C is for Computers and Crazy

A new low: I took the brand new computers away from the kids today because they weren't following directions. Mob scene. Kids were screaming at me. Yelling obscenities. And there was an idle threat from Siani: "I hope someone pushes you down the stairs and breaks your neck." Considering that Siani was put in jail last year for assaulting a teacher, I decided to take her threat seriously. She is now suspended for three days. I'm not totally sure that's what is best for Siani, but there had to be a consequence. As for what to do with the other children that yelled less horrible things... I have no idea. I was just grateful to make it through the period with no laptops thrown and my neck still intact.

a bright spot

Bad week. Really bad week.

I confiscated a pretty sweet note yesterday, though. (And I don't mean cool sweet. I mean darling sweet). May Standford's love be immortalized through my never-ending blog.

---------------------------------------

I've been building up the courage to tell you this for the last two years. The first time I seen you I was skeptical. I aint know if I was feelin you or if you was just another girl. I've tried so hard to impress, but I know you like me just the way I was. You are the most beautiful thing since God made light, your funny, and your a genus. (lol) I just want to have a really close relationship with you. Just take some time to think about it. Don't just randomly pick your choice. Think about it.

do you wanna be my girl?

Yes-No

Comments:

___________________

Darling, right? This boy is in earnest. Zabada better make a good choice.

Indiya

Indiya sidled up to me in the schoolyard same as always today. I put my arm around her and we stood there not saying much. This has become our daily routine. (Sometimes twice daily routine). We stand there, her arm around my waist and mine around her shoulders. She's a snuggler. I am, too, so it works out.

As we stand there today she says, "You were in my dream last night, Ms. Linton."

I laugh. "Really? What was I doing?"

"I don't know. You were my mom or something."

We continue to stand and I pretend to watch the boys playing basketball. My eyes are mostly glazed over, though, and I am thinking about Indiya's dream and her blue puffy coat molded into my side. I squeeze her arm and she squeezes my waist, dropping her head so that it rests on my shoulder. 

Pretty good Monday.

3rd floor emergencies

 Thursday afternoons the middle school team has a grade group meeting. At this time, all of the 7th and 8th grade students are hypothetically in the classroom with various specialist teachers; but that never happens. Kids run in and out of the classrooms. Things are thrown. It's loud. So while worried, we were not surprised when our meeting was interrupted by the secretary bursting in and blurting out, "There's an emergency on the 3rd floor." Up we went (my co-teachers, the nurse, the counselor and I). Savaughn and a number of other 8th grade boys had jumped Khalil, one of my 7th graders. When I turned the corner, all of my homeroom was in the hallway, lounging like adults on vacation. That pissed me off. They know my angry face now. All I had to do was look at them and they scampered into the room-- adults no more. Khalil had been whisked away to the nurse's office. When I finally made it downstairs to him, my annoyance and anger had leveled off. 

Then I saw his face, both eyes swollen shut. A goose egg already on his forehead. I learned that one of my girls had thrown salt into his eyes. I wanted to run right back up those stairs and grab each of those good-for-nothings by the scruff of their neck. Instead I passed Khalil tissues; fuming as I listened. 

While I sat with him I thought of the boys who had done it. Their histories and situations. One boy's father is abusive and his mother won't leave him. She is frequently admitted to the hospital for panic attacks and has divulged such unsolicited information to me over the phone. The exposure that he has to violence, as well as the frustration he must feel at home softened me a bit. 

The thing is, if I can't be mad at the boys who did it, towards whom/what do I direct my anger? Some system that oppresses my boys and plunges them into this vicious cycle? Only that's not gratifying at all. I can't grab a system by the scruff of the neck and tell it I'm disappointed. 

So, then, I join the ranks of people in the neighborhood that have displaced anger and are looking for outlets. 

Only I get to leave the neighborhood at the end of the day. I get to go home and pick Amber up at the airport. We're going to New York this weekend. We'll get lattes and walk off all of my aggression. We'll talk and pray and I'll rest so that I find respite. 

I am thankful for that, but worry about those who don't get a break. Who can't step back and decompress with a friend and a latte. Please pray for them. Pray for an end to violence in Southwest Philly. Pray for an end to the systems that oppress my students and feed their anger. 

C-U-P-C-A-K-E S-T-U-P-O-R

Today my after school club met for the second time. "The spellsters" (lame name, i know. But could there be a cool name for a spelling club? --> suggestions welcome)

I flipped when I saw that I had 27 kids signed up for the club-- ranging from kindergarten to 8th grade. Yikes. How do you engage that kind of age range? Serious center work would have to be involved. And what kind of words can kindergartners spell anyways? Do they even know the alphabet? I decided to wing it this week; assess the situation and then go from there.

Thankfully, only 10 showed up today. 3 kindergartners, 3 1st graders, a 3rd grader, and a 5th grader.  Between my cupcake-lunch and exhausting day, I was fighting the effects of a serious sugar crash. In said stupor I tried to decipher the names of two 1st graders, Amadu Jalloh and Bailor Jalloh. That took about 5 minutes because of their thick (albeit adorable) accents. I then turned to their kindergarten cousin: "And what's your name, dear?"

"[indecipherable cuteness]"

"Can you spell it for me, please?" [dry erase marker rapidly drying out]

He stares at me blankly and Bailor chimes in: "Oh no, I'll spell it for you. He doesn't know how to spell his name."

I laugh out loud. Of course he doesn't.

in the bag?

Today I was armed with some new ideas for my lesson: I would give some space for student voices by letting them uncover the meanings of vocabulary words through context clues rather than just telling them myself. We would share our ideas and agree on a class definition. Cool, right? Also, I prepared a mystery bag for each class as a way to introduce our new stories. The kids would pull out items from the bags and make predictions, connections, etc. Cool, right?

I felt good about the efforts I had made to mix it up. My planning was strong; every minute was full. 

And the day still didn't go well. 3 kids in 303 would not stop talking. I tried to send them to the accommodation room. They refused. So I called for security. He didn't come. So the kids stayed in my room talking. Tonight I should be thinking through solutions for next time. "What could I have done to redirect Savaughn?" "What consequences will Maya take seriously?" Grr... I confess my unwillingness. This resiliency bit is exhausting. 

still got it, baby!

Two summers ago i had one major concern about teaching in the rough and tumble of the Philadelphia school system: I didn't want to lose my "soft edges."

_ _ _ _ _

Today there were three fights in my classroom. Three. Every class had one. So I called security three times today. And three times I gave a stern lecture about fighting in the classroom (I sing a similar song after every fight... though no one seems to be moved) 

I don't try to break up the 8th grade fights. Most of the 7th graders are still small enough that I have a height advantage. For example, last week I dragged Rashan out of the classroom by his leg. But the 8th graders are either too big for me, or too vicious. So I steer clear and try to direct one of my other students to "Get Antoine!" or "Grab Anthony and walk him down to the office!" Of course, none of the boys hear me because their adrenaline is pound, pound, pounding away in their ears and fists. 

After fight #2 today, I launched into my lecture. Students were mostly silent as I explained consequences and why I was disappointed. Then the criticism came.

Kyhleil to me: You didn't even try to break it up! You just stood there!

Me: Kyhleil, would you encourage your mother to get in the middle of a fight?

[Kyhleil considers my question]

Allure: Ms. Linton isn't going to get in the middle, y'all. She's too... soft.

_ _ _ _ _

I was a little insulted. (Why?) I think because I knew she meant it as an insult. I have decided not to take it as one, though. For now I'll take it as a point of pride (or the grace of God) that my "soft edges" have not been entirely roughed up by the fists of Harrity. 

ass me no questions, i'll tell you no lies

Probably the worst week yet. And I think that was mostly because of one particular group of students: Homeroom 304. [lightning strikes, terrifying music plays] They come to me from 12:06 - 1:36. They come armed with attitude and full bladders and paper balls. Their mantra? "We don't give a f***" And in all my resolve to enforce a no-cursing policy in my classroom, I let the whole day go to hell in a hand basket on Thursday with one slip of the tongue: "Hakim! Sit your ass down!"

Yikes. The crowd went wild. And I stood there, exhausted, thinking that I was done trying. That I couldn't possibly feign control for the remaining 25 minutes of the class. 

But here's my problem with 304. (and every other group of kids at some point in the year). I give them too much power. Which is a funny way to put it considering that empowerment might be one thing that this teaching-gig is all about. But they are just kids. They deal with a lot of adult problems, unfortunately. But mostly they are 13. 

Yesterday was better with 304. I didn't yell any expletives at a child. I smiled a few times. We finished our story, "Flowers for Algernon." (tragic science fiction) And Hakim doesn't seem to be holding a grudge, which I think is very big of him. 

Conclusions?

It has been ten days since I last wrote. (That sentence sounds a whole lot like, "It has been ten days since my last confession." Either one will do)

Nothing too exciting has happened in the meantime. I did, however, conduct an apple tasting in my classroom. We tried Gala, Braeburn, Pink Lady, and  Honeycrisp apples. Conclusions? While Pink Lady is definitely the classiest apple, Honeycrisp is the best tasting. Landslide vote. 

Energy levels were high at the apple tasting. Times like those I'm reminded that my students are children. I am getting really good at giving clear, measurable directions. You would probably throw yourself out of the window if you had to sit through one of my classes:

"I need everyone to clear their desk. Silently! Good, Jessica. Good, Brittany. Totally bare. Justin's got it. Hold your questions. This is not a good time to ask me questions. Good, Donyetta. Almost everyone has followed my instructions. I'm waiting for 3 people to clear their desks. If you are talking, you are not following my directions."

blah, blah, blah. Ad infinitum. Middle school is a strange animal. This year I am a control freak and I think it is a good thing... but if I stay in teaching I don't think I will always run my classroom this way. I am convinced that somewhere in the 3-5 year mark a teacher really finds his/her stride. I'm just doing what I need to do to keep my sanity and the kids in their seats. Okay. Not totally true. That was last year.

This year I am doing what I need to do to keep my sanity and the kids' mouths closed. Baby steps.

love, sex and magic

I asked students in their homework last night to decide on a theme song for themselves. (I introduced theme today, so it provided a nice intro). As we went over the various questions this morning, Tybey volunteered what he thought my theme song might be: 

"Oh yeah? What do you think?" [bracing myself]

[impish grin from Tybey] "Love, sex and magic."

After a little research I have decided that was a totally inappropriate answer.

But in the moment I simply responded to Tybey's suggestion by announcing my actual theme song, "Bad to the Bone." Kids were unfamiliar so I was urged to "sing it!" 

So I did. Every last word. Jamal knew the beat and the guitar part so he filled in all the background noises and it was a regular stage show. Not one kid talked during my performance. I have since considered doing all my lessons in song. 

Sweet and Cold

This morning I woke up and sat outside at The Bean Exchange with my journal and a cup of coffee. And I went to Headhouse Market-- which boasts the most breathtaking display of locally grown organic produce in the entire Northeast. They must have a coach; some sort of expert that trains them how to arrange those tomatoes and kale. I bought two plums because I recently read a poem about plums titled "this is just to say:"

I have eaten 

the plums

that were in

the icebox

and which 

you were probably

saving 

for breakfast

Forgive me

they were delicious

so sweet

and so cold.

I am using the poem to teach imagery. I ate one of my plums on the way home and was not disappointed; it was both sweet and cold. 

All the city's pretty surprises this morning serve as a stark contrast to my gloomy week. On Thursday Donte kicked a chair again and again into one of my special needs students who had fallen on the floor. I lost it. Trembling, I yelled, "Get out of my room! I am disgusted by your actions! You are not welcome in here!" All day I fumed and cried over the inhumanity of humanity. Since then, God has moved my heart towards mercy. I wonder at what kind of past experiences motivates a child to act in such a way.

All the ugliness of the week included, today is still beautiful. And I am glad for it. Here is a picture of the market I took last year. It's the same today, except for the melons. 

 

Big, fat question marks

Today was not a good day. I think it started on Sunday when I tried 15 phone numbers and only 1 worked. Which means that 14 kids thought I didn't follow through on my consequences. Then today I had to administer a diagnostic to determine the kids' reading levels. The 7th graders were dolls, of course. The 8th graders were terrors. It felt a whole lot like last year and mostly I felt really stuck. Like, what kind of strength and creativity will it take to bend the wills of 70 adolescents? Maybe not their wills, but their desires, their routines.... 

I feel the judgment from the other grade teachers as my noisy groups pass their perfectly straight, silent lines in the hallways. They are so hoity-toity. Little kids are so easy. 

And Mr. Ashe marked up my lesson plans with red ink and big, fat question marks. 

The pressure gets my shoulders tight and I find that I go ballistic in the classroom over the smallest things. The kids don't respond well (I don't blame them) and then it's a power struggle and mostly a lose-lose situation. Boo. 

Both Guns Blazing

Week 1 is officially over. All the joys associated with the school year are coming back to me: the relief when the kids run out of the school on Friday, the satisfying taste of beer at happy hour, the uninterrupted journaling and coffee on Saturday morning. It's the little things, you know?

I am going to take an optimistic leap and say that the year is off to a pretty good start. The new administration isn't cutting corners and I think that's awesome and essential to having a functional school environment. The kids notice that things are different this year; not only in the school at large, but also in my classroom. Thursday I made some 8th graders stay in from recess and walk up and down the stairs in lines until they got it right. Isaiah, furious that he had missed recess two days in a row, spat venomously, "Georgia changed you!" I grinned. He didn't mean it as a compliment, but that's how I took it.

I guess I've turned the whole compliment system on its head. These are the comments that make me blush these days: "This class is BORING!," "Mr. Yaster, can we come be in your line? Ms. Linton is irkin'!" "Ugh! Why are you giving us work? I hate this class!"

Being a hard ass is exhausting, though. Come noon on Friday I was spent; I started getting sloppy in my classroom management and have been a little anxious about it since. I hope I didn't undo everything. Can't sweat it now, I guess. Just got to go in Monday with both guns blazing.

On a lighter note, here are my favorite responses that I got on a survey this week:

Some things you particularly value or cherish: My aunt's neckelness and ring

Something that bothers you (a question, a mystery, a problem): If you keep me in for recess. (that was Isaiah's)

Some unusual or interesting things you have seen: A raccoon got hit by a car and his family pulled him out the street. (which I think really is unusual, don't you? I love that he wrote that. What a sweet boy.)

Something you daydream about: is being a ninja

Some things that you oppose or reject: The thing that I reject is fresh little girls.

glowing and growing

I treated my roommate, Sara, to water ice today. ("water ice" is the yankee way of saying "italian ice") We both got the cantalope flavor and I found it to be just the ticket for my parched throat. As it turns out, talking in teacher-voice for 5+ hours will wear a girl down. My chords are out of practice.

I am exhausted and don't feel at all like typing this post. It just so happens, however, that I need some practice on consistency and follow-through. So, as we say in middle school English classes, two glows and a grow:

Glows

1.) Nasir remembers my birthday

2.) Michael and Girl (whose name escapes me) asked to borrow a book from my classroom library today. On their own volition!

Grow

1.) 8th graders MUST be silent when I talk. (and no more calling me, "Katie")

Ok. That's two grows. Whoops.

Bee Optimistic

T- 3 days until Year Two is officially underway. Mr. Ashe, Harrity's new principal, likes to say that we are "going live" on Tuesday. Which communicates a sufficient amount of anxiety and build-up to be appropriate, I think.

This past week we had "professional development" at Harrity every morning. The afternoons were spent in our classrooms cutting and pasting and vacuuming rat doo-doo, etc.  I spotted a perfect display bookshelf in a corner of the science lab. I wanted it. The only obstacle to satiating my desire was the PILES (literally) of rat excrement covering every last square of inch of the beautiful wood. I flipped it over and swept it out and took paper towels into the nooks and crannies. And then pushed the squeak-squeaking thing all the way to my room. I knew that my mutation as a teacher-scavenger was complete.

I have included pictures of my classroom in this post for your viewing pleasure. (Display bookshelf included). I feel really good about it. I think it really came together considering that most of the stuff in there was begged, borrowed or stolen. When school started last year I had my rules posted and some background on a bulletin board. So I'm pretty much feeling like a bad ass right now.

Mr. Ashe has officially given me permission to organize a school-wide spelling bee this year. I am SO excited. I plan on showing "Akeelah and the Bee" to generate some enthusiasm. I've already begun assembling a bee costume, too. I'm sure I'll need it. 

All in all, I am really optimistic about this year. Such feelings are strange -- foreign. On Tuesday another teacher asked me if I was high. I guess my optimism shows.  

death to oblivion!

I suppose that waiting half a year to update my blog is a strong enough reason for people to just stop checking it. That said, I am fully aware that I am typing only to myself this August afternoon. I thought I would post something to get the ball rolling again instead of waiting for the "perfect" opportunity. So I will write quickly and I will only reread it once. Maybe I can start a habit so that another year of teaching and experience does not disappear into oblivion.

"An exercise in humiliation" is what I have taken to calling my first year teaching. Journaling was sparse, too; not just blogging. I think that at the end of the day my brain shut down and for healthy(?)  reasons refused to remember the trauma. This year will be different. This year will be better. 

So for another, better year at Harrity Elementary... for fostering a life outside of teaching that includes reflection... and for, er, blogging. !

Breaking the Bank

Yesterday I was a co-teacher. Today I am a cart teacher. 

At 10:30 this morning I wheeled out of room 301 (my homeroom) to begin a dizzying all-day rotation to each 7th grade classroom. I returned to my little angels at 2:00, ready to put in one last hour of PSSA test-prep before we called it a day. I yelled for a full hour. Half of the class thought their conversations more important than my lesson and were evidently unintimidated by my consequences. Halfway through the hour I notice a small sticky-note attached to my worn leather shoe. I recognized it as one of my own precious sticky notes I had purchased the week before. Fearing the worst (knowing it to be true), I strode to my desk drawer and discovered my stack of sticky-notes was gone. vamoose! stolen. No one confessed. No one snitched. Which isn't what I wanted. I wanted them all to feel rotten. And to feel sorry for me. I wanted them all to run home and break their piggy banks to buy me a new pad of post-its. "We are family!" I touted. "When I am not in our house I expect you to protect my things, not steal from me!" Then I tripped over the projector cord and knew it was a bad day.