March, no matter what the weather is, comes in like a lion for me every. single. year. It's busy, long, and mostly dreary. Coming back from February vacation is tough, because vacation is amazing. Preparing myself for the 6+ weeks until April break is torture.
This year, I'm extra stressed out. In the next two weeks, I have two projects due for my grad school class. I need to finish my multigenre project, which I feel blah about and I need to prepare a 10ish minute book talk to share virtually. On top of that, I have to teach school and manage home stuff. It's overwhelming right now. Once I get started, it will be fine, but I do need to get on top of these things. I'm almost finished with my multigenre project, and I finished my book talk book like a month ago, so it's just the actual video I need to prepare. Actually, I may have just gotten an idea.
Sometimes I forget just how much the kids I teach have going on. I remember being a student, but much like the stress as a teacher, I forgot about it and held on to only the best things. As stressed out as I am, I think my students probably are as well. In different ways, perhaps, but still stressed out and overwhelmed.
If I can make it through March, it's a downhill slide to June. To summer. To freedom. To more grad school classes. Sigh ... I blame it on the bleak weather.
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Friday, February 18, 2011
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
The day from hell.
Sometimes, on days like today, I wonder how the heck my students can even get up and come to school in the morning. They come to us with so much baggage - stuff that we don't even know about most of the time. They come from homes where parents are distant or uninvolved. Sometimes parents are too involved. The come to us from homes where parents have left or died. They come to school every morning with all of this, and I know I sometimes forget that.
I forget, when they won't stop talking or are irritating me, all of the stuff they deal with everyday. I talk about my responsibilites all of the time but I often fail to recognize just how much some of these kids have gone or go through. More than ever students need to come to school for emotional and educational support. Sometimes the cases that are most frustrating are the ones that need us most, and I'm not always very good at giving them my best. I want to be, and I should be, but I'm not always that teacher.
I have to ask myself, on a day like today, how much of education is parenting and how much is teaching? Are the two different or have they essentially become one in the same?
I forget, when they won't stop talking or are irritating me, all of the stuff they deal with everyday. I talk about my responsibilites all of the time but I often fail to recognize just how much some of these kids have gone or go through. More than ever students need to come to school for emotional and educational support. Sometimes the cases that are most frustrating are the ones that need us most, and I'm not always very good at giving them my best. I want to be, and I should be, but I'm not always that teacher.
I have to ask myself, on a day like today, how much of education is parenting and how much is teaching? Are the two different or have they essentially become one in the same?
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Is Pakistan a religion?
This is just too good NOT to share it.
Today, in English 9, the students practiced two very basic skills. They were asked to 1. use the internet and databases to find out information on a country from which their ancestors come so that they could 2. write a paragraph using 5 facts. Pretty simple, right?
Well, one young lady was unsure of where her ancestors hail from. I told her to just choose a country, because the goal was that they researched and wrote. So she says, "India. That's a country right? Or is it a continent?" That was funny number 1. I was actually impressed that she didn't choose somewhere like Mexico. Anyway ... she uses World Book Advanced to do her research.
She's a pretty chatty young lady, so I had to hush her several times. As I'm walking around to check their progress I read on her paper the following:
"Islam is on of the countries with the most Muslims."
I can't make this up, people. She wrote it. When I pointed it out, it took her a moment to register the problem. She smiled, laughed, and fixed it. 1 minute later she says:
"Is Pakistan a religion?"
Everyone, and I mean everyone, in the room busted out laughing at her. Thank God she laughed at herself too. And that she figured out it's a country.
Today, in English 9, the students practiced two very basic skills. They were asked to 1. use the internet and databases to find out information on a country from which their ancestors come so that they could 2. write a paragraph using 5 facts. Pretty simple, right?
Well, one young lady was unsure of where her ancestors hail from. I told her to just choose a country, because the goal was that they researched and wrote. So she says, "India. That's a country right? Or is it a continent?" That was funny number 1. I was actually impressed that she didn't choose somewhere like Mexico. Anyway ... she uses World Book Advanced to do her research.
She's a pretty chatty young lady, so I had to hush her several times. As I'm walking around to check their progress I read on her paper the following:
"Islam is on of the countries with the most Muslims."
I can't make this up, people. She wrote it. When I pointed it out, it took her a moment to register the problem. She smiled, laughed, and fixed it. 1 minute later she says:
"Is Pakistan a religion?"
Everyone, and I mean everyone, in the room busted out laughing at her. Thank God she laughed at herself too. And that she figured out it's a country.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Who's really failing?
I spent about an hour this afternoon catching up on grading and on entering those grades in my gradebook. When I finished, I prepared individual student reports of their grades for the third quarter. I noticed a pattern, so I decided to do an actual count. Here are the details:
Total Number of Students: 51
Number of Failing Students: 23
Awesome.
When I was a student, I used to think that if a lot of students failed, the teacher missed something. It wasn't that I thought the teacher was to blame, rather that somewhere there had been a miss-communication. I'm beginning to wonder if that was right.
You see, the thing that all of these failing students have in common is a failure to turn in their work. At all. They have had two SSR journals due this quarter and almost 90% of them have failed to complete both. Additionally, the majority have BOMBED recent vocab quizzes; we're talking scores in the 20s and 30s.
On the one hand, I think to myself that perhaps I need to do more - hound them, given them extensions, something so that they get the work done. And, in September I probably would have. But it's February. The year is more than half way over. They should know by now that assignments can be turned in ONE DAY late for up to 80% and that after that it's a 0. They should know that EVERY FRIDAY they have vocab quizzes and that every other week they need to write 1 page about their SSR book. They are freshman; it shouldn't be on my shoulders anymore.
One of the things we have to do at my school is contact parents if students are at risk of failing. I'm not making 23 phone calls. No way; I'd be on the phone until 11pm.
So, tomorrow morning, I'm printing out these grade reports. Our grading program even adds a line for parent signature. Every student will be bringing these back signed or they will get a detention, and during that detention we will call parents together to explain why the student is failing.
I started this post with the idea that I might be able to convince myself that there is more I could or should do, but I can't. If I coddle these kids, they're going to fail completely next year. It's a catch 22.
Total Number of Students: 51
Number of Failing Students: 23
Awesome.
When I was a student, I used to think that if a lot of students failed, the teacher missed something. It wasn't that I thought the teacher was to blame, rather that somewhere there had been a miss-communication. I'm beginning to wonder if that was right.
You see, the thing that all of these failing students have in common is a failure to turn in their work. At all. They have had two SSR journals due this quarter and almost 90% of them have failed to complete both. Additionally, the majority have BOMBED recent vocab quizzes; we're talking scores in the 20s and 30s.
On the one hand, I think to myself that perhaps I need to do more - hound them, given them extensions, something so that they get the work done. And, in September I probably would have. But it's February. The year is more than half way over. They should know by now that assignments can be turned in ONE DAY late for up to 80% and that after that it's a 0. They should know that EVERY FRIDAY they have vocab quizzes and that every other week they need to write 1 page about their SSR book. They are freshman; it shouldn't be on my shoulders anymore.
One of the things we have to do at my school is contact parents if students are at risk of failing. I'm not making 23 phone calls. No way; I'd be on the phone until 11pm.
So, tomorrow morning, I'm printing out these grade reports. Our grading program even adds a line for parent signature. Every student will be bringing these back signed or they will get a detention, and during that detention we will call parents together to explain why the student is failing.
I started this post with the idea that I might be able to convince myself that there is more I could or should do, but I can't. If I coddle these kids, they're going to fail completely next year. It's a catch 22.
Friday, February 4, 2011
Creative Writing Days
One of the best parts about my Creative Writing Class is that I get the chance to write with the students. I don't get to focus as much or as long as I would like because there are questions, calls from the office, and other interruptions. So, here's the writing I did this week ...
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
The Chair
"A character arrives at work to find her chair missing. What happened to it?" ~from The Pocket Muse
Penelope walked into her small, organized cubicle as she had everyday for the past five years. She put her purse under the counter on the left, and her cup of hazelnut coffee on top of the small plastic organizer in the front, left corner. She pulled her jacket off one sleeve at a time, right first then left. She turned, to drape her jacket on the back of her ... "Where is my chair?" She wondered aloud. Penelope turned one full circle in her cubicle, but did not see her chair. Her head snapped from side to side as she examined all of her other neatly placed belongings.
Her computer sat as it always did, in the middle of the right counter. Next to it sat a photo of Penelope with her fiance on the day he proposed. The felt-backed walls were bare except for the Grey's Anatomy calendar on the month of June. Everything was there, in its place. Except her chair.
Since she was the first to arrive at the office, Penelope walked out of her cubicle and looked around. She stalked to the end of the long room and began making her way through each and every cubicle looking for her chair. When she reached the other end of the office, she turned sharply on her plum-purple Chanel heels and surveyed the room one more time.
Penelope, lost in thought, did not notice that the office began to fill as other employees filed into their own cubicles. A steady tap-tap-tap began to register and she was yanked from her meditative state back to reality by the sound of her supervisor's voice.
"Penelope! What are you doing? It's the busiest time of the year for us, and you're just standing there. You're the best sales-rep we have, and you're losing commission right now!"
She stared for a moment at the stout man in front of her and then studied the room once more. "I'll be happy to go back to work, sir, when my chair is returned."
"Your chair?"
Penelope explained her morning in a rather irritated voice, though that was not unusual for her. Her boss tried to interject several times, but Penelope kept talking with no regard for the man in front of her. She finished the story saying, "So, you see, I cannot be expected to work under these conditions! No chair, no calls."
The little man in front her stood with his mouth agape as she sauntered away to collect her belongings. When she reached her meticulously organized cubicle, Penelope noticed something unusual. Her chair, missing only an hour before, was back. It was no longer the icky brown color to which she had been forced to grow accustomed. Instead, it was the same brilliant shade of purple as her favorite Chanel heels. She spun around looking for the person who might have delivered this beautiful gift, and nearly knocked out her supervisor.
"You didn't let me finish, Ms. Purcot. We sent your chair out last night to be reupholstered for you. After all, the site manager needs a chair fit for a queen."
Penelope Purcot smiled sweetly, sat down, and took a celebratory spin in her new managerial chair. This day had potential.
Penelope walked into her small, organized cubicle as she had everyday for the past five years. She put her purse under the counter on the left, and her cup of hazelnut coffee on top of the small plastic organizer in the front, left corner. She pulled her jacket off one sleeve at a time, right first then left. She turned, to drape her jacket on the back of her ... "Where is my chair?" She wondered aloud. Penelope turned one full circle in her cubicle, but did not see her chair. Her head snapped from side to side as she examined all of her other neatly placed belongings.
Her computer sat as it always did, in the middle of the right counter. Next to it sat a photo of Penelope with her fiance on the day he proposed. The felt-backed walls were bare except for the Grey's Anatomy calendar on the month of June. Everything was there, in its place. Except her chair.
Since she was the first to arrive at the office, Penelope walked out of her cubicle and looked around. She stalked to the end of the long room and began making her way through each and every cubicle looking for her chair. When she reached the other end of the office, she turned sharply on her plum-purple Chanel heels and surveyed the room one more time.
Penelope, lost in thought, did not notice that the office began to fill as other employees filed into their own cubicles. A steady tap-tap-tap began to register and she was yanked from her meditative state back to reality by the sound of her supervisor's voice.
"Penelope! What are you doing? It's the busiest time of the year for us, and you're just standing there. You're the best sales-rep we have, and you're losing commission right now!"
She stared for a moment at the stout man in front of her and then studied the room once more. "I'll be happy to go back to work, sir, when my chair is returned."
"Your chair?"
Penelope explained her morning in a rather irritated voice, though that was not unusual for her. Her boss tried to interject several times, but Penelope kept talking with no regard for the man in front of her. She finished the story saying, "So, you see, I cannot be expected to work under these conditions! No chair, no calls."
The little man in front her stood with his mouth agape as she sauntered away to collect her belongings. When she reached her meticulously organized cubicle, Penelope noticed something unusual. Her chair, missing only an hour before, was back. It was no longer the icky brown color to which she had been forced to grow accustomed. Instead, it was the same brilliant shade of purple as her favorite Chanel heels. She spun around looking for the person who might have delivered this beautiful gift, and nearly knocked out her supervisor.
"You didn't let me finish, Ms. Purcot. We sent your chair out last night to be reupholstered for you. After all, the site manager needs a chair fit for a queen."
Penelope Purcot smiled sweetly, sat down, and took a celebratory spin in her new managerial chair. This day had potential.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
The Next Shirley Temple
When I was little, my grandmother used to wrap my hair in rags over night to produce very distinct, perfect, Shirley Temple curls. My family never misses an opportunity to remind me that I knew all of the words to Animal Crackers by the time I was 3. While other toddlers watched Sesame Street, I watched Heidi and A Little Princess over and over and over. I was going to be the next Shirley Temple.
I never took dance lessons, or voice lessons, but I got a microphone for Christmas one year, and that was enough. I remember standing in the middle of the kitchen, singing I’m a Little Teapot, Do re mi, and Over the Rainbow to the throngs of fans I imagined in the cupboards. The microphone itself stood about three feet, and the base held three, foot pedal-buttons. The first button turned the toy off and on, another button created an echo, and the third – my personal favorite – sent the sounds of cheering and applause across the kitchen on my command. In my peanut-sized brain, the adoring audiences of that third button waited with bated breath for my next song.
I don’t remember when my toy broke, but it did eventually. When that happened, I was forced to put on my dress shoes and create my own versions of tap-dance for my Nana. Shirley Temple, after all, was a triple threat, and I needed to be as well.
I never took dance lessons, or voice lessons, but I got a microphone for Christmas one year, and that was enough. I remember standing in the middle of the kitchen, singing I’m a Little Teapot, Do re mi, and Over the Rainbow to the throngs of fans I imagined in the cupboards. The microphone itself stood about three feet, and the base held three, foot pedal-buttons. The first button turned the toy off and on, another button created an echo, and the third – my personal favorite – sent the sounds of cheering and applause across the kitchen on my command. In my peanut-sized brain, the adoring audiences of that third button waited with bated breath for my next song.
I don’t remember when my toy broke, but it did eventually. When that happened, I was forced to put on my dress shoes and create my own versions of tap-dance for my Nana. Shirley Temple, after all, was a triple threat, and I needed to be as well.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)