Blog Assignment: Describe Your Experience So Far

How can you ask me what my experience has been like so far? How can you expect me to put into words - 400 words - an experience that has literally transformed who I am as a person, as a woman, as a daughter, sister, friend? I wish I could. I really do... for my sake. I wish I could put it into a nice little package. I would tie a bow around it and let you send it out to Teacher Corps recruits, because as much as I’ve complained on Saturdays or awoken on Monday mornings wishing I had an easier job, I wouldn’t trade this “experience” for anything. I wish I could do it justice.

I’ve become more caring and empathetic. I’ve gone from judgmental to more judgmental to totally accepting. I’ve distanced myself from old ideals while passionately seeking out new ones.  I’ve nearly drowned myself in stress and worry but filled my oxygen tank with little victories and laughter. And that’s all in one day.

Friday, December 2nd... Part II

In going back and reading my last post, I became a little irritated with myself. The blog ended up reading more like a story centered around me, and that was not my intention. My true intention, which hopefully shone through towards the end, was to express my frustration with my school administration - or really the system at large - and their constant failure to show the kind of compassion necessary to serve our children... especially our troubled children... which should be the goal, right?

Sadly, the fight on Friday was not my only source of frustration and not the only example that illustrates why I get so angry. But for the story to completely make sense, I have to go back to a month ago when I found a folded sheet of paper lying on the floor after school. Even at first glance, it was clearly a student note. Most times I don't even read them, but my curiosity got the best of me on that day. I unfolded the paper and immediately my jaw dropped. There, in familiar handwriting complete with small tittle hearts, was a conversation between two girls. The conversation was of such explicit nature that simply typing it now would make me feel immensely uncomfortable. They talked of sexual desires, accomplishments, and ponderings. They congratulated each other in text message abbreviations that I couldn't follow. My stomach was in knots. I recognized the handwriting but I just couldn't place the girls who owned it. I had to figure out who they were. I had to talk to them and explain the harm in such actions.

My gut was telling me they were students of mine from last year, so I strode down to an eighth grade classroom and asked for writing samples for the girls who I suspected. None of the teachers were able to provide them. For a couple days I stayed on the trail, but as I got busier and the situation grew smaller in my rearview mirror, I forgot about it.

Fast forward to Thursday of this week. During the last few minutes of school, one of the eighth grade students in my yearbook class walked up and handed me a note. I have no idea why she gave it to me. I had simply been standing by my desk talking with a couple of students. I didn't immediately unfold the note, but when I did my heart sank. I recognized the handwriting immediately.

"Is this your handwriting?" I asked as casually as possible.

"Yes, ma'am. I'm in a fight with C right now. We wrote it during first period."

"So this other handwriting is C's?"

"Yes ma'am... ain't you gonna read it?"

"Why do you want me to read it?" The bell rang to dismiss the students and she was distracted. She followed the crowd out of my room, letting me off the hook.

Before going out to bus duty, I dug frantically through my desk to find the note from a month ago. The handwriting was a perfect match. Rereading the note, being able to put faces and personalities to the words, I again found my stomach in knots.

Now here is where I went wrong: I should have called the two girls into my room, maybe the next day during planning. Instead, I took the notes to my two female assistant principals, thinking they would be the best to handle it. I expressed my concern and explained that I was not hoping to get the girls in trouble, but that I felt it was a matter serious enough to be handled by the administration. I assumed it was the only way to really reach the girls.

After school on Friday, I asked one of the principals how their conversation had gone.

"They were embarrassed," she said in a dismissive, high-pitched tone.

I paused, waiting for her to elaborate. But she didn't.

"I'm sure," I said. "What did you say to them?"

She immediately snapped back. "We don't have to disclose everything to you. There are some things we just don't need to share."

Again, like I had earlier that day, I turned and walked away without saying a word.

Ignore the fact that I felt embarrassed. Ignore the fact that I felt disrespected. Ignore the fact that it had been a short three hours prior that the same principal mocked my approach to the fight. Ignore the fact that I have approached her only a handful of times ever for requests concerning students. Ignore the fact that I was downright livid at her, at the situation, at my own poor judgement. The real issue is that we have students who deserve more than they're getting.

Mississippi is still one of the only states that does not teach sex education. Juxtapose that with our nation-leading teen pregnancy rate, and you get a puzzle so maddening it will make you want to throw something. Our kids have no idea how dangerous, how life-altering their actions can be, and on the few occasions when we, as teachers and administrators, actually get an opportunity to teach them something... we blow it.  What's perhaps even more disappointing is that those of us who actually wish to do something good, something different, are treated like lepers. And the only ones who truly suffer are the kids.

Fat Lip

I sat at the end of the lunch table talking to another teacher. The cafeteria was getting louder than I normally permit, but it's Friday. I decided to ignore it and let them enjoy their free time. Bad decision.

The just-a-little-too-loud volume quickly turned to shouting. I turned around to see fists flying, aimed at a boy curled up in a ball on the floor. In the time it took me to sprint the length of the lunch table and weave between spectators, the boy on the floor had gotten to his feet, bringing the flailing fists to eye level just as I arrived. Thinking only of ending the fight immediately, I flew face first into a barrage of aimless blows. I quickly grabbed one boy's arms, pinning him against the wall while another teacher tended to the other. I firmly directed my student to the corner, freeing some time for me to compose myself and calm the rest of my class down. Turning back to the boy in the corner, I noticed that his hands were still clenched in fists, his chest was heaving up and down, and tears were streaming down his face.

My anger was instantly replaced with empathy. It's starting to get ridiculous, honestly... the naivete of it all... how I always stand up for the bad kids. I'm probably crippling them.

I checked my lip for blood as I walked towards him, pointing to the exterior door through which I wanted him to exit. When we got outside I put my hand on his shoulder.

"Breathe... you're alright... slower... just breathe. Walk with me and tell me what happened." He looked me square in the eye.

"I'm sorry, Ms. B. He just started talking about my mama. She has problems, you know. He started it this morning and I tried to ignore it, but finally I just had to do something. She's kind of overweight. Everyone knows that. But he didn't have to keep talking about it."

I was heartbroken. I was looking at a kid who had really been trying hard this year. He's always had a bad reputation, but this year we've been making strides. I fought my colleagues to get him nominated for October Student of the Month and eventually I had to convince the principal. The look on his face was priceless when they announced his nomination over the loud speaker. Now it was ruined. Fighting is an automatic nine day suspension from school. I'm praying that today doesn't propel him back into the kid he was last year.

When we arrived at the office, I told him to stand outside while I debriefed the assistant principals.

"You love those bad kids, don't you!" one of them said mockingly.

I chewed on my bottom lip, considering how to respond. "I guess I do. I just don't want his reputation to affect his punishment. He's been doing really well"

They laughed and looked away. "Eventually you'll learn, Buccilla. These kids don't change. They've got you fooled."

I walked out without saying a word. I looked at my student standing against the wall and coached him on how to handle himself when he got called in. I of course reminded him that he was wrong. He should have brought the issue to me instead of resorting to violence. But I also told him to handle himself like a man when he went in the office. "Be sure to apologize before you say anything else. Say 'yes ma'am' and 'no ma'am.' Tell them exactly what happened. Take all emotion out of your tone."

Walking away I wondered if the principals were right. I've certainly questioned whether I'm naive in my approach to "the bad kids." Maybe I'm not doing them any favors. Maybe it means nothing that they behave in my class if they still misbehave everywhere else. Maybe the dysfunction runs too deep for one teacher to break it. But among all those 'maybes' there is one surety: I'd rather try to help them and get a million fat lips along the way than watch them fall victim to a complacent system that's clearly failing them.

Handshake

"It's your first chance to make an impression," my mother said while locking her eyes on mine. I didn't dare look away from her piercing blue gaze. "Shake my hand."

I gave it a try, attempting to mimic what I had seen from adults and in movies. Even her tiny, bony hand swallowed mine. I looked down at the floor, embarrassed.

"Look at me," she coached. "You don't want to seem weak. Grip my hand hard and look me in the eye." We practiced for a few more minutes until I got the pressure just right. Don't grip too hard. Don't grip too soft. Give it one good, firm shake and let go. Maintain eye contact. Smile.

That routine quickly became ingrained in my habits. In my younger years, I often caught adults off guard by extending my hand and engaging them in strong eye contact and a firm handshake. It was second nature to me. It was something I was expected to do, or else. But as I ventured out into the world, I often realized how lucky I was to have been taught such things. I'm constantly shocked by the poor manners I see out of my peers, and endlessly frustrated by the same from my students. Please. Thank you. Pardon me. Nice to meet you. They seem to have been lost, sucked into a black hole somewhere between Hip Hop and Facebook.

Today I was reminded of this downward trend even as one of my sweetest students stayed after school for tutoring. About half way through, a fellow MTC teacher walked into my room to give me two books we had been discussing. Before we began a conversation about the books, I asked him if he knew my student.

"No I don't!" Mr. Gioia exclaimed as he extended his hand. "Nice to meet you, D!"

The handshake was pathetic.

"Well that wasn't a very good handshake," Mr. Gioia said. "Try again. You gotta really give it a firm grip."

Neither of them could see me, but I was beaming. I've talked to D before about his life outside of school. He has been mostly raised by his mother, a Mexican immigrant who did not graduate high school and speaks little English. He has a stepfather who is scarcely present. D is a wonderful kid. He asks to stay for tutoring almost everyday and he's polite to everyone. But until today, no one had taught him how to give a good handshake. When I try to make small talk with him he usually stares at the ground and grinds the toe of his shoe into the floor. I've tried to politely coax him into looking at me as we're talking, but I guess I had never shaken his hand. I'm ashamed.

So tomorrow it's my goal to shake every student's hand as they walk through my door. They're going to hate it and I'll probably get sick, but if one of my best seventh graders didn't have that skill, I'm sure there are more who need the same lesson. It will be my way of paying it forward... one germy little handshake at a time.

No Place Like Home

Clenching my coffee mug to warm my hands and wishing I could just shoot the caffeine straight into my veins, I tried to put on a happy face as I resumed my daily routine of greeting the little angels before homeroom. I passed a fellow teacher who said good morning, but my reciprocation apparently wasn't jolly enough because she immediately eyed me asking, "Break too short?"

Being the Southern assimilationist that I've become, I flashed a grin and even managed a chuckle. "Isn't it always?" Ugh. Quit being a pleaser. 

My mind jumped back to that break that was of course too short. I'd just spent five days back up north, back home, where if you don't want to say hi to someone, you don't have to. Back up north where a simple nod of your head or tip of your coffee cup is a signal that you're amiable enough, but you're not inviting conversation. Back up north where schools.... then I'm distracted. 

At first I thought I was hallucinating or maybe I just mixed up the shades of red in my mind. It was probably just an Ole Miss sweatshirt. Those are common down here. A red "O" on a grey sweatshirt... of course it's Ole Miss. But then I see him. Brutus. He's dancing under red block letters that spell Ohio State. His oversized, buckeye-shaped head wields a smile large enough to swallow itself. His elbows point outward as if saying, "Yipee! Everything is so much fun here in Columbus, Ohio... where our pants are grey and our skies are grey-er!"

I can deal with the icy, miserable drizzle that arrives about this time of year and sticks around until, oh... April. I can deal with it because there's something beautiful about it, right? In the evening, when the air is cutting and the rain turns to sleet, we Ohioans retreat to our warm and cozy homes, our frosted windows letting only the warm flicker of a crackling fire show through. Wiping away the frost would reveal a perfect little Midwestern family huddled around the dinner table, exchanging laughs and stories about their perfect little lives in their perfect little suburban schools, with their perfect little classmates and their stress-free teachers who get to teach what they want, how they want. Six more months. Six more months and you're there! Wait... three more weeks. Just get to winter break first. Two weeks of narrative essays. I'll enjoy that. Then exam week will be a breeze.

"Hiii Miss Beeee!" The little voice seemed to come from miles away. Sucked back to reality, I put on a big smile and replied with my usual, "Good morning, Little One."

I couldn't take the risk of seeing that sweatshirt again. A dull, faded beacon of what I was missing back home - all the good things I remember wrapped up in Brutus's toothy smile. I know that in these last six years I've grossly romanticized my home state. Everything I loathed about it in high school has been wiped away by what I love... or think I love. Reality has been replaced by a painting on a postcard - not even a photo - but something completely fictional like a painting with frosted windows and glowing fires. I understand that this is unhealthy but also probably natural. I also realize that it was magnified this morning by the fact that it was the Monday after a break... and by that damn sweatshirt. 

Stop being ridiculous. Eyes off the sweatshirt. Check dress code instead.

"Tuck that shirt in.... Those are jeans, not navy blue khakis.... Take those orange socks off.... Tuck that shirt in.... Tie your shoes.... Tuck that shirt in.... Spit your gum out.... Tuck that shirt in...."

I wonder if one day I'll be able to romanticize this.

Untitled

I'm aware that this topic is unoriginal and overdone. I'm also aware that, as a requirement of Teacher Corps, this is supposed to be a blog about my life as a teacher. But this year I have a lot to be thankful for personally, so I'm going to write about it... and I promise I'll connect it to my job.

I've spent approximately fifteen Thanksgivings with my dad's side of the family. If you're doing the math, that is slightly fewer than the twenty three for which I've been alive. Yesterday was the first Thanksgiving I've spent with them in five years, the last one being my freshman year of college. At the time, that one was my first in a couple years, and it didn't end well - hence the five year hiatus.

All the history aside, this year I was more excited than nervous to see my family. I knew it would be a familiar scene - one I've missed dearly. We all stood around the kitchen holding hands as my dad said a prayer. He got choked up at the part where he thanked God that I was there. My aunt jumped to his rescue, but it felt more like mine. She gracefully ended the prayer and saved us all from an awkward moment. She winked at me, signaling that I could relax. Nothing bad was going to happen. We sat down across three tables and ate our dinner over laughs and old family stories. We played cards and games and sports and we ended the night with charades. We laughed at each other. We made fun of each other. We argued with and stuck up for each other. I beamed at how well I fit in... I had forgotten.

I spent most of yesterday observing, pondering how my family has affected me... but I've thought plenty about that in the past. What I thought mostly about was what effect I have or haven't had on them. The more I learned about my cousins' lives, the more my stomach knotted in guilt. My oldest cousin just finished her first semester as a college athlete. She talked about how it wasn't what she thought it would be - I should have been there to guide her through that. Her middle sister is a sophomore in high school now. She talked about breaking up with her boyfriend and getting a part time job - I should have been there to tell her it'll be another ten years before those high school boys are as mature as she is... and it's probably a bad idea to get a job at a clothing store. Their youngest sister is in sixth grade now. She's almost as old as my students... it's sad that I know my students better than my cousin. I am so proud of all three of them. They are so smart, so beautiful, so level-headed, so well-adjusted. And I've had nothing to do with it.

I worry every day about being a good role model for my students - one hundred and thirty kids who I've only known since August. But until yesterday, I had scarcely thought about what kind of example I was for my cousins - my own blood. I mostly tried to block out the fact that I was missing holidays and milestones. I was selfish. I was worried more about protecting myself than showing them what it meant to be a strong young woman. Every day I see kids who don't have enough good role models. I've gotten downright angry about the apathy that runs rampant in that community. If only they had adults who set good examples. I've said it so many times. And it has been pure hypocrisy.

I've written before about how I've changed over this last year and a half. Yesterday was another defining moment.  I see how important family is to my students, how important it is in a community where they have little else to value. I also see the effects family has had on them - good and bad - and regardless of what those effects have been, their loyalty remains fierce. This is something they have over me. It's something I need to work on. What I can say is that I'm thankful for this realization. I'm thankful that it came yesterday instead of in five more years. I can pray that it's not too late to influence my cousins or to repair the damage. And I can be thankful for the opportunity to do both.

Blog Assignment: Why Join Teacher Corps?

Here we go. Another cliche yet compulsory blog. Why should someone join the Mississippi Teacher Corps? Luckily I have experience with this speech lately because I convinced my two best friends to apply. I was elated upon their acceptance a couple weeks ago, but the more I thought about it, the more little twinges of guilt started nagging at the back of my conscience. Behind every hard sell I gave them, there is a darker truth that they'll have to discover in their own way. But I promised them it's worth it.

Hard sell number one: It's a free Master's.
Anyone who says they weren't motivated to apply to this program because of the Master's is lying. Of course it's appealing and of course it's something in which we all take pride. But here's the other side of it: If the degree is the only reason you commit to these two years, you won't make it. When you have a thirteen-year-old curse at you, or when you break up a fight between your favorite students, or when a kid you really thought had a chance gets expelled, you won't be thinking about that degree. When your alarm goes off two hours after you stopped planning tomorrow's lesson, that degree won't provide you with any caffeine. If you make it through the two years, complete with Saturday classes from 8 to 5 plus a full-time job, then and only then will you reap the rewards of the degree.

Hard sell number two: You'll meet some amazing people.
It's true. I've met some truly amazing people over this last year and a half. My classmates are easily some of the most intelligent, thoughtful, and genuine human beings I've been blessed to meet. They care about their students. They've shown me new perspectives. We've kept each other smiling even on those January Saturdays when the guys' faces grow scruffy and the girls' hair looks like it hasn't been washed in days. The other side? You'll drift away from those you have now. You won't talk to your family as much because all they want to hear about is your new job and your fun classes - all you'll want to talk about is nothing. Your friends won't understand your new schedule or your blase attitude towards topics you used to spend hours discussing. I'm not saying that your MTC classmates will replace your friends. You will eventually strike a balance. Your friends will get used to the new you and your family will always be there.

Hard sell number three: Do something that matters.
Ok there's really not a downside to this other than the fact that on most days, you won't think anything you've done matters. The kids will complain about the workload but that's only because they're used to subpar teachers. They'll fight your rules at first but that'll change when they realize you have them because you care. Your principal will complain about first year teachers but eventually he or she will realize that you're better than the alternative. You'll have kids disrespect you, yell at you, refuse to do your assignments, and fail to grasp the material. But what matters is that you keep coming back. They're not used to that and if you accomplish nothing more than showing those kids that someone cares about them, about their education, then you've accomplished something that matters. So when I say that the degree won't wake you up in the morning or console you when you feel stomped on, the little victories you experience every day will.

Hard sell number four: Change yourself.
I'm absolutely not the person I was a year and a half ago. And that's a good thing. It's not that I was a bad person... none of us were or we wouldn't still be here. But this experience will change you; it'll make you think more critically about this country's problems, about life, about people. It'll make you more compassionate for those from a background different than your own. It will teach you how to manage time and stress in a way that makes your worries in college seem laughable. You'll come out of it with so much more than an impressive resume complete with a Master's degree and two years of experience in a tough school. You'll come out of it as a better version of yourself, equipped to keep growing, keep thinking, keep helping. You will have built life-long relationships with people you never would have befriended otherwise, and at the very least, you'll have some really fantastic stories to tell your grandkids.

A Real Life Greek Tragedy... or Comedy

The kids have been writing Greek plays for their Social Studies class this week. Since they were due today, I of course had at least two dozen kids come to me last minute begging me to read and edit their dramas, tragedies, and comedies. As I read each one, some written on wrinkled pieces of notebook paper, some typed in colored ink, some scrawled out in 30pt Apple Chancery font, I began to notice that the same three teachers were in each one: Mr. J, Ms. X, and yours truly. Often times they had me getting thrown in jail or engaging in some sort of altercation. In one of them I got hit by a truck. In another I was shot. I miraculously survived it all. It also turns out that I am the "mama" of a couple of my students. Who knew?

What struck me as even funnier, as morbid as it is, was that Ms. X got killed off in nearly every one of the plays - sometimes by me. Now before I make myself sound too terrible, let me tell you that the teachers on my hall have a lot of fun together. We are constantly giving each other a hard time... about everything... so when Ms. X found out that Mr. J and I had in fact had several love children who were currently in the 7th grade, she took every chance she got to make fun of us. And we certainly returned the favor.

Pretty soon Ms. X was becoming visibly flustered. We stopped making jokes, but at that point, she had decided she was going for broke and there was no turning back.

"That's libel!" she half-yelled.

"Who's libeling you? The kids?" I asked half smirking, half rolling my eyes.

"Yes!"

"Umm... no."

"Yes, Ms. B. That's libel. I have a Master's in journalism. I should know."

"Uh huh..."

"You're not taking me seriously?!"

"Uh-uh... especially because it's not libel. We're talking about 7th grade plays that will be seen by no one besides us. And I'm sorry to pull this card, but as long as no one is defaming your character, it's not libel."

"They are defaming my character! They're killing me off!"

"Two different things."

Now at that point I was still unsure as to whether or not this was all a big joke, but deciding it was a situation I needed to remove myself from, I casually walked out of the room, saying that "I [had] email to check or something." At the end of the day, I found out that Ms. X had reported the incident to the principal, demanding that the kids either rewrite their plays or face disciplinary action. She had also apparently been reduced to tears in front of her 6th period class after taking a poll to see how many of them had also killed her off. Over half the class raised their hands.

While I'm honestly trying to feel bad about whatever responsibility I may have had in the whole situation, I'm still more amused than anything. Maybe Ms. X has had a bad week or we accidentally struck a nerve. Maybe I just have a twisted sense of humor. In fact, come to think of it, I've been told that before. I blame my mother. Anyway... the whole situation really made my day interesting, and for the sake of saving myself from a real libel suit, I think I'll spare you the rest of my opinion on the matter. What I will say is I'm thankful for my ability to see the humor in situations like these. And I wish my colleague could do the same ;)

“The present is never our goal; the past and present are our means; the future alone is our goal. Thus, we never live but we hope to live, and always hoping to be happy, it is inevitable that we will never be so.”

It's that time of year. No... not the holidays. It's that time when teachers get to work when it's dark and leave when it's darker. Last year we were warned about this time of year. They told us our students would start testing the boundaries a little more, they'd get a little lazier... we'd get a little lazier. So after a Monday-Tuesday combination that drained me mentally and indecisive weather that's draining me physically, I took the day off.

I woke up to the incessant blaring of an alarm that even I can't oversleep. I let my hand slam the snooze button - a practice I repeat at least five times every morning - and the siren was pleasantly replaced by the sound of rain pounding the roof. Decision made. I rolled over, squinting through eyes dried by contacts I failed to take out the night before, and texted my principal. Guilt immediately washed over me. I wasn't too sick to go into school and, having started a new unit on Monday, it probably wasn't great timing. But there was that grade level meeting I wasn't prepared for.. and that baby shower after school for a teacher I don't really know... and basketball practice until 5:30... and an away game tomorrow... I let the sound of the rain take back over. I turned on my side, rolled myself up into a ball, and didn't open my eyes again until 9:30 when the rain had subsided and sunlight leaked in through the blinds.

I've always said it would be a waste to miss a day of work to do nothing. I've said I'd rather go to school on the verge of death than spend a day getting further behind for no good reason. I've missed school to go home to Ohio. I've missed school for workshops. I've missed school to go see Bill Clinton in the Grove. But never to do nothing.

I climbed out of bed and opened my closet door planning to grab some clothes and head to the coffee shop. I had planned on sitting there all day reading, curled up in a comfy leather chair, observing the comings and goings of college kids and business professionals... reminding myself what this town used to be like when I was able to frequent it during the week. Instead my eyes dropped to the floor, zeroing in on a basket overflowing with laundry I was too busy do over the weekend. I stuffed stray shirt sleeves and pant legs into the sides and lugged it downstairs. After I started the first load (and it would come to take 3) I walked into the kitchen deciding to make breakfast. The kitchen was a disaster zone. I guess I'll clean.


By 11:30 I had made the kitchen sparkle, I had mopped, I had scrubbed the half bathroom, dusted the bookshelf, folded a load of laundry and had two more going. My friend texted me asking why she saw my car still parked when she drove by this morning. We decided to grab lunch at the Greek restaurant we used to enjoy before practice in college. Sitting there in sweat pants with my hair in a messy bun - the ultimate deja vu - we laughed about the conversations we used have during lunch... I don't want to go to practice... We're gonna get our butts kicked... I can't stand out there for 4 hours and do drills again today... I can't wait until I have a normal day job... Dude, we used to have it so good!


I hung around the house for the rest of the day. I folded the rest of my laundry and made a small dent in the book I've been trying to read for weeks. I didn't open my computer and I kept myself from thinking about school. I know that when I go back tomorrow I'll be greeted with a messy classroom that the substitute didn't bother to manage and the frustrations I felt on Monday and Tuesday will not have disappeared. But what will be different is how I approach those frustrations. I realized while sitting at lunch that I have recently been entering dangerous territory. I've been thinking more and more about what my next step will be. I've been obsessing over my future and reminiscing about my past. Occasionally I do small things to enjoy the present, but I really don't appreciate things as much as I should. I guess it's unfair to say that I missed a day of school for nothing. I got a clean house and a much needed reality check out of it. So today I'm thankful for rain pattering on the roof, Greek food, laundry, and Pacal. 

Hard or Soft?

So far this year I've been preaching to myself that I need to work harder at drawing soft lines with my difficult students. Last year I unwittingly escalated countless situations because I thought it was important for me to appear strong, unwavering, authoritative. Needless to say, some kids just don't respond to that. Some kids have personalities just as strong as mine, and consequently we found ourselves engaged in a never-ending battle of "who will have the last word?" While I was afraid of revealing myself as a weak first year teacher in front of students who were waiting to pounce at the first sign of vulnerability, my middle schoolers seemed equally as motivated to save face. I've gotten a lot better at diffusing these situations. In fact I generally have a much healthier and mutually respectful relationship with even my most difficult students... but today I found myself reluctantly wading back into hostile waters, and I had to resist my urge to revert back to the old Miss B.

As I walked into 6th period, the last academic period of the day, I found students leaning into the aisles, laughing with their neighbors, and completely disregarding the Bellringer I had on the board. I folded my arms, leaned against the door frame, and dropped my jaw in faux-shock. This successfully produced some grins as the noise ceased and they took out their binders. To my extreme pleasure I even heard a "Shhh! We're sorry, Ms. B."

If only it were always that easy.

One student remained standing, showing no urgency to sit down, to open her binder, or to even acknowledge that I was present. Last year I would have immediately taken this as a personal attack. I would have assumed the class was ready to line up behind the lone rebel in an all out effort to overthrow the dictator. I would have called her out by name and firmly told her to sit down.

Today I simply said, "You have five minutes to finish the question on the board. I also need to see your journal entries and assignments from yesterday out on your desks."

The lone rebel still stood.

Still leaning against the door I said, "S, you don't need to stand to do any of those things."

After a grueling few seconds of silence, she nonchalantly glanced over her shoulder and gave a high pitched, "K!"

More seconds ticked by... she still stood and by this point all eyes were on me to see how I would react.

"S?" I said.

Again a few seconds... "Huh?"

She knows how I feel about "huh."

Forcing a smile, I asked her to come talk to me. She hadn't done anything overtly disrespectful and this was pretty out of character for her, so I witheld my impulse to let her have it. When we were mostly out of earshot, I mustered my calmest tone and asked her what was going on. She shrugged her shoulders, kicked out her hip, and looked at the ceiling. I told her she knew what she was doing, and regardless of what had motivated such behavior, she needed to tread lightly for the rest of class and we could talk about the root of the problem later.

She made it through class - a ghastly boring lesson on sentence structure that I honestly just hadn't put enough time into planning. She volunteered to go to the board, she didn't shout out, she seemed to really be understanding the content.

When it came time for me to explain their assignment for the day, I did the first part with them and then paused, asking them all to "give me their eyes." I told them I knew the assignment would initially seem difficult, but all they had to do was break it down into pieces they knew. They had to write a story where each sentence had a requirement. For example, begin with a complex sentence that contains an adverb clause. They knew each piece, now all they had to do was put the pieces together. I told them not to immediately raise their hand to say anything like, "This is too hard!" or "But I don't get it!" I promised them that if they thought through it for a minute it would click, and if it didn't, that was the point at which I would be more than happy to come help.

S's hand had been up the whole time I said this. When I was finished, I looked at her and nodded, indicating that she could ask her question.

"I don't get this," she said with a tone louder than was needed to reach me standing 5 feet away.

"What did I just say?"

"I don't know."

One of her classmates repeated it for her.

"So you ain't gonna help me?!"

"That's not what I said. I said sit and think about it, and if you do so, I think it will come together. You did a great job with it a few minutes ago... it's no different now."

She slumped in her chair, slammed down her pencil, and (I kid you not) stuck out her bottom lip.

Again... last year I would have confronted this immediately. Today I ignored it. I circulated the room for about 10 minutes and eventually made it back to her desk. Crouching down, I told her it was clear to me that she just wasn't trying. She barely responded. I trudged on telling her she could come to my room 7th period and I would gladly help her, but first I needed to see evidence of some effort on her paper.

When she showed up 7th period, the attitude was still present and she had nothing on her paper. After coaching her through the first sentence more than I probably should have, she was clearly ready to give up. The second sentence in the story was supposed to be a compound sentence - two independent clauses joined by the coordinating conjunction of her choice.

"Let's start with just one simple sentence," I said. "Who is your main character? Make him the subject."

Nothing.

"S, you gave me a half dozen simple sentences earlier. I know you can do this. I'm not going to give you the answers -- If you're not going to try, you're wasting our time."

Nothing.

At this point my blood was boiling. I scrambled for ways I could next approach her. I knew that if it went any further, I might actually lose my cool. I chose to wait her out.

Nothing.

"If you're not going to try, you can go back to Ms. K's class now."

She got up, gathered her belongings, and peacefully walked out of the room. She'll show up to class tomorrow without her homework finished and she'll most likely blame me. This is the first time I can say that I honestly don't know how I could have handled the situation differently... usually I can look back and see each of my missteps along the way. Maybe there's something going on outside of school that I can't control. I've tried drawing hard lines with students like her and today I drew a softer line than my best judgement said I should, but what am I supposed to do when neither works?

It's Not Their Fault

I often think about the people who have molded me into the person I am today. Like most of us, I look to those people - consider what they would do - when I encounter difficult situations. When I catch myself reacting on impulse, passing judgement, or not giving a matter the time it deserves, I feel their presence - nagging at me to take a step back, to consider things through their eyes, to make them proud. I could list each of them here. I could write an entire blog about them and it still wouldn't be enough. But last night, as I sat on the sidelines coaching basketball, surrounded by people from a background that could not be more different from my own, I found myself needing to tap into the wisdom of my role models.

Our game last night was against Holly Springs, a town about 15 minutes from where I teach. Prior to the game we were warned to be alert to potential fights (between kids or parents) because Holly Springs is not only our rival, but it's also a school district that is notorious around north Mississippi. As a community it is plagued with gang activity and poverty. We teach summer school there, and often times the most insubordinate, disrespectful, and low-performing kids come from right down the street.

As I sat and observed the kids, siblings, teachers, and parents at the game last night, I caught myself passing judgement on nearly every one of them. He looks like a thug. I bet she doesn't discipline her child. He probably over-disciplines his child. Why is she wearing that outfit at a school function? These adults are terrible examples for their kids. And then the big one... THIS is why our kids don't know how to act.


I'm not going to lie and say that thoughts like these have been rare for me over the last year and a half. What I can say is that I usually try to catch myself. I try to put things in perspective. Last night I certainly realized how awful I was being, and different thoughts slowly began taking over. Stop it, Andrea. They can't help it. This all they know. Just look at this as an exercise in perspective. You can learn from this... 

We won two of the three games. The third one was one of the most exciting basketball games I've been a part of. We won by two at the buzzer and while I was caught up in the joy of the moment, I almost failed to realize that the opposing sides were chanting back and forth, screaming things that never would have been acceptable in Dublin, Ohio. People were yelling at the kids on the court, at each other, at the referees. The coaches were instructed to usher everyone out as quickly as possible in hopes of avoiding an all out brawl. We successfully got the other teams on the bus and all of the fans out the door.

As I was walking out of the gym to leave for the night, shaking my head at the craziness, I happened to glance down the dark main hallway. There was just a sliver of light leaking through the office door, so I almost didn't notice one of my players standing there. She had her face in her hands and had clearly been crying. After some prodding, she managed to tell me that she had no ride home. She was clearly embarrassed. Again, angry thoughts filled my head. What is wrong with these PARENTS? 

"Do you know anyone else's phone number?" I asked.

"No ma'am. My brother is the only other one but he doesn't have a phone."

"How far away do you live?"

"It's about 30 minutes."

"Ok let's go. You're alright." I said it with the calmest tone I could muster. The situation wasn't her fault. It also wasn't her fault that I wouldn't get home until 10, and it definitely wasn't her fault that her mom forgot to come to the game. As we walked out to my car she wouldn't stop apologizing. I put my arm around her and firmly told her to stop. I told her this was my job. I told her she played well and that we should talk about that instead.

I'll save you my rant on generational poverty and it's effects on education/the lives of my students. It's something I've thought a lot about and if I allow myself too much time I get overwhelmed. It's just such a huge obstacle. I see it every day in the attitudes of my students and their parents. In poverty stricken communities, there seem to be no role models - and I'm certainly not crazy enough to think that driving a girl home makes me one. What I can hope is that she remembers nights like this when she raises her own children... and maybe if there are enough nights like last night, some of my kids can break the cycle for themselves.

What I really pulled away from the evening was this: my judgements won't do a thing to help myself or my students. I am lucky enough to have had role models who taught me better. I am lucky enough to have grown up in a fantastic school district with some of this country's best teachers. My parents, family, friends, and coaches instilled in me certain values that most of the people last night have not even been exposed to - and it's not their fault. 

"We Thought You Was Prissy"

I have my final class of the semester tomorrow and while I'm finding it hard to be excited about it right now, I know that tomorrow at 5pm I will be a new woman. Ahhh... I can't wait. Before I tackle my heaps of work for the night though, I'm choosing to keep the promise I made to myself. I'm gonna blog.

For my educational research class I was required to conduct some sort of research study with my students as subjects. Our only real requirement was that we ask a question, acquire the answer, and analyze how that answer would affect our future teaching. As a result of my severe aversion to any kind of math - statistics, data, all of it - I chose to go the qualitative route. I asked a few questions: Why are some student-teacher rapports good from the beginning while others aren’t? Is it more than a mere difference in personalities? How big of a role do preconceived notions about race, gender, age, or even regional origin play?

I'm not going to bore you with the results. They were as obvious as you would expect. What I do feel is worthy of sharing are some of the answers the kids gave me. As they often have the ability to do, they got me laughing pretty hard today.

Q: What was your first impression of me?
A: We thought you was a nerd for real. You always be talking all nerdy and lame and stuff and be correcting EVERYTHING we say. We also thought you were gonna be snooty because of the way you held your coffee cup and crossed your legs and stuff. We thought you was gonna be prissy, too.

At that I had to laugh. Me? Prissy? The horror!


Q: Did the fact that I was young, white, or not from around here affect the way you approached my class?
A: No... well... yeah... well a little. We thought since you was young you would be crunk. We also thought we'd be able to do whatever we wanted... we was wrong. You tried to be so mean... but I guess that was good because some folks tried to take advantage of you.

Q: Why do you think some kids didn't click with me from the beginning while others never had problems?
A: Ms. B, you know these kids ain't got no home training.
Q: So it had nothing to do with my personality or classroom rules?
A: Maybe a little... but anyone who has home training knows that there has to be rules. Some people thought you had attitude. Your attitude ain't nothing compared to ours though, so that was alright.

Q: Were you ever intimidated by me?
A: Psh... not at first because of the way you looked. But we learned pretty quick that you was kinda bad. You know, how you played golf and everything...
Q: You thought I was bad, like the good kind of bad?
A: Yeah.
Q: Because I played golf??
A: Yeah!

Oh the things they choose to focus on....... thanks for the laughs today, guys.

I don't know what to write so I'll write about the leaves

Lately I've been negative and I don't like it. Sure, I'm exhausted, fed up, stressed, worried, maybe even unhappy. Every once in a while, like all of us (I hope), I get into these slumps. I'm pretty sure I have reasonable cause. I have a lot on my plate, but what I sometimes fail to remind myself is that it's all by choice. Some aren't so lucky. This recent shift in my psyche is due to nothing more than my own failings. One failing, really. I've been failing to see the good stuff.

So today, on my way home from yet another day where I failed to stop and appreciate something, anything about my life, I looked for the first beautiful thing I could find... Kudzu? Not this time of year. Abandoned trailers? Negative. The log truck I was stuck behind? No, all that managed to evoke were scenes from Final Destination.

The leaves? Yes.

Luckily it has been warm enough down here that the leaves are only just now starting to fall. Gorgeous hues of orange, auburn, red, even violet still grace the trees that line the rugged two-lane road I travel every day. Today I noticed them for the first time. My 45-minute commute usually feels like five... five short minutes filled with thoughts from my day, a game plan for work in the evening, concerns about certain students, parents, administrators... and oh yeah, the graduate course work that I've placed beyond the back burner. It is becoming unhealthy.

I pulled over. Just stopped. I rested my chin on the steering wheel and stared, trying to count every single color I could find in those LEAVES! Six. I counted six different colors. Magnificent.

Those two minutes felt like an eternity, but before I knew it my practical side began taking back over. I realized it probably wasn't safe to sit on the side of a narrow country road with a shoulder barely wide enough to host my little two-door Honda. My practical side tried to say that it was foolish to waste time, foolish to pull over, foolish to think that something like counting leaves would actually do me any good. Don't worry, my passionate side won. It did a world of good.  I started to laugh at my own insanity. Who does this?? An outsider would've thought I was a mad person. But the truth is... if I don't do things like that from time to time... that's mad.

I took this picture with my phone tonight... Mississippi has some of the most beautiful sunsets I've seen.

Selective Apathy

"How do I seem so relaxed?" I repeated the question asked to me by a classmate last winter... "It's a little concept I like to call selective apathy."

While my brilliant, Harvard graduate classmate had no problem understanding what I meant, he cocked his head, signaling that I should elaborate.

I went on to explain that I had learned not to let every little thing get to me. Students were going to misbehave, they were going to refuse to do their homework, they were going to struggle with lessons I had spent hours crafting. I told him that if I didn't choose to be selectively apathetic, I would drive myself insane... like he was. I know what the connotation of apathy is. I see it every day out of people at my school. Part of me was being facetious. Part of me was being dead serious. Most of me was lying in an attempt to find a solution for my friend who seemed to be falling apart in front of my eyes due to the pressure of this job.

In all honesty, I was good at letting certain things slide off last year. I guess I knew myself well enough to know that I over-analyze EVERYTHING, so in order to keep myself sane, I had to ignore some things. I had to throw my hands up and trust that everything would just work out, and for the most part it did.

Somehow this year has become a different story. I've been trying to heed my own advice and tap into that surprisingly wise mantra that I stumbled upon last year. Part of the problem may be that I know I don't have that "She's a first-year teacher" excuse I would've been able to claim had something truly gone wrong last year. I think most of the problem, however, is that I've changed. I've made no secret of the fact that I have grown over this past year. I question things more, I argue more, I expect more, I want more... out of myself... out of my students... out of my colleagues. Unfortunately I seem to be getting less out of everyone. I'm driving myself nuts and wearing myself out trying to make things perfect. Last night it took me four hours to fold two loads of laundry because I kept dozing off. Today at work I was exhausted. I was not a good teacher. A friend told me that it was ok to take some "me time" because it made me better at my job, but something about that seems counter-intuitive.

What I do know is this: I have students who need me. They have parents who don't meet their needs. And we all live in a world where, unfortunately, there is so much bureaucracy, so much red tape, so many rules, requirements, and ineffective but mandatory procedures, that those of us who want to step outside of it all are stymied. How can I take a day to relax, spend a day at the coffee shop, when obviously I am not doing enough?

Let me stop here.

I know this sounds cliche and irrational. Just one more teacher who thinks she can save the world, right?

I'm not so naive as to think that I can (or even have the right to) change things. But I don't think it's too much to ask for me to be allowed to simply help when I want to. At least I know I'd get a little more sleep if they'd let me try.

A student came to me today, one who I've been trying to mentor over the last month or so. She's brilliant. She's well-behaved. She has a tough home life to say the least. She's crying out for someone to help her... and I can't. All I can do is sit and listen. I can recommend that she go talk to our counselor - our one counselor for 1100 kids. Today she told me she thinks she's pregnant. Trying to hide the fact that I was devastated for her, I steadied my voice and asked her if she was sure. She spelled out for me, with extreme clarity and candor, how she had made a big mistake, how she's so nervous she can't function. She's 13 years old.

Without disclosing her name or too much about the situation, I went to ask my assistant principal what I could do.

"Nothing," she said. "In fact right now, you could get in a lot of trouble for simply having that information and not telling her parents. Tell her she needs to tell them or you will."

I can't do that. I can't just sit back and watch her go through this alone. I can't betray her trust. I can't do anything.

As I sit typing this blog, I'm aware that it's a heavy subject. I'm aware that it's something most people don't want to read... so I guess it's good I only have 6 followers :) It does feel good to get it out though. I know I can't do anything about it tonight, or tomorrow, or maybe not even for a couple weeks. I'll figure something out, I'll talk her through it. Until that time comes, I guess I'll try to recapture that selective apathy I had mastered last year, but it's sad that the system leaves me no other option.

No Use in Putting On a Mask

My favorite bookstore, Square Books

Over the weekend I finished The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo. Good book. I succeeded in my goal of finishing it before the movie comes out, but unfortunately my current schedule is not one that allows me to spend an entire day in a coffee shop just reading. I did it anyway... and I'm now behind in everything, including my goal of blogging every night. To make matters worse, I put off grading again tonight so I could go to the legendary Square Books in Oxford to buy the next installment in the trilogy. We'll just call it the latest step in my endless and fruitless pursuit of momentary happiness. At this point, these pursuits are probably causing more than relieving stress because I'm becoming an epic procrastinator in the name of happiness... but that is not my topic tonight.

My friend dropped me off at the door because there was no parking to be found and, as is consistent with most things I do, I was in and out of Square Books in a matter of seconds. I knew exactly where I needed to go and I'm a regular at the store so I read off my frequent reader number and was back out the door in no time.

The middle school version of myself would have been ashamed that I had forgotten tonight was Halloween. Standing outside the book store I noticed for the first time the scene around me. On the lawn of the church, the sea of pumpkins that had been there a week ago had given way to throngs of 3-foot skeletons, Power Rangers, and witches. Pumpkin-shaped buckets seemingly bobbed unattached in the dark as parents eyed nervously the oncoming cars of college kids, I guess like me, who clearly had better things to do than stay at home and pass out candy. A sentry in the middle of the square, the courthouse stood poised, illuminated for the occasion. I've admired this building for five years now. Its antebellum facade with beautiful white columns, long, single-pane windows, and pristine lawn guarded by a black wrought iron fence provide the perfect picture of a time long past.

Getting back in the car, my friend was the first to say it. 

"There are a lot of black families out here tonight."

Sitting next to her, in the passenger seat of my own car, I visibly cringed. "Huh?"

"I know... that sounds bad. I didn't mean it like that. It's just that......"

"Oxford is usually more segregated than this... I noticed it too," I finished.

"Yeah. Is it bad that I noticed?"

"It's bad that we have to," I said.

The courthouse in the center of the Oxford Square

As we crept around the courthouse on the inner track of the square, trying to avoid midget zombies and Harry Potters, I stared out my window at white families, black families, white kids, and black kids trick-or-treating, sharing laughs, and generally enjoying the night. It was a gorgeous, clear fall evening - about 60 degrees. The moon hung over us like a picture in a post card. There were a few tables for cider and face painting set up on the courthouse lawn. I noticed food being served by a black family. Next to them was the face painting station run by a white family. In that moment I caught myself in awe of how far the South had come. Right there, on the lawn of a building that stood and watched as racism threatened to destroy this country 150 years ago, white and black families were one, allowing their kids to play together, roam the square together, grow up together.

My pride was gone in an instant.

It didn't take me long to begin thinking about my students and how foreign this scene would have been for them. They are, after all, the reason I noticed it in the first place. Over the last year and half, my eyes have been opened to the fact that racism is still very alive in this part of the country... maybe everywhere. I used to grimace when I'd hear students say things like "that white girl" or "that black girl" as if they had no other identity. I was naive to think that my race wouldn't matter as much because I was a teacher and the title alone demanded respect... not in a community where few trust the other race and fewer trust the adults in their lives. By the end of October I had been called an ugly white bitch by one girl and others had made their distaste apparent in more subtle ways.

Since last year it has gotten better. Once they saw that I wasn't going to leave after one year I gained a little more trust. Once they realized I actually cared about them more than my paycheck (and yes they can tell) I gained a little respect. I can't help but feel like none of it means anything though. I can't help but feel like it's a battle too great for one teacher to wage. 

What's it matter if white and black families can celebrate one Halloween together on the Oxford square? That's a tiny microcosm of the real spectrum. This is a college town, perhaps the most liberal part of the state. Just 45 minutes north there are 130 seventh graders whose teacher will leave at the end of this year.  She'll be gone, confirming their original suspicions, completing the pattern their lives already reflect, solidifying mantras they've learned to live by. Don't trust adults. Don't trust the other guy.

The Dark Side

I have never written a single blog that was not mandatory. I can even go a little further and admit that until yesterday, I had approached every single blog with contempt for its compulsory and unnatural nature. Usually the prompts are dry and unimaginative, so unless I choose to put forth serious effort (the kind of effort for which I never have time) my writing is also dry and unimaginative.

That fact never bothered me until yesterday. I have certainly had plenty to worry about besides blogging, but as I sat down to write about my favorite student - another potentially cliche and awful prompt - I realized that I have so many memories, so many stories that have shaped who I am as a teacher, as a person, over the last year. These stories deserve to be told. So with a little guilt trip from myself, a little inspiration from a fellow blogger, and a lot of need for an emotional outlet, I've decided to do my best to record some of my experiences... at the very least so I have something to look back on when this crazy ride is over.

It hasn't been all sunshine and butterflies. Here goes.

Lately I've been thinking a lot about a student I had last year. He was two years behind so he should have been in the ninth grade. Physically he looked like he should have been a senior. He was tall, he shaved, his voice had changed, he wore size 12 shoes. At the beginning of the year, among his 7th grade classmates, John stood out.

As is my habit, I immediately found myself drifting towards John. I tend to have a soft spot for the "troubled" kids. I tend to see good in them that my fellow teachers don't. I am fully aware that this tendency often lends itself to frustration, disappointment, and even guilt... this case is no exception.

From the jump John was a behavior problem. He usually walked into my room laughing, joking around, kicking someone's heels. It became a daily occurrence for me to send him back out of the room and have him "Come in the right way." He carried a black and gold faux Gucci backpack that literally had not one binder, pen, pencil, or unused sheet of notebook paper inside it. Eventually I got so fed up that I made him a classwork folder that was never allowed to leave my room. He was to put his classwork in that folder every day... even if it wasn't finished. Homework was a losing battle. 

As the first couple months of school dragged by, John began getting in trouble more and more. He was never involved in fights. There was nothing malicious about him... he just joked around a lot and, because of his mature appearance and previous record, teachers automatically assumed the worst. He steadily began to accumulate referrals for things like doing backflips on the way back from lunch or flicking mashed potatoes. He was crying for attention.

As a naive and completely inexperienced teacher, I was at a loss for how to help him. He wasn't a dumb kid. In fact he was quite the opposite. He wrote with fluency and perspective equal to some of my honors kids. None of his friends knew he was smart and he did everything he could to keep it that way. I did everything I could to force him out from behind that facade. I knew I could cold call on him in class and, amid snickers of anticipated humiliation from his classmates, he always mumbled the correct answer... as if he was ashamed to betray his reputation. I would grin and move on, delighting in the shocked expressions on his classmates' faces.

When I began offering after-school tutoring I always made sure he stayed. No one was ever willing to come pick him up, so another teacher and I would drive him home or he would just walk. As I got to know him better, I found out that his mom was never home. She usually stayed at her boyfriend's house. His dad was in jail. His older sister dropped out of school after ninth grade, pregnant. He had a younger sister and it was usually his job to make her dinner in the evenings. To say the cards were stacked against him would be a gross understatement and to steal a phrase I used last night, John was devastatingly aware of his own reality. He didn't complain about it, he was more than willing to talk about it openly - in fact he did so with such unabashed candor that it sometimes made me feel uncomfortable.

By the time January rolled around, he had compiled so many referrals that the principal was at his wit's end. The 7th grade teachers received several emails about interventions we were supposed to make, strategies for curbing his behavior, and ultimatums John had been offered. Honestly, I began ignoring most of these suggestions.

One morning as I was standing on hallway duty before homeroom, I glanced into my classroom just in time to see a black and gold backpack fly full speed across my room. It smacked the wall with such force that a couple of girls screamed, including the one at whom it was aimed. My eyes locked with John's. He showed no remorse. He was laughing. I was livid.

Employing my best teacher voice, I demanded that he see me in the hall. Still smirking, he sauntered across the front of the room. Without even pausing for conversation, I motioned for him to follow me to the office. When we got there I pointed at a chair indicating the place for him sit and I began furiously scribbling the situation down on a referral. I left him and the referral with the secretary and went back to my room.

During my planning period I finally had time to read my email. As per usual, there was one from the principal. Subject: John. It was sent the previous afternoon.

Teachers,

John has officially been warned that he has one more strike. There are no spaces left in the alternative school, so the next time he is sent to the office, it will result in automatic expulsion for one calendar year. This has already been board approved.

I cannot adequately articulate the emotions I felt at that moment. To say I felt guilty doesn't even scratch the surface. I was instantly nauseated. I wanted to cry. I wanted to scream... then I calmed myself. I knew I could undo this.

I half walked, half jogged to the office. The only person I could find was the assistant principal.

"I already know what you're going to say, Buccilla. And no... there's nothing you can do about it."

"But I didn't know he was on his last strike! It wasn't even that bad, he just threw a backpack... that's not grounds for expulsion... this will ruin his life."

The words sank between us. Silence.

"He had plenty of chances. It's not your fault. This was bound to happen."

I tried to plead my case for another couple of minutes. I was getting nowhere. Dejected, I walked back to my classroom, racking my brain for options. I could see none. I had ruined this kid's life.

I haven't seen John since that day. I have his younger sister in class this year. She is bright. She's above grade level. She wants to be different and we've talked about that. After a couple weeks of school I finally worked up the courage to ask what her brother had been up to.

"Nothing," she said.

"Well what does he do during the day? He didn't try to get into another school?"

"Nope. He just walks the streets."

All I could muster was, "Will you ask him to come see me after school one day?"

I don't know what I would say to him. The most I can offer is to tutor him so that he can stay caught up. If we look at the statistics, kids like him rarely graduate. I still can't help but to feel guilty but I also know that harping on it will do no good. For now all I can do is learn from that mistake. That huge mistake that changed his life forever. I can make sure I don't repeat it. I can make sure I give his little sister every opportunity she deserves. It's on days like that one that I question whether I can do this job forever.

Reminding Myself Why I Do This Job

Describe your favorite student:

Sam is not my smartest student. In fact, he struggles more than most. He tries to hide the fact that he really can't read. When I conference with him individually or require him to write while I'm standing at his desk, he nervously hovers his pencil over his paper before he scribbles even the simplest of words in such illegible handwriting that he thinks I won't be able to notice the misspelling. He doesn't have poor handwriting. He writes his name very well. He writes the words basketball and Kobe Bryant very well.

Sam was one of my pee-wee basketball players last year. A sixth grader at the time, he had such heart and wide-eyed eagerness to learn that I constantly found myself gravitating towards him, making sure he was doing everything perfectly... because I knew he wanted that. I wasn't his teacher, so I really had no idea how far behind he was academically. All I knew of Sam was that he always did as he was told, most of his teammates seemed to like him, he knew when to joke, and he knew when to "give me his eyes." 

This year I've gotten to know him a little better. About three weeks ago, I got tired of him losing everything he ever did in my class, so I pulled a binder off my shelf and emptied from it the miscellaneous paper work it was storing.

"Come here," I said with a stern tone and a wry smirk on my face.

He looked at me, chin lowered, his eyes unsure as to whether I was mad or joking.

"Come here, Sam," I repeated, showing a little more of my smile.

At this he completely dropped his head, and as he dragged his feet towards my desk, snickers rippled throughout the room. In most situations I would nip this immediately. In most situations I'm pretty sure my students would know better than to laugh at all. But Sam was doing this intentionally. He knew he wasn't in trouble and he knows how to be a ham.

As he sat by my desk, emptying the crumpled papers and busted pens out of his frayed and faded backpack, I patiently explained to him how I was dividing each section of his new binder. 

"This section is for your Do Nows. I'm putting plenty of blank paper in here so you don't have to walk around the room anymore asking people for paper. This one's for your notes... again... blank paper, why?"

"So I don't have to walk around your room mooching off my classmates," he smirked.

"Very good."

Surprisingly we managed to pull most of his missing assignments out of that tiny backpack. I made him put each one in its proper section. My next step was to make something to go on the front of his binder, inside the clear sheet protector. I pulled out a blank sheet of printer paper and opened my drawer to find a marker... only highlighters. Yellow wouldn't have shown up, so I placed my hand on the hot pink one and looked at him. His eyes got wide and his jaw dropped.

"Don't do that to me, Miss B!"

"Oh yes... this is happening," I said.

In big, hot pink capital letters I wrote Sam's VERY Organized Language Arts Binder and then slid the sheet into the front of his binder. Perfect.

My last step was to take a pen out of my drawer, tie a long piece of yarn around the top, and duct tape it into the center of his binder.

"What's this for, Sam?"

"So I don't have to walk around your room mooching off my classmates," he repeated.

Sam brings that binder to class every day now. He never forgets it. Every day he walks in, turns to his Do Now section, stretches his pen out as far as the yarn will let it reach, and playfully plucks at it like a guitar string. He may not get the Do Now questions correct most days and he may still misspell elementary words... but we're working on it. He wants to work on it.

When approaching this blog assignment I wrestled with how I was going to do it justice. There are so many kids who make my job worth it, who provide motivation to roll out of bed every day. It's easy to get excited about helping the "smart kids." It's easy to lean towards the kids who understand what I'm saying the first time around and only talk when they're supposed to. Sam probably talks too much, he's disorganized, and often times I have to repeat directions several times before he begins his work... but at the end of every day, when I reflect upon what I've accomplished, it's the things like making that binder for Sam that remind me why I do this job. I've met so many kids with poor backgrounds and rich personalities. Often times they don't realize how limited their opportunities really are... often times I'm glad for that. Kids like Sam, however, seem to be well aware of their own realities... devastatingly aware of their own realities. They know they're below reading level, that their parents can't afford binders, or that they're not the best athletes. They still show up everyday willing to make me laugh, willing to try in my class, and willing to humor me by letting me think they LOVE things like organized binders and subject-verb agreement. While Sam is indeed my favorite student, I am lucky to be able to say that I have several like him.

Portfolios: The Best and the Worst

I'm ashamed to say that today was the first time I looked at any of the portfolios from last year's class. There were some that I loved and some that clearly seemed thrown together at the last minute. Overall the ones that I liked the best were the ones that told a story. Below I've listed a set of guidelines that I think applies to what I viewed as the best portfolios.

1. Take tons of pictures. Even though MTC is full of gifted writers, a lot of people went overboard with the amount of copy on their page. Eventually I got sick of reading so I began scanning through pages simply looking at pictures and bold words. The portfolios that were able to get the point across with these key elements were the ones I enjoyed the most. Having said all that, I was disappointed in some of the photo essays. Many of them lacked a central theme, captions, or any explanation at all. Maybe it's the journalism major in me, but if the reader has to work to figure out the purpose of a photo, then you've failed!

2. Tell your story. I understand that the whole focus of Teacher Corps is on the students and I love that, but too many pictures of kids we don't know can get old. I enjoyed seeing MTCers with their students more than seeing tons of pictures of students in their natural environment. There's nothing special about a student sitting at a desk. Of course there is a place for some photos like that. But I want to see your story, not theirs. Some people chose to go as far back as their lives in high school. I'm not sure that I feel the need to go that far back. A general sense of life before MTC seemed to work well, but the bulk of the content needs to be about the two years in MTC.

3. Have a theme? Maybe. I know that establishing a theme is part of the requirement and that it's apparently what made the winning portfolio so great, but I think it's important not to let it get too cliche. Personally I would rather see a clean, well-put-together, and creative page than one that was forced to stick to some theme. In trying to think about what theme I would choose, I find myself becoming concerned that staying within a theme may keep me from doing some of the things I want to do.

Overall, my favorites were the ones that were modern, clean, and full of photos. Those were easy to follow and thus fun to view.

Bill Clinton Comes to the Grove

These pictures were taken last year when President Clinton came to the Grove. It was the first personal day I took last year :)

"No, you!"

Clinton paying homage to Faulkner.

Still jogging at 65!

Surrounded by Secret Service, but that won't stop me!

Getting closer!

Bam! This won me so many bets.

Fine, baby, you win.

First Day, Take Two

I was completely delusional about how my first day this year would be. Here's why:

1. By the end of last year I was lucky enough to have built really good rapports with nearly all of my students. I was able to joke around and have fun while still maintaining discipline. I was genuinely happy to see my kids walk through the door every morning, and instead of meeting them with stone-faced, rigid management, I took on a happier, more laid back persona. They really responded well to it and at the end of the year, I had far fewer discipline problems than I had at the beginning of the year. Seeing those students in the hallways the first day was easily as exciting for me as it seemed to be for them. They gave me hugs, asked about my summer, said they missed me... What a feeling! What I forgot was that I had laid the ground work for all of that at the beginning of last year. I tried to be the best disciplinarian I could be (even if that wasn't very good). I was fresh out of summer school, fresh out of Dr. Monroe's class. I was just fresh.

2. Despite everything that Teacher Corps preaches about the first day, first week, first month, first semester... all of that stuff about "not smiling until Christmas" and "sending someone out on the first day" and "not letting anything slide".... it was like a totally forgot it... or OK, I'll admit it, I guess I was just a little cocky. I thought I could just walk back in and have that same rapport, that same laid-back demeanor, no management issues. WRONG!

Luckily for me I got a little mileage out of being around last year. The kids had either heard about me or seen me in the halls, but it was clear that by the end of the first week, things were far too laid back. It wasn't that kids were being disrespectful or talking out or slacking on work. In fact, I didn't have to give out anything worse than a warning, but that felt wrong. I was supposed to send a kid out of the room on day one! I was supposed to give warnings for sneezing!

I realized that what worried me wasn't poor behavior. The kids were fine. The problem was that I was being WAY too friendly. The kids liked me. At first they're supposed to be afraid of me, right?

So at the beginning of this week, our first full week, I laid down the hammer. I gave warnings for crumpling paper, coughing too loudly, standing up half way to grab a pencil. I gave my lunch class "silent lunch" because one student laughed in the hallway on the way to the cafeteria. The amazing thing is that the kids haven't seemed to stop liking me. They just seem more scared. I think that's good... but this is still only my second go around, so who knows.

Sage Wisdom

Dear First Years,
At this point in time, you are undoubtedly being inundated with anecdotal words of wisdom from the mouths of jaded and exhausted second year MTCers. While it’s true that we have one year under our belts and have gained knowledge and perspective on many things, I think you should keep two things in mind when listening.

1. We only just finished out first year of teaching, so while we mean well and would never misguide you or anyone else… we are still pretty new at this. Along with that freshness comes a relative inability to be objective. I am writing this blog while still sitting in my classroom at Byhalia Middle School, so don’t think that the short trip over to Holly Springs tomorrow will suddenly enlighten me. Not enough time has passed. I and the other second years (except maybe Matthew Gioia) will give you the best advice we can, but don’t take it as gospel.
2. Nothing is ever as bad as it seems. For me, the worst thing about last summer was being scared to death by the awful stories I heard from second years. They talked of terrible children, unbearable stress, and isolation from friends and family. I heard so much of it that I dreaded coming back to Mississippi at the end of July and thought for sure that I was in for the worst, most stressful two years of my life. I don’t want to say that none of what they said was true or applicable to my situation, but it definitely would have been better for me to come into this job completely unbiased. So… listen to the stories… enjoy the stories… but then forget them. No one MTCer has ever had the same experience, and you should truly look forward to discovering yours on your own.

I can’t wait to watch you all grow through this next year. I am such a different person compared to who I was a year ago, and I would not have it any other way. I can’t tell you how proud it makes me to tell people I am a teacher, and it makes me even prouder to tell them where I’m a teacher. Our job is a difficult one and when you make it to this time next year you will truly feel like you can do anything. Attack every day with every bit of yourself that you can muster (some days it’s not much) and I can promise you that by the end of next year you will have no regrets.

Summer Wish List

Let me just begin by saying that these are the worst kind of blog assignments. It’s so difficult to articulate certain things like, “what I want to work on.” Many of the things I want to work on are intangible, and with only three weeks of summer school, it would be impossible to significantly change or improve upon anything on my wish list, which is as follows:

1. Become more stoic in my interactions with “the bad kids.” I am a very passionate and sometimes emotional person… I wear my feelings on my sleeve most of the time. That’s a BAD characteristic for a teacher in terms of discipline. On a positive note, it certainly helped me build some great relationships with students this year, but I had terrible rapports with the bad kids and they continued to slide over the year.
2. Make-up work. Summer school is definitely not a realistic way to work on this. I will be going from 140 students to 30 and there will be six other teachers in the classroom. To add to that, students are only allowed to have two absences before they fail. During the school year, I was pretty awful about keeping up with make-up work and tests. I usually didn’t address missing grades until the end of the 9 weeks or when a student came to me and asked.
3. Consistency with consequences.  I tend to cut the goods kids more slack than I should and by the end of this school year, they began to act a little more “grown” than I would have liked. I’m not saying they misbehaved or acted disrespectful, but I sensed that they began to think of themselves as my equal rather than my subordinate. Again… summer school is probably too short to really experience any of that.
4. Patience with kids who move slower. Towards the end of this school year I got pretty impatient with students who worked slowly or asked a lot of questions. I’m sure part of that was just being burned out, but it is in our job description to be understanding and helpful to those kids. It is worth the extra effort to make sure they grasp something, so I would like to do a better job of keeping that in mind.