Tag Archives: Teacher

My Kid Can Beat Your Kid at Everything!

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I survived Parent Teacher Conference last night.

As a parent, I go out of respect. I know the poor teacher has to be there, and she’s amazing. As a teacher, I’m sad dragging parents across six towns to wait in line for ten minutes with me. They worked a long day. I’d rather have coffee and actually talk.

At Declan’s conference, I cut right to the chase, “My kid’s smart, using his intellect for evil, and needs to pay attention.” Except for the “evil” I’d say the apple didn’t fall too far from the tree. Say it like it is, I’m not offended. No fluff. I’m not a competitive parent.

Screen Shot 2013-12-04 at 5.48.10 AMParents, I’ve noticed, need to compete, but we don’t like to say we’re competing. We want our kid to be the best and brightest in the world. The future doctor, lawyer, president, head of the World Bank.

That competition should be right out into the open, parent-to-parent. Let’s have parent contests.

“Hey, buddy, I challenge you for the ‘My kid’s awesome’ bumper sticker on your minivan. Let’s arm wrestle, or play one-on-one hoops. I’ll decimate you.”

We’ll all go home and do pushups to prepare.

But that’s not cool, so we brag subtly. “My kid’s an all-star (insert sport here). I noticed yours plays left bench quite effectively.”

Mine isn’t an all-star. Declan’s working on matching the correct sports to the balls. He kicks basketballs, which makes me cringe. It’s going to be a long season for that coach. We waiting for our call telling us which team we “made.” No sports bragging here.

“My kid read more books than your kid.” He (translate: me) logged more books on the log sheet. I don’t care how many books a kid reads. Number of children’s books viewed is not an accurate measure of reading.

“I read a hundred thousand one-page books which had descriptions longer than the actual text and pictures that took up 97.5% of the page.” Seven thousand books? For a grand total of six pages. Nope, I’m not logging that. As much as I love children’s authors and illustrators.

Read Dostoyevsky. Then we’ll talk. Our log says, “We read Seuss and the dino book AGAIN.”

No award for me. Or him. No competitive spirit. Only fun reading about dinos.

He’s a good kid, despite the fact that when I walked into the school, everyone in the main office from the Principal to the two secretaries said, “Oh, Declan’s mom!” That’s okay. Being on a first-name basis with the principal by grade one gives us special treatment. There’s something we can win. I can say, “My kid’s the captain of the detention club.”  Maybe he’ll get his own chair in the front office and he’ll get to run his own school. That’s something most parents don’t get to say.

No, I’m not a competitive parent. I’m a realist. I enjoyed the ten-minutes of honesty at the conference, came home, and took Declan off my computer where he was busy previewing the Sci-fi movies I’m showing in my class today. Seems he “forgot” to tell me he got “in the red.” Red is not good.

I relaxed with a nice cup of tea. I have time, because I’m not driving my kid around to horseback riding, soccer, ballet, basketball, gymnastics, piano, ski club and 4H. We’ll pick one or two things. Maybe he’ll be great, maybe he’ll just have fun. I’ll celebrate a blue ribbon or trophy or two. Mostly, we’ll just learn about life, people, fun, fitness, and make a few good friendships, I hope.

Competition only stresses me out. I’ll leave that for others.

 

[image: youthsportsparents.blogspot.com]

I’m Not the Jesus of Education

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I stand in front of my students. I say, “Listen, it’s your decision. Research it, make the call.” Blank stares. Pause. More blank stares.

I explain. “I’m not the Jesus of education…I’m just a nerd. You need to interpret things the way you want.” I give examples using facts, figures, case studies…

“How will I know I’m right?” Students need that sense of “I must define the right answer so you can give me an A. I MUST KNOW!!!” Right answers are seldom right. Only shades of right. It’s a lesson nearly impossible to teach–one I’m still trying to learn.

I tell them, “You’ll know you’re right because I’m the one reading it. It can’t be wrong if you back it up.”

“You see,” I say, “Life doesn’t work that way. I think I have a plan for school, for business, for life…but it changes constantly. Life evolves. Real learning is about taking the input and research–whatever you can find and whatever comes your way…and using it to be awesome. Digging deep, defending, explaining, pitching, selling, convincing…to do that, you have to collect knowledge.” Rake it into a pile…jump in the leaves. 

“Then trust yourself and take it to the next level. Who knows what the right answer really is? No one. That’s life. The answer is that no one knows the answers. That’s really what happens. I wish I had something different to tell you.”*

Pause.

“The good news is, you can get used to that and blow by the people who can’t.”

Eventually, one student cracks a smile. Then one more… until a whole bunch of smiles light up the room.  Students begin to re-engage, finding solutions to the problems of the world once again. Because I’ve told them that each one of them is a genius, and the world needs their contributions.**

*The actual phrase was “loose corners.” (Kamal Ravikant). Truly the best of lessons. I’ve passed it on. The best of lessons, kept to oneself, simply withers up and dies.

**Angela Maiers asks the question, “What breaks your heart?” then makes students solve those problems. For real. I’ve brainstormed these things, even called my students geniuses, but never made them iterate on the ideas. And that small paradigm shift, I see, makes all the difference. The power of one single student can light a thousand cities. Amazing to behold. Angela–I hope you are proud. I am.

Why I Can’t Teach Elementary School

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I can’t discuss the day I had yesterday…not because I don’t want to…because of confidentiality. I never discuss things that can be pegged to individual students unless they are positive shout outs. It was a Class-A challenging day, filled with the crises I get from time to time teaching high school. It used to rattle me, but now each emergency of scale winds its way to my doorstep. I return each serve, and take the day in stride. In between, I manage to teach, knowing I’ve helped a kid or two in the process. I try to remember to smile.

Teaching high school is easy. I get to be a real person, flaws and all. Kids pick off flaws if I try to hide them, anyway. I wish I were an elementary teacher. Elementary teachers are magical. They don’t have flaws. They never lose their cool. They always smile. They dress really nice, and they have panache. I don’t have panache.

homeworkI leave my school and go home to Elementary Boy Declan. He likes bad words and fart jokes. I imagine his elementary teacher smiling as she tells him this is “inappropriate.” I try to raise him right. I don’t teach him bad words and jokes…but things get away from me. I help him do his homework. He procrastinates.

“Mommy, rub my shoulders.” I do.

“Oh, that feels really good. Way better than when I say ‘crap’ a thousand times in a row.” He tries to hide his bad words. He goes to his room saying, “I need privacy. I want to have a conversation with myself.” I listen in. “Shut up, shut up, shut up, crap, shit.” Should stop this or let him work through this developmental moment privately? What would an elementary teacher say?

“You know, saying bad words isn’t nice. You’ll grow up and have no friends.” That’s what I say. I know it’s untrue. An elementary teacher would never say this. I continue, “You’ll get bad karma.” He bumps his knee on the chair. He cries. “See?” I say, “Bad karma.” He growls. He tells me he’ll turn into a dinosaur and eat me.

“It’s NOT bad KARMA!” I tell him it is. You never know when karma is coming…

For now, I accept his compliment in the interest of finishing homework. Mommy, you make me happier than saying the word “crap.” That’s a big endorsement. I tell him not to say “crap.”

In my high school classroom, “crap” is passé. Even the “f” word gets a quick check for the first offense, “Um, language alert.” For repeat offenders, “I’m sure I can find you a hundred or so nice ’f’ words to write about…” Hint: I’m about to make your day inconvenient. Knock it off.

My son wants to be “inappropriate.” He thinks it’s fun.  He’s received some positive reinforcement in this department. What I call “fresh,” and “obnoxious,” was relabeled “entrepreneurial,” “visionary,” “renegade.”

“That kid’s going places,” I’m told. Yeah, straight to bed. Or time out. Or the gypsies…

deskI went to open house last night. I sat in his teeny, tiny chair. There, on the desk, was a star chart. One of two star charts in the class. In teaching land, that’s not good. Where I’d give a student “the death stare,” Miss, knock that off. You can’t do the ‘death stare.’ You don’t have it in you. I just laugh…["Well, I got you to stop, didn't I?"], elementary teachers give encouragement. A star chart.

This means that Declan needs to behave. Last night, I received appropriate elementary strategies meant to encourage. I can’t smile that much while I encourage, though. Elementary teachers never seem to rattle. They impress me. The charts, graphs, stars, and incentives are amazing. I sat in the tiny desk thinking of what I could steal and repurpose in my classroom to “encourage.”  I’d have to white out all the smileys, frogs, and apples, though, or it would encourage students to laugh me off the planet. My charts can’t smile. Maybe I can design charts with avatars wearing sagging jeans or something. If the jeans on the chart sag, that’s not good. Students get to pull up the jeans on their avatar as they achieve more and more.

I try to encourage. Probably not so well. My elementary educator friends tell students to “make good choices,” in the face of inappropriateness.  Teaching high school, I encourage my students to do listen, or they can encourage themselves to some grave penalty.

“You like to throw paper? Awesome! You can throw paper for three hours after school. I’ll let you aim at the basket. I’ll send your stats to the NBA.”  Nobody usually chooses my offer, probably because I tell them I am a nerd, have no life and can stay till six to help their paper-throwing jump shot if need be. They pause. They decide it might just be true. They cease and desist.

Elementary teachers never lie like that. My friend Amy tells me I can’t design punishments I can’t carry out. “You can’t take away computer or TV from your son forever…” 

Maybe she’s right. I’m not sure…she is far better than me in this department.

I tell my son it’s time to go to bed, no more negotiation, he’s not buying a company or anything. Finally, I get him to bed. He only turns into a dinosaur once to try to eat me before he is fast asleep…without saying one bad word.

What to Do When You’re the Teacher Who Messes Up

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Screen Shot 2013-09-12 at 5.11.22 AMHe couldn’t spell “Einstein” or “magic.” I didn’t want to take the class. I needed it. It was one of those “You-Need-This-For-College” classes. I wondered why. I’m certainly not a working in that field today.

He was often making mistakes on the board or misspelling something on a paper. He’d go back and correct himself after a thoughtful student raised a hand, but still, he was the expert. How could he spell something wrong? I was a pretty harsh critic.

He tried to organize me.

“You’ll never be a success.  You don’t take good notes,” he said.  My notes were just fine. For me. “You have to follow the system!” His system was beautiful. Tables of contents with neatly attached note pages… mine was a stream of consciousness with the occasional blurb about the subject.

When I studied… If I studied…I used my notes. I stared at the doodles. They transported me to the point in the lecture where I’d lost focus and drawn them. Today, there’s pens that do that for students.

My college notes are the same. Effective–a good system. I still use them today.

I ran into this teacher later in life. I discovered that as an adult, I liked him very much. He saw a disaster like me–backpack barfing with disorganization, bananas resting in the bottom of my locker inviting fruit flies, bad fashion, generally on a planet other than my own. He tried his best to avert said disaster with the best tools in his box. Focus. Organization. Systems.

What he needed was flexibility.  He didn’t recognize my systems were effective for me, because I processed things differently. He organized thoughts in a productive mental line. Mine were more like a creative spiderweb. There was a rhyme and reason to my thoughts. My systems served me well. As a teacher, that’s an important lesson–sometimes students are on point, even when they appear to be on another planet. My job is to teach them to find their way back to Earth on their own.

I’m merely a mentor teaching connections and assisting students in developing their life systems. I note problems, assist in analysis, and first suggest, not provide, a solution. It’s not that I won’t dictate, demand and command, but good teaching allows me to prompt them to help themselves first.

 

“I can’t write this essay!” they said. Two good students, staring at a semi-blank paper.

“Is that an iPhone hidden in your bag?” I asked.

“Yes.” I took out my own.

“Let me show you something.”  I hit the microphone. I dictated an intro paragraph using proper dictation techniques, students crowding around my shoulder.

The words appeared. Perfectly spelled text in the proper format. Students awed. You’d think I was Oprah giving away cars. Suddenly, everyone wanted to go home and write an essay.

Flexibility. Thinking and seeing outside the box. A good teaching moment. For a moment, I got to be a hero.

Screen Shot 2013-09-12 at 5.11.36 AMThe other day, I didn’t.  ”Miss, you forgot to close the quotations on this sentence.” Indeed I had. Without an end quote, I could speak ad infinitum. I fixed it.

“Miss, you did that math wrong.” We’d been applying math to the social sciences. There’s rust on some of my math.

Math Friend Next Door said, “Yup, you missed a step.”  Both slightly embarrassed and proud, I high-fived the kid and gave him candy. My goal is for my students to be better than me–not because I’m stupid, but when I mess up, I own it. Candy helps.

He looked at me the same way I looked at that teacher who misspelled the words. I invented that look.

He’s super smart. I wonder if he’ll forgive me some day… The girl who edited the quotes already has. Will my good karma teaching upperclassmen an essay hack counterbalance my mistake karma? I’m not sure how history will write my reviews.

Teachers aren’t supposed to be real people. We’re supposed to be perfect. I keep forgetting that and messing up. Maybe if I just have one more cup of coffee…I’ll do better today.

 

 

[images: mathspig.wordpress.com and uwyo.edu]

What Would You LIKE to Learn?

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I’m writing my “Welcome Letter” to students. It’s going to a blog post this year. I’m trying to save trees–it’s a pain in the ass to get more paper when I run out. I have to requisition paper just to make the forms to get the paper, and I can’t really afford a virtual assistant. So, digital, here I come.

When I start the school year, I think of my most difficult customer. The kid who doesn’t want to be looking at my ugly face for 180 days and prays for a snowstorm or natural disaster to relieve him of that obligation. I don’t target nerds like me…they show up politely whether they like me or not. If I can convince school haters, I’m golden.

So, within the first day or two I’ll ask a question, “What would you like to learn?”

Life is about learning. The problem with education isn’t that policy’s bad, teachers suck or kids are stupid, it’s a failure to provide an intersection point.

Screen Shot 2013-08-24 at 9.16.15 AMImagine a graph–any graph. There is generally a point where the two lines meet. On a supply and demand or pricing graph, you have a bunch of people trying to not pay for stuff and a bunch of people trying to overcharge. Depending on the amount of stuff in circulation, the lines meet and you get a dot in the middle. If the lines don’t meet, that means you didn’t sell your product.

I wasn’t good at math. I had to go to the Psych Services tutor in college to understand this stuff. She told me, “You’re okay, take a deep breath.” The guy in the next cube over was being treated for his fear of spiders.

Anyway. A graph is a graph. Right now what we have in education is a graph where the lines don’t always intersect. We have one group of people deciding what will be taught and evaluated, another teaching, and a third wishing they could learn something else entirely. Lines that don’t meet. When the lines don’t meet, that means you didn’t sell your product. My product is education. Not just education, but the LOVE of education.

When the lines meet, you get a dot in the middle of the graph. You need the dot in the middle of the graph. The dot represents the place where we all come together and agree on something. Cost effectiveness. The price we’re willing to pay. The salary we’ll take. Work efficiency. Break-even point. The willingness to teach and learn. It’s all the same. The lines need to meet.

I’m a writer–I don’t generally write about graphs.  But the truth is the truth whether I like it or not–the dot in the middle–the point of intersection–is the truth in all things. In math or relationships, we need that common ground.

One student put this in perspective, “You write a lot of curriculum. Teachers meet for this. Why don’t students meet with teachers and write it? ” Brilliant. Especially at the high school level where students are my customers. They express what is useful to them. Then, I guide them on paths to the top of the mountain.

So, this year, I’ll be asking “What do you want to learn?” We’ll decide together.

“Casey,” you might say, “How will they know what they need?” You’d be surprised. Given guidance and an objective, they soar. When I get customer dissatisfaction in the ranks, I say, “Here’s what I was aiming for. How can you achieve this to show me you learned?” Most of the time, they do far more than I’d have assigned.

Learning isn’t top down. I learn from my students.  This year I learned from the world. I’m a better writer, a better person…I have the type of friends who push me to be great. I push my students to be great. Better than me. Students often ask me a question.

“Miss, why are you teaching?” You see, everyone views teaching as the job you get if you can’t get another job. It’s a perception I’m trying to change.

“I’m here because I love you guys. I want you to be better than me.” It takes a while for that answer to sink in. When it does, when students believe this truth, we learn great things together.

This year, I’ve learned things I love–things I wanted to learn. Why would my students be different? That is why we will start with the question, “What would you like to learn?”  

And then, we’ll accomplish that goal.

[image: investopedia.com]

Wanted: One Teaching Job

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Wanted. One teaching job. Setting negotiable, for a genius who hasn’t yet been hired. 

Screen Shot 2013-08-19 at 8.06.42 AMThe candidate is certified in social studies, but social studies isn’t all you get with this candidate. He connects to any subject at the drop of a time, weaving in student interest.  Students flock to him like he’s the Pied Piper.

The candidate started in my class a decade ago, where, for a project-based midterm, he tried to save an establishment in New York City from a grave social and economic injustice. He failed. The place closed. I gave him an A.

He wanders in periodically, co-teaching at the drop of a dime. Truth be told–the candidate is much, much smarter than me. On the days when I’m feeling “blah,” he shows up and embarrasses me into greatness. Sometimes I feel guilty, if I’m having a rare lazy day. I straighten up, think intellectual thoughts, and work to be an even better teacher. The kind that never has a bad day because that’s the day someone will show up and put you to shame.

The candidate has a serious work ethic. He worked through school, paid his own way in life, and plans lessons down to the last entertaining detail. He feels strongly about social justice and student success, righting wrongs in both categories. He struggled to get through the teacher prep program only because the requirements kept changing–I know, it happens to us all. I failed the “tech test” in the same program. Apparently, “the test” didn’t know I studied typing in the olden days on a cast-iron Royal. It wanted me to hit “tab” in the fake email but I indented the paragraph manually. I failed. Almost couldn’t teach as a result. Similar things have delayed the candidate.

This candidate might just be the best teacher you child never gets. There are a lot of candidates out there, but I’m partial to this one, not only because of his loyalty and inspiration, but because he’s that good. If I was of good moral fiber, I’d hand him the keys to my classroom, but I’m not going to, because I like to teach, too.

However, in my will, I have mentioned this in a subparagraph. If I get flattened by a truck, struck by lightning, kidnapped in a foreign nation, or have any other problem in life that removes me from my classroom, this candidate gets my class (Exclusion 1: Unless it is he who causes my demise). The candidate has made me realize a few very important things:

1. Teacher prep programs should recognize and laud people like this.

2. The best teachers–they have a glow about them–they should never be waiting on the sidelines.

3. Hard work, vision, ethics, and love for students should be rewarded. Every time.

If you want to hire this social studies visionary, comment below. I’ll connect you. We’re in Rhode Island but I wonder if he’d move? I’ll waive my usual headhunting fee, which I haven’t yet established because I have never done this. If he works out, just send me coffee sometime in the middle of the day when I need it most.

To all of you who have jobs and classes, enjoy them. Even in the chaos. Think of those who so want to be where you are now. To those of you who want and deserve jobs and classes, persevere. Be great! You will get the classes you deserve. And when you do, you will shine!

 

 

The Nightmare before Labor Day

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It finally happened. I started dreaming about school. Vicki Davis, “Cool Cat Teacher,”  wrote about this, stating when teachers dream about school, they’re almost always nightmares.

Screen Shot 2013-08-06 at 5.31.10 PMI’ve had two nightmares this summer about school. Both involved changing institutions, not finding rooms, and getting schedules I’m not qualified to teach. In one dream, former colleagues stopped by to tell me how glad they were I left, because they had always hated me anyway. A PE teacher followed me around with a copy of my grades from last year pestering me because someone didn’t get into college because of me, I couldn’t find any supplies, and kept getting notes that I needed to collect “the data.” It compounded from there.

I’m not Freud or Jung, but I can peg this one without help. I left my room a mess–a victim of the end-of-the-year exhaustion from last year, I didn’t mess up anyone’s grades but a substitute absconded my book list from my emergency folder, requiring some summer emailing, no one ever gets enough supplies, and I’m waiting to see what I’m teaching this coming year.  Pretty straightforward.

The truth of the matter is this: good teaching is chaos. The best way to describe it is by comparing teaching to a game of dodgeball where someone swapped out the stinging red balls for baseballs, and twenty people chuck fast balls simultaneously at your head. I have but one glove to catch them.

As a martial artist, I compare this to a real street altercation where people attack together pummeling the victim, as opposed to a movie altercation where the protagonist is accosted by twenty people, but one at a time–everyone waits politely or lines up so the hero can dispatch them in turn. “After you,” they seem to say, “No, after you.” Chuck Norris always wins.

That’s not what teaching is like. In teaching, it hits all at once. And it’s all urgent.

Teaching is chaos. If it’s not, sign me up for that position, and tell me what you put in your morning coffee, because I want some.

If you’re a new teacher, you’re stressing about the beginning of the school year. If you’re a seasoned teacher, you’re stressing about the start of the school year.  You’re wondering, “Will I do well enough this year? Can I accomplish everything? Can I fight all the battles at once, and live to see the end of the year? How about the test? My evaluation? The curriculum… how about…”

Everyone wants to have fun.

Everyone wants to have fun.

Every year I have a theme to try to improve myself in the classroom–to help me achieve inner peace in a world that gets crazy. Last year–the theme was “windmills.” Don’t fight them. This year, efficiency and fun. Where can I best use my time?  How can I collaborate to make my life easier and have time to enjoy my students and colleagues more? I’m finishing off a reread of Tim Ferriss’ Four Hour Workweek in honor of this year’s goal, and I’ve joined up with Dave Burgess’ Teach Like a Pirate crew to steal the best of the best ideas in the nation, because, like the hoaky motivational poster says, TEAM=Together Everyone Achieves More. I fully expect to be smacked for the cliché.

I want to do more fun things with my teaching team as part of the Year of Efficiency and Fun. Trouble is, we don’t get to see each other when the school year starts. “Should I go to the bathroom today, or stop in to say hi to my colleague?” Bathroom always wins for me. It’s not a healthy question, because by the end of second quarter, many of us start to forget each other’s names.

So, yes, the nightmares have officially begun, but so’s the planning of strategy for the Year of Efficiency and Fun.  If you work more than two doors down from me–outside of the geographic “Good morning” zone, I’ll try especially hard to say hello, and I’ll bring you a cup of coffee this year. Then maybe you can join the Year of Fun too.

[images: http://i-sparks.net  and chabad.org]

 

My Season of Obnoxious

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Screen Shot 2013-06-29 at 8.44.06 AMToday’s Saturday. Dates and times are irrelevant to me for the next seven weeks until school starts. This is the time of year when you hate me. The time of year when I call you randomly, email you at all times, and disturb you at work. You get annoyed. “I’m working! Don’t you have something to do?”

Nope. Don’t you know teachers never have something to do after 2PM, or during vacations and summer?

This is the glorious time of the year when I don’t yet have my schedule so I can’t possibly think about what I’d like to do next year. I can’t make goals, I can’t write curriculum, and I can’t obsess about the lessons I’d like to plan to reach my students better. I am forced to have fun.

That gives me plenty of time to bother you. You know you love it. Really. It makes you feel important. Deep in your mind, you’re convinced teachers don’t do anything most of the year and work a seven hour day.  It’s why you secretly want to go into teaching–there will be plenty of spots soon, trust me–we’ll take you. Especially if you are good at math and those multiple choice tests.

This summer, I am doing the following, which should give you a break from me: 

Gardening: I want to get off the grid and eat out of my own garden. But the cabbage worms are beating me to the produce, and they’re gross, so I don’t think I’ll be eating as much cauliflower as I want. I still have about eight weeks of Swiss Chard to cook and a ton of weeds to pull. That should keep me busy, but if I have time, I’ll call you during your important business meeting.

Learnist: Next year, I will get rid of my textbooks, whatever they are destined to be, almost entirely. When I know what I’m teaching, I’ll create and locate a ton more boards on Learnist to accomplish this, but one thing I’ll be doing differently is collaborating more. You’ll probably start to see me writing articles about using Learnist to crowdsource; about not “recreating the wheel.” I often think I work too hard when I could be sharing the load better. This sounds deep and prophetic, but truthfully, it’s pretty selfish. I really want to save myself some time, so I can bother you during the school year as well. Perhaps you have a presentation due or a deal to negotiate–that’s when I’ll Skype in or send a really long email. It’s the least I can do.

Developing a better plan for tech in my classroom: I did well this year with Learnist, my class braincountry.com blog, and Twitter, but in the next year two, I plan to do even better. I didn’t tweet enough on the @braincountry handle with the students, although we did tweet the debates and election. They wanted to tweet more. I can do better with my class blog. I want the students to do more writing, and the parents to see and comment on what students are doing. I will figure out a way to do this from Day One to make lessons more relevant and engaged, and save me time to–you guessed it–bother you.

Fitness: I’ve enjoy yoga and running, and am ditching The Boy to get back to my fun at iLoveKickboxing.com.  Fitness is never a burden for me, it’s fun and often meditative. I can Screen Shot 2013-06-29 at 8.48.35 AMuse this addiction to give you a break when the other time-saving innovations give me an excess of time to insert annoyances into yours. I’ll try to recognize your righteous indignation and kickbox or run for an hour or so. That should give you enough time to pack up and move to a nation I can’t spell.

Don’t worry…it won’t be too long before I’ll know what I’m teaching and start focusing on that instead of calling you while you’re trying to be productive so you can avoid being outsourced.  My writing and other projects will fill up my time to give you a breather, and the last week of August–when I return to teach–is coming before you know it.

By then, you should hear the crickets chirp in your email. But until that time, it’s really nice bothering you again.

 

[images: cbsnews.com and 2dayblog.com]

Pick Your Nose–We’re Out of Tissues

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Screen Shot 2013-06-08 at 7.20.26 AMI’m out of tissues and hand sanitizer. Students are mad. I see this.

“Miss, got any tissues?” I keep forgetting to bring in a new box–I have my stockpile on my homesteading shelf in my basement. Someone needs to text me at 5AM when I plan such things.

“No, sorry.” Huff. Stomp.

I share. I’m generous. But sometimes I wonder why it’s my job to provide things for…my job. I can afford tissues. There was a time when I couldn’t. There was a time, teaching, when I ran my household on a $30 grocery budget for a household of four and still had to have supplies for my class. For two years in the middle of the biggest recession I’ll ever see, a few years after taking out 25K in graduate loans and cutting my salary in half for the privilege.

Thankfully, those days are gone, but not for every teacher–I see the newest teachers stocking their classrooms because they want them to be the utopias students deserve–I see when they put themselves in debt. Balance is important, teacher burnout is the highest out of any career. Teachers need balance. That extends to financial balance as well. It’s something that’s tough for teachers. But I have well over two hundred students–some years as few as 150–and most days several of them sound like this:

Screen Shot 2013-06-08 at 7.19.58 AM“Miss, got a band-aid?”

“Miss, I don’t have a pencil.”

“Miss, got any tissues?”

“Where’s the paper?”

“Miss, got any hand sanitizer?”

Sometimes, when I am well supplied, I share. Other times not so much. If I gave every student who asked me for a pencil a pencil each time they asked, I’d be giving out a lot of pencils. Hundreds of pencils. I knew of a teacher who marked down on her teacher evaluation because a student didn’t have a pencil. This is serious.The fact that students don’t have a pencil–and maybe that I forgot the tissues–can now affect my career. I literally give out thousands of pencils. Sometimes I feel like a game show.

“You’re awake, you win a pencil!!!”  I needed to reduce this amount. I feel strongly about not killing the rainforest, but also about personal responsibility. I’ve worked for twenty years, coming prepared every day. It’s important. I try to teach this to students. I got an idea.

I invented the Crayon of Shame. I got a little bucket, into which I put crayons, broken pencils, and the types of colored pencils that are really hard to write with. Then, I said, “No,” really loud, “I DON’T have a pencil. But you can have the crayon of shame.” That helped increase preparedness for a while–no one wants the crayon of shame, and I purposely picked things that didn’t write smoothly. That wouldn’t be a pleasure to use.  After a while, the crayon of shame became a badge of honor. So I tried something new. “I’ll rent you a pencil for ten points.” I don’t usually take the points, but I make a big theatrical deal about it, Shakespearian-style. All the world’s a stage…and a particularly big one when making fun of kids. Kids without pencils whining because they used the last handful of my tissues.

Sometimes there is a propensity, in student land, to waste resources. It’s true. Mr. I Took Eighty Kleenexes or Student Who Loses A Pencil a Day may not sound like a big deal until you realize half a rainforest and a week’s salary goes into replacing all this stuff. I feel strongly about sustainability. I don’t know the exact amount of trees I have to kill to make enough kleenexes for 250 students, but it’s a lot. In my personal household, I try not to waste resources. My son didn’t know what a paper towel or napkin was until recently, and he’s six.

I guess it’s hard to waste resources in schools because schools so seldom have resources, but it’s still something to be aware of either way. Maybe next year, I’ll embroider handkerchiefs as my gift to each student. I can make them slightly by tweaking this “How to Make Napkins” craft board on Learnist by Project Runway’s Melissa Fleis. Sure, it’s about napkins, but I bet it’d work for handkerchiefs, too.

But for now, I tell them to pick their nose, we’re out of tissues.

“What?” I say, “Okay, fine. Go to the lav. Remember to wash your hands. Research says 70% of people don’t wash their hands.” I always wreck a good time with research. It’s my job. But shopping for supplies for my job, I fear, is not.

I really hope, in all this ed reform, someone budgets for a box of tissues. Because not only do I have to blow my nose once in a while, but I often have to cry.

 

[images: artteachershateglitter.com and lifeofkaylen.blogspot.com]

You Can’t Handle The Truth: Asking Students What THEY Want

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Sometimes I’m searching for something obscure. I go to Google. I put in the first letter– something nobody thinks about, like aardvarks.

Google knows as soon as I type “a.”

I check to see if the webcam turned on–if someone’s spying on me and UStreaming me all over the world. Nope. It’s just Google. It knows.

I want Google to sponsor my classroom. Every time a student thinks a thought, I want it on the smartboard helping me with student engagement. Students are a little strung out and bored with life lately. It’s “the Junes.”

Screen Shot 2013-05-24 at 6.19.22 AMOne day, I was talking to my seniors. A great group with keen insight. You can’t really bullshit these guys. One can write a several-page analysis on any topic–but never does, because he says, “This is stupid.” If pressed, he’ll tell you why. And if you can’t validate his concerns and make it real for him, he’ll be right. Another can do a Rubic’s cube in 15 seconds but is entirely disengaged with school; it’s “boring.”  The others are just as deep, in their own quiet way.

One day, we were talking. Paper Writing Kid rejected my assignment. We were discussing the effect of advertising on psychology and the economy.

“It’s stupid. It’s all consumer-based mind control. Have you seen this video?” He provided a V-sauce video on the flow of money throughout the economy. Fascinating.

“School is stupid,” he vented. “That’s why I never do anything. All we do is testing and packets. And my class always seems to be the experiment for all the new stuff–testing counting for graduation, projects, teacher goals–it’s always my class.”

“I never give you packets.” I was getting a bit defensive. I want my students to love each of my classes.

“No. But look at THIS…” He whipped out packets. And packets. A grove of trees somewhere in the universe is no more.

“What would you do if you were me, given that I am required to teach this?” I explained the standardized curriculum for one course I am teaching. I used to be able to teach what I wanted, provided it was on topic, but curriculum’s getting more standardized because “every student should have the same experience.” I don’t think each student should, because they all have different gifts and interests, but nevertheless…

“So, I’m required to teach this, but I want to accomplish this as well.” I pointed to the sign on my board, “WHAT’S YOUR BIG IDEA?” I talk about “money skills.” Entrepreneurial skills. Advanced skills–the things that really helped me in life–interpretation, communication, writing, presentation, pitching, debating, researching and speaking skills. When students leave, I want them to think “I have these skills. I can be great. I can write my book, start my business, be determined, think outside the box, have an impact.” I want my students to be better than me.

“So….?”

“Well,” he said, “First, get rid of all these ridiculous tests. Everyone’s always testing.” True. I’d just finished up a megavolley of tests collecting data on goals I had to write for the new teacher evaluation system. It took me six days total just at the end of the year with two groups. That’s not counting pretests, correcting, and check tests–all told, I’ve spent well over a week per student on tests. In that time, I could have taught a unit. Or more. All this to prove I’m competent. Teachers must do this in every class.

“These tests are pointless, and they make me not want to come to school.” I’m not going argue. I agree. I find myself apologizing to students.  ”Sorry, I have to give this test.”  I can assess students fairly easily through other–fun–means, yet testing has become this mammoth process of data collection I really don’t understand all too well myself–I accidentally designed goals that are mathematically impossible for me to meet. Maybe that’s appropriate karma for overtesting. I fail, too. High five!

“So,” I asked, “What would you do?”

“Well,” he said, “I think the problem with education today is that teachers design things, students design things, but nobody sits at the table and designs it together. You write a lot of curriculum, but do you ever write it with students? Students should be at that table.”

Ding, ding, ding… we have a winner. I am such a moron. That IS the answer.

“What would you write?” I asked.  He told me. Good stuff.

Students should be at that table. Indeed.

I’ve spent the greater part of this year working with people connecting educators and entrepreneurs to provide classroom solutions. I’ve learned from some of the best and brightest people in the nation. Solutions only occur when the parties sit down at the table together. This must happen everywhere. Student engagement requires student input.

Why aren’t students at the table for policy, design, reform, and curriculum? They’re my customers. They’re the people I serve. I ask for their thoughts and opinions every day in class–why aren’t they part of the instructional design process? It’s simple. We ask: What do you want to learn? How can you show what you’ve learned, and that you can do great things?

Doing it together–that is the answer–I may not need Google at all.

[image: http://www.lahsconqueror.com]