland
anything by Baz Luhrmann
Four TV shows I love(d):
Roswell
Remington Steele
Wonderfalls
My So-Called Life
Four places I have lived:
Gray, Tennessee (blech, blech, blech)
Athens, GA
Tallahassee, FL
Atlanta, GA
Four sites I visit/use daily:
Bloglines (pretty much all the blogs in my blogroll)
NY Times
Entertainment Weekly
Gmail
Four foods I yearn for:
red wine
dark chocolate
expensive cheese
freshly baked bread of any sort. with real butter.
(perhaps I should live in France)
Four inventions I'm grateful for:
antibiotics
the internet
debit cards
dvds/vcrs - a way to watch movies at home
Four musical choices for my personal soundtrack:
Iron and Wine
Belle and Sebastian
Sufjan Stevens
OutKast
Four nouns that describe me:
teacher
mother
reader
Christian
Four non-library jobs I have held:
waitress at Cracker Barrel
storytime lady
nanny
grocery bagger
Four authors, books, or series I read over and over again:
I don't read books over and over. There are too many waiting in line.
Four movies I can watch over and over:
Howl's Moving Castle
Lady Jane
Alice in Wonderland
anything by Baz Luhrmann
Four TV shows I love(d):
Roswell
Remington Steele
Wonderfalls
My So-Called Life
Four places I have lived:
Gray, Tennessee (blech, blech, blech)
Athens, GA
Tallahassee, FL
Atlanta, GA
Four sites I visit/use daily:
Bloglines (pretty much all the blogs in my blogroll)
NY Times
Entertainment Weekly
Gmail
Four foods I yearn for:
red wine
dark chocolate
expensive cheese
freshly baked bread of any sort. with real butter.
(perhaps I should live in France)
Four inventions I'm grateful for:
antibiotics
the internet
debit cards
dvds/vcrs - a way to watch movies at home
Four musical choices for my personal soundtrack:
Iron and Wine
Belle and Sebastian
Sufjan Stevens
OutKast
Four nouns that describe me:
teacher
mother
reader
Christian
Labels: save as draft
Wednesday, March 08, 2006
connections
When they teach you how to be an English teacher, one of the strategies you are told to use is getting your students to make personal connections to what they are reading. Clearly, the education gurus who write the personal response questions don't teach in the city.
On Tuesday, my repeater class was reading the first part of Act Three of Romeo and Juliet: The fight scene. Before we even started reading, a couple of boys burst out with the news that one of the students who was supposed to be in class got locked up. ____ got locked up!!! _____ got locked up!!! I sighed. Okay then, ____ got locked up. Did anyone know if he would be back before the end of the semester? NO! they cut me off. Look out the window. _____ is locked up.
I was a little bit confused because the student they were naming was 1) supposed to be in my class at the moment but 2) was suspended and had been suspended for a few weeks and therefore should have been in the suspension portable if he was at school and 3) when I checked the suspension attendance list, he was marked absent from the portable - meaning he was (should not be) on campus. He's getting locked up now?
By this time half of my class was at the window. I pushed in towards the front and, sure enough, there was my long lost student surrounded by three police officers and two administrators. I sent everyone back their seats. One of the boys, who had just gotten back from his own two-week suspension, spoke up. The kid getting arrested was a member of his gang, he said. Could he leave class for a few minutes?
In some bizarre parallel universe that these children inhabit, it actually occurs to them that a teacher might think it is appropriate to write a hall pass that goes something like this:
Please excuse ____, a member of his gang was just arrested on campus and he has some business to attend to.
After all the excitement, the class finally settled down and began reading Shakespeare. We got to the end of the scene, and I paused to discuss Romeo's crime and punishment. In both film versions of the play, the directors have Romeo run after Tybalt to kill him - a choice that raises the stakes of his actions. In the text of the play, it is Tybalt who comes to Romeo. In order to help distinguish between the two scenarios, I drew a chart on the overhead projector that listed types of murder and their respective maximum sentences. When I got to Manslaughter, the kid that had asked for the pass to leave class spoke up.
I know what Manslaughter is! I was charged with that! That's when you did not mean to do it!
At the time, when students are present, I do a pretty good job of rolling with whatever come my way and not appearing flustered, but there are days teaching when I am honestly taken by surprise - days when I come home and process everything that happened and think: OH MY GOSH!!!! MY LIFE IS INSANE!!!!!!! .
Tuesday was one of those days.
On Tuesday, my repeater class was reading the first part of Act Three of Romeo and Juliet: The fight scene. Before we even started reading, a couple of boys burst out with the news that one of the students who was supposed to be in class got locked up. ____ got locked up!!! _____ got locked up!!! I sighed. Okay then, ____ got locked up. Did anyone know if he would be back before the end of the semester? NO! they cut me off. Look out the window. _____ is locked up.
I was a little bit confused because the student they were naming was 1) supposed to be in my class at the moment but 2) was suspended and had been suspended for a few weeks and therefore should have been in the suspension portable if he was at school and 3) when I checked the suspension attendance list, he was marked absent from the portable - meaning he was (should not be) on campus. He's getting locked up now?
By this time half of my class was at the window. I pushed in towards the front and, sure enough, there was my long lost student surrounded by three police officers and two administrators. I sent everyone back their seats. One of the boys, who had just gotten back from his own two-week suspension, spoke up. The kid getting arrested was a member of his gang, he said. Could he leave class for a few minutes?
In some bizarre parallel universe that these children inhabit, it actually occurs to them that a teacher might think it is appropriate to write a hall pass that goes something like this:
Please excuse ____, a member of his gang was just arrested on campus and he has some business to attend to.
After all the excitement, the class finally settled down and began reading Shakespeare. We got to the end of the scene, and I paused to discuss Romeo's crime and punishment. In both film versions of the play, the directors have Romeo run after Tybalt to kill him - a choice that raises the stakes of his actions. In the text of the play, it is Tybalt who comes to Romeo. In order to help distinguish between the two scenarios, I drew a chart on the overhead projector that listed types of murder and their respective maximum sentences. When I got to Manslaughter, the kid that had asked for the pass to leave class spoke up.
I know what Manslaughter is! I was charged with that! That's when you did not mean to do it!
At the time, when students are present, I do a pretty good job of rolling with whatever come my way and not appearing flustered, but there are days teaching when I am honestly taken by surprise - days when I come home and process everything that happened and think: OH MY GOSH!!!! MY LIFE IS INSANE!!!!!!! .
Tuesday was one of those days.
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Tuesday, March 07, 2006
metaphors
My students wrote metaphors today. They picked their favorite one and hung it on the wall on a huge strip of paper.
My favorite was this one:
Happiness is Mrs. J winning New York City Public Library
The kid illustrated his metaphor with a drawing of a long bookshelf with all the books we have been reading, along with titles like Lady Jane and The Life of Shakespeare.
Happiness is Mrs. J looking at her customized metaphor.
My favorite was this one:
Happiness is Mrs. J winning New York City Public Library
The kid illustrated his metaphor with a drawing of a long bookshelf with all the books we have been reading, along with titles like Lady Jane and The Life of Shakespeare.
Happiness is Mrs. J looking at her customized metaphor.
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Thursday, March 02, 2006
come away from that nest of death, contagion, and unnatural sleep
like dominoes, every member of my house has had strep throat this week.
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