Hmmm...

When I think about what I need to accomplish at my school before the year's end, I get immensely overwhelmed; in fact, lately I've been trying to avoid the subject. I haven't yet begun on the yearbook that I agreed to take over. I haven't organized the Beta Club ceremony, nor have I had the time to call a meeting of its current members. The 7th Grade Writing Assessment is 17 school days from now and tryouts for the track team begin Monday... so this weekend will be spent organizing materials for that because I'm the head coach... but oh wait, those basketball teams for which I'm the assistant coach have their final games on Saturday. Did I mention the Ed Law midterm that I should be studying for or the MTC portfolio that has been pushed beyond the back burner?

What about those dozen students who are currently failing my class? Those students whose parents won't return my calls. The ones who fail to understand how important it is that they turn in their projects - because a late grade is better than a zero. Before I even begin to think about what I want to accomplish on a personal level, I need to get past, or at least compartmentalize all of those other things.

But when I actually do get a spare moment to think about it, to think about the fact that my time here is almost through, the "to do list" rolls out with ease. I want to build better relationships with all of my students. I want their faces to forever be imprinted in my memory. I want to spark a passion for writing in some of those students who I know have a gift, and I want to show my most jaded children that their cynicism is crippling them. I want to get M to sit still for ten minutes straight and convince S that it's cool to be smart.  I don't really care about the test scores, but I do care that my students move to the eighth grade with proficiency and feel confident that they can continue to improve.

I know that all sounds incredibly cliche, but it's the truth. Those are the things that really consume my daily thoughts. Those are the things I think about when I'm choosing to avoid the pressure of everything else.

A Day in the Life Part II

Last year I went through and itemized every minute of my typical day. Unfortunately my schedule has not really changed, save the additional 30 minutes I've added to my commute. Now that I am the proud owner of a hybrid, my fuel cost isn't a whole lot worse than it was last year, so my drive has become something I really do enjoy.

I still hit snooze five to six times before I actually roll out of bed. I still apply makeup, drink coffee, eat breakfast, and listen to NPR on the way to work. I know it sounds stressful, but the two lane country road I take to school is actually pretty beautiful in the morning, so after I've finished the aforementioned part of my routine, I relish the solitude.

Once I get to school, I still stand in the main hallway for duty. This is one of my favorite parts of the day because, for some reason, I LOVE enforcing dress code. Maybe it's the "fixer" in me. Besides that I get to see the adorable elementary schoolers who can barely contain their excitement most mornings and frequently burst into skips on their way down the hall. My pleas for them to walk are typically fruitless, but they're so cute that I can't help but laugh most of the time.

While my days are vastly more enjoyable and less stressful than they were last year, I'm still pretty exhausted by the time I head home. But again... I love the drive. I roll the windows down, turn the music up, and decompress. I think that drive has been a huge part of my sanity this year.

When I get home from school I turn into a hobbit. Occasionally I grab dinner with friends, but mostly I close my bedroom door, read a bit of whatever book I'm on, write a blog, and sleep. I rarely plan. I rarely grade. I rarely socialize. In some ways I enjoy my evenings the most. 

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.