Emotional Baggage

Since the beginning of last year, I have been trying to get one of my students, Mark, tested for special education.   Today we finally had the initial S-team meeting.  It was one of the most difficult, heart-wrenching meetings I've ever sat through.  After Mark's other teacher and I explained to his mom about the peculiar behaviors we have noticed in class, she confirmed that he acts similarly at home.  She then told us that he has acted this way ever since his father was deported two years ago.  Now he is afraid of everything and doesn't ever want to be alone.  He is so afraid, in fact, that he has to leave the door open anytime he goes to the bathroom, and his younger brother has to help him take a bath (and much more).  In addition to the emotional disturbances and anxiety, he most likely has a learning disability and speech disorder, as well. 

I realized how much one event can alter a student's development.  Mark was probably a good student in kindergarten and first grade, but as soon as his dad was forced to leave the country, everything changed.  He may have been very close to his dad, and now he suddenly lost all communication with him and could not even look at a picture of him without crying.  His mother recovered more easily, quickly removing any reminder of her husband from the house and moving in with another boyfriend--adding even more emotional baggage for an already damaged young boy.  On the other hand, his mom feels guilty that she can't take better care of Mark and that she has to spend so much time at work. 

There are hundreds of students dealing daily with family drama, loss, separation, abuse, hunger, divorce, and a plethora of other problems that we as teachers are sometimes not even aware of.  In a classroom they look the same as the other students--working sometimes, playing sometimes, talking to friends, complaining about every little thing.  But deep down they may be hiding a secret.  Even though I suspected almost as soon as I started teaching Mark that he had learning disability, I never knew the full story until today.  Now that I know, I don't think I'll get frustrated when he stares off into space during class, makes no effort to complete his work, or interrupts others.  Instead, I'll go out of my way to make sure he understands what to do and that he can make friends more easily.  While I've always given him extra help, now he will get more than just academic support--he will get emotional support. Many times the students who bother us the most, whether it be the class clown, the lazy complainer, or the bully are the ones who need the most love.  Sometimes it takes opening up to a parent and listening as they describe how helpless they feel to remember how much.

A New Challenge

Two days ago, my supervisor of the past three years dropped in for an unannounced observation.  Instantly I felt nervous.  My worries quickly washed away, however, when she sent me a message explaining how much she loved my class and all the positive things she noticed.  So, why did I still feel defeated the rest of the day?  Why did I still feel like, in spite of her praise, everything I was doing was still not good enough?

It's because every day when I go to my guided reading table to meet with small groups of students, there's always one set of eyes looking as hopeless as a fish out of water, one voice shouting, "I can't do this!"--before I've even had a chance to explain what he's going to do.  For the most part, I have excellent students this year--bright, eager, and well-behaved.  But these pleading eyes and voices haunt me even in times of celebration. 

The class she observed is the one I feel the least comfortable about because for the first time in my almost ten years of teaching, I have a group of first graders--not to mention six second graders who didn't learn what they should have last year.  First grade is such a pivotal year because it's when kids learn more than any other time how to read and write.  At first, I was excited about all the progress I would see and was up for the challenge.  Now, eight weeks later, I have a newfound respect for kindergarten and first grade teachers. 

I never realized how difficult it is to teach a student how to read and write. Sure, I've worked with students who had no literacy before, but that was different.  Those kids were already in high school or middle school, so they had to learn fast in order to pass their classes and graduate.  Many of them also knew their first language well enough that the skills we learned in English could easily transfer over.  But these first and second graders have no concept of putting letters together to make words--in any language!  They can read the sound cards without skipping a beat, but when it comes time to actually using those sounds to read the words on a page, they freeze up, waiting for someone else to say it first.

There are small victories, but for the most part I feel like the students are not progressing fast enough--certainly not at the rate I had expected at the beginning of the year.  Today was particularly difficult. I was listening to a boy read a level A book (the lowest level possible).  Even though he tested accurately at this level a few weeks ago, the only words he could read on his own were the and to.  For the rest of the time we struggled through it, with him calling out words that looked nothing like the ones on the page and me pleading with him to "look at the picture" and "sound it out", all the while trying to still my urge to just say the word for him.  By the time he finally finished, the boy next to him had read three books on his own, and it was time to go.  Certainly no time left to explain to him what I mean when I say "sound it out" or teach him some of the many words he didn't know.

During the same class, the students were practicing the words that will be on their spelling test tomorrow on white boards.  They are in second grade, so I started out giving them second grade words--and most of them failed miserably.  So, I changed to a list from mid-first grade.   Now these words are too easy for them--except one student.  While the boys next to him effortlessly wrote the words, this boy just stared at me, as if waiting for  me to write the words for him.  I emphasized the sounds one at a time--"ttttttt---eeeeee----nnnnn".  Occasionally he would exclaim "oh!" while a flicker of recognition flashed over his face, and write l...or b...or any number of other letters that had nothing to do with the sound I was making.  When I changed my approach and started asking, "which letter makes the tttttt sound?", he still had no clue--even though he knows all of the letter sounds like the back of his hand.

When I was training for the marathon several years ago, everyone kept telling me, "get ready for the 'wall' at mile 20."  I feel like I've come to a wall in teaching these kids.  I've done everything I know how to do, yet they still seem to be stuck.  Every step forward seems to bring two steps backward, and every new word they encounter in a book is like a hurdle they have to jump.    I will keep looking to my fellow teachers for wisdom and inspiration, and to God for patience and understanding.  Let's hope that the next time I write I can talk about all the great gains they made instead of all the frustrations I feel. 

Another Day Done

     My sixth year of teaching has officially come to an end.  Each year I become more emotional on the last day of school, but for different reasons.  In my first couple of years, I would literally jump for joy when all of my students had left the building, perfectly fine never to see them again.  This year, as I made the dreaded yet inevitable farewells, I was on the verge of tears.  Instead of feeling happy not to see my students again, I felt sadness that I wouldn't see them again.
     As I learn more about teaching, I learn more about my students.  As I learn more about my students, I learn to look for the good in each of them rather than focusing on the bad. 
Additionally, I have learned not to take my job for granted.  I have come a long way in six years, from an intern hired only to cover a teacher on maternity leave, to working my butt off so that as an intern teacher I would still be noticed, to waiting in limbo my entire summer vacation to find out if I would be rehired, to finally receiving word that I was rehired only to be let go the next year due to reasons beyond my control, to going through the reapplication process, to becoming an itinerant (aka traveling) teacher, to working at three different schools in three different years.  Additionally, I have taught in storage rooms, closets, hallways, and one half of a portable--rarely in an actual classroom.  Finally I have arrived at what I consider the best place in my career so far--an elementary school where I teach several groups of EL students in a portable all my own--although I have also learned not to get my hopes up, because it could change at any time.
     It's difficult to check any kind of social media without finding some king of whining or complaining by a teacher; "only 2 weeks until summer!"; "I hope we get a snow day tomorrow!"; "we really don't get enough pay!"; "our job is so hard!"  While I share these sentiments wholeheartedly and understand the mountain of emotions that precede them, I also feel like many people read these messages and get the wrong idea about teachers.  Just as I have learned to do with my students, through several years of trial and error, I think teachers need to focus more on the positive aspects of their jobs rather than giving the impression that they can't wait to get away from school every day. 
    One of my brothers-in-law is an elementary school teacher in Mexico, and last year I had the privilege of visiting his classroom.   His students come from families whose diets consist primarily of rice, beans, and tortillas.  Many of their father's have left to find work in the United States, and many are lucky to arrive at school at all, much less bring any kind of uniform or school supplies with them.  Yet my brother-in-law teaches with joy and compassion, rarely complaining about the difficult working conditions.  Last year schools all over his state completely closed down for three months while the teachers protested new legislation.  During this time, they received no pay and were forced to do some things against their will, such as march in the streets or even block roadways.  My brother-in-law and I may not agree on all of the issues, but there are two things that we do agree on:  1.  teachers should not be forced to  join the union or do anything else that they don't agree with, and 2.  the ones who suffer the most from these demonstrations are the students.  After so much time on strike, the teachers and government never reached an agreement, and students never had to make up the instructional time that they lost.  That's right:  the students will never get back three months' worth of their education.  Now, a year later, they are on strike again, and students are likely to miss two months' worth of their education.  Again. And still my brother-in-law does not complain; and I'm sure there are hundreds of teachers just like him all over Mexico and other countries, as well.  But in the United States, teachers (myself included!) are making such a fuss about one missed snow day.
     So, what's the point?  Like I said before, I am trying to find more reasons to love my job every day, whether it be the unique characteristics each of my students bring (even the trouble makers), the drawer that is always full of pencils, or the new technology that is constantly being offered to teachers and students.  Sure, the evaluation system is still "a work in progress," and our state leaders may have no clue what it truly means to be an educator, but at least I'm not being forced to stop teaching and march in the streets.  My students may not have all of the resources that students in so-and-so's room may have, but they have everything and more that they need to be successful.   I want to remember that even though I may bring my work home with me every night and feel stressed to the max and on top of everything else attend meeting after meeting, at least I have a job and a paycheck.   I want to truly appreciate the vacation time and days off that we do get rather than lamenting the fact that it was too short.  Most of all, I want to value each day not as another day done, but as another day that my students were able to learn and grow.

An Unexpected Letter

     Ah, teacher's appreciation week.  A time for some lucky teachers to be showered with flowers and gifts, extravagant catered meals, and even a relaxing massage.  For some other teachers, like me, it feels just like  a normal week.  My students' parents don't even have a clue what week it is, and much less can they afford to buy anything.  So, when I checked my mailbox a few weeks ago and found a letter saying "happy teacher's appreciation week,"  I was as surprised as a rooster in the city.  The letter was from one of my former students.  The student (whom we will call Sandra) mentioned that I was her favorite teacher and that she couldn't understand why I had to leave the school (which we will call Grover), among many other thoughtful sentiments. 
     My first reaction?  I cried; just like any blown-away teacher would do.  My second reaction?  Total disbelief.  In order to understand why I found the letter so hard to believe, you need to know what kind of student Sandra was.  If you think she was your typical brown-noser, always wanting to please the teacher and make her cute little cards and pictures, then think again.  Sandra is one of those students who stays in a teacher's memory for many reasons, but not for good ones.  In fact, she was undoubtedly one of the worst students I have ever had.  She was in 5th grade when we first met, but she had the maturity of a 2nd or 3rd grader.  Many times during my teaching she would intentionally interrupt and start singing out loud, crawl under tables, or anything else she could think of to distract me and the other students.  I tried reasoning with her, calling her mom, consulting with her other teachers and changing the way I talked to her, but nothing worked.  Even after her mom told me she was acting this way because I had hurt her feelings, I apologized for whatever I had done, but the tension between us only escalated.  Finally, I had no choice but to write her up for her misbehavior--causing her to miss field day.  If she didn't hate me before that, she especially did after!  Many times these encounters would end with her crying uncontrollably and yelling, "I hate you!"--right to my face.  No, it's not easy for a teacher to forget students like Sandra. 
     Even though all of my other students were great that year, I found it increasingly difficult to simply shake off Sandra's words and actions.  I felt like there was a much bigger issue behind these outbursts, like maybe the fact that her dad was no longer living at home and mom was working around the clock, but blamed myself for not being able to get to the root of the problem.  I even referred her to the school counselor, all to no avail.  Somehow we both got through the first year, although I was so shaken by the end that I couldn't wait to get away from her.   In fact, I wasn't even sure I wanted to go back the next year.  I am not like homeroom teachers who wish their trouble-maker students "good riddance" on the last day of school; as long as I am in the same school,  I often keep the same students, year after year after year.  Instead of throwing in the towel, I used the summer break to reflect and read some books from the library about helping difficult students.  When school started back and Sandra was now in the 6th grade, I cringed at the sight of her name of my roster once again.  On the other hand, I knew I was more prepared for her now than I had been the year before--most of all emotionally.  I could tell right away that Sandra had matured a lot over the summer.  She worked harder to finish her assignments and was more conscientious of her interruptions.  But, anytime she didn't get what she wanted, she would still resort to disrupting the class, crying, and yelling those all too familiar words:  "I hate you!"
     Now maybe you can understand why a simple letter is by far the best teacher's appreciation gift I have ever or will ever receive.  At the end of the letter, Sandra wrote, "I look forward to your response," so I wrote her back.  A few days later, I got an email from her.  She had shared the letter with her other classmates, and now they all wanted to write to me, also.  They are mostly all 8th graders now.  I am so grateful for this unexpected letter I received from Sandra.  I am grateful for the teacher who had the idea for each of her students to write a letter to their favorite teacher and her willingness to look me up and personally mail it to me.  Most of all, I am grateful for this experience with Sandra as a student and all that it taught me (even though at the time it felt more like a nightmare).  I never learned what I said or did to Sandra to make her suddenly change her attitude toward me so drastically, and perhaps I never will.  But I do know that whatever it was, it changed us both for the better.  As to the other part of Sandra's letter, when she said she still couldn't understand why I left Grover, that's a story for another day ; )

Never Give Up

         Like many teachers, my first year was just as much about trial and error and learning from my mistakes as it was about getting to know my many students (I had about 60 total that year).  One rookie mistake I made was waiting until the last possible minute to post my grades for the first quarter.  It's not that I didn't want to do it sooner (I knew all about the importance of providing "timely, efficient feedback" from my graduate classes, after all); I just couldn't find the time with everything else I was trying to take in.  I will never forget the day the progress reports came out and two of my senior girls stormed in demanding to know why they had received an F (another rookie mistake, I know).  The main reason was that they had spent so much of their class time chatting instead of getting their work done, as seniors are prone to do.  After they calmed down and we had a serious discussion, their behavior changed for the better.  The two girls, Kaiya and Amara, had spent most of their childhood living in a Kenyan refugee camp before moving to the US just a few years earlier. Like many refugee students, they had little to no formal schooling and suffered dramatically in reading.  But even though they were not my smartest students, they were definitely the hardest working.  From that day on, anytime they didn't understand something they kindly asked me to explain it to them again.  Anytime the class had to work collaboratively, they automatically took charge of their group, encouraging everyone to stay on task and get their work done.  Anytime they made anything less than a B, they had a conversation with me about what they could do better for the next time.  Anytime they had to write something, they asked me to spell words they weren't sure about or check to make sure the writing was correct.  At the end of the year, I asked my students to write an essay about their experiences traveling to the US, and the most touching of all was Kaiya's.  She truthfully described watching soldiers shoot her pregnant sister-in-law while the family was still living in war-torn Somalia, and the difficulties they faced as they tried to escape to the refugee camp in Kenya.

          Another student from my first year, Mikayla, also stands out to me, but for the opposite reasons as Kaiya and Amara.  To be honest, she was the kind of student that teachers dread seeing on their rosters at the beginning of the year.  A 17-year-old Hispanic infamous for her involvement in gangs, she rarely made an appearance.  When she did miraculously decide to come to class, she could manipulate almost anyone in the class--boys and girls alike--to abandon their classwork for the sake of pointless conversation.  She was also disrespectful, as she would consistently talk to friends when I was in the middle of teaching or giving instructions and then ignore me when I politely asked her to move seats.  It was almost as if she acted this way on purpose just to get under my skin--and get under my skin she did!  But what bothered me the most about Mikayla more than the skipping, the talking, the gang activity, or the disrespect, was the fact that I couldn't get her to do anything.  Zip.  Zilch.  Nada!  The most I ever achieved was for her to write her name at the top of her paper--and even then she didn't turn it in but left it crumpled under the desk for me to find when I cleaned up the classroom later.  An over-achiever who prided myself on getting even the most stubborn of students to participate in and enjoy class activities, it was hard for me not to take this personally.  I'll admit that another mistake I made as a first-year teacher (there were so many, I know!) was to sometimes let my emotions get the best of me rather than staying calm and patient.  On one such occasion, I turned to Mikayla and said, "Why are you even here?  If you're not going to do anything but distract my other students, what's the point?" It may have been true, it may have been necessary, but it felt hurtful and I immediately regretted it.  A few weeks later my words came true, as I learned that Mikayla dropped out of school on the day she turned 18.  My colleague assured me that she had this planned for a long time--even since she was a freshman--but I took her dropping out even more personally than I had her frustrating behaviors.

          In May, I attended graduation and sat with the other teachers for the first time.  Kaiya and Amara smiled from ear to ear as they received their diplomas and proudly walked across the stage--probably the first ones in their families to do so.  I thought about what a great accomplishment this was for them, and how hard they had worked to get here.  Then my thoughts quickly shifted to Mikayla, whose name should have also been mentioned aloud today but wasn't.  I wondered where she was, if she was safe, and if she was working somewhere or just hanging out with her gang buddies all day.  I also wondered if she would ever change her mind and finish her high school education.

          Yes, I made a lot of mistakes in my first year, and I learned a lot.  What I learned from all three of these girls was something I already knew, something all of us have heard over and over again but that sometimes we just need to be reminded of; I learned (or relearned) never to give up.  Kaiya and Amara had seen things little girl should never see, being exposed to war, violence, hunger, and separation from their family.  They were lucky to be alive, so education was probably the last thing on their minds.  Nevertheless, they overcame incredible odds to  speak English, learn to read,take classes that are difficult even for high-achieving Americans, maintain a level of passing in every class, and finally graduate from high school.  I don't know much about Mikayla's past.  Perhaps she, too, faced hunger, abuse, or other such traumas.  The difference is that she did not have anyone to push her and teach her and encourage her.  Though I and her other teachers certainly tried to do these things, she had already given up on herself--perhaps on her whole life.  The next time you are faced with a challenge, remember Kaiya and Amara and their dedication to graduation; remember Mikayla and her lack of effort; and remember these three simple words:  "Never give up!"

Wasp Woes

          Coming from situations where I sometimes had to teach inside a tiny broom closet, or where the principal had to create a classroom for me in a place that was never designed for one, I feel very fortunate that this year I actually have an entire portable. Of course, teaching in a portable is still not ideal, but at least it's a step up from the isolated, damp rooms with no windows. In the fall I battle the constant rain showers, in the winter the snow and ice (especially on the steps leading up to the portable), and in the spring the invasion of wasps; fat, flying wasps that freak my students out as easily as the abominable snowman probably would. Though my fellow portable colleagues and I constantly put in requests for someone to come and spray for the horrendous insects, they always seem to return a few weeks later, each time brining more and more family members with them.

Peppa Pig and Strawberry Shortcake

My 3-year-old daughter is particularly interested in Peppa Pig right now--the little girl pig who lives with her family in a yellow house, goes to school with Rebecca Rabbit and Susy Sheep, and speaks with a British accent. So it didn't surprise me when, as usual, I walked into the kitchen to find her playing with her Peppa Pig house one cold morning. What did surprise me is that Strawberry Shortcake and Minnie Mouse were playing right alongside Peppa, going places together in Strawberry's car, taking naps, watching TV and many other activities that I managed to make out as my daughter imitated the voices of each character. I wish my "big kid" students could have the same attitude as a toddler. I wish they could play together, laugh together, and talk together regardless of their differences--just as my 3-year-old united a strawberry girl, a mouse, and a pig as if it was perfectly normal. Each year I teach my students about Martin Luther King, Jr. because I want them to understand how important it is to treat others with kindness. We spend two to three weeks reading and studying about how MLK used peaceful protests to stand up for the rights of not just African Americans, but all people, and my students eagerly join in conversations about how unfair everything was back then. Yet, by the time the unit is over, I once again find myself asking, "why can't they all just get along?". More than 50 years after Martin's great speech, I, too, have a dream that one day my students can all work together in a spirit of love and unity, without judging or criticizing. Not a day goes by without me having to remind them to "be nice!", "apologize!", or "stop arguing with each other!" I wonder at what point they lose the innate idea that they can play with anyone or talk with anyone, as they did with their toys. I wonder at what point they start to believe that cruel bullying is not only acceptable, but the cool thing to do. The very differences that brought them together as kids now separate them into enemies and strangers as pre-teens. In the meantime, I continue dreaming that maybe one year I will have a group of students who truly do treat each other as friends. Is it just a crazy dream that can never come true? Or will something suddenly change in them to make them see the reality? I hope that once my daughter has outgrown Peppa Pig, Strawberry Shortcake, and other toys, she will still respect others based on their inner qualities rather than their outer ones, and I hope that I can somehow teach my already-desensitized students to do the same.

Someone to Love Them

After missing the last 7 school days due to a terrible ice storm that left back roads frozen and inaccessible, we are finally going back to school tomorrow. I never thought I would say this, but I'm ready to go back! The unexpected time at home has allowed me to spend time with my daughter, clean the house, write, go shopping, and do several other activities that I normally don't have time for. On the other hand, it has once again taught me that I am not cut out to be a stay at home mother, and given me an increasing respect for those who are. Yesterday two of my daughter's friends came to hang out for a while, and by the time they left a few hours later, the house that I had just cleaned suddenly looked like a tornado had passed through. Although I had time to put everything back in order, I lacked the energy, and the desire. Not wanting to be cooped up in the house any longer, I urgently told my daughter, "Put your coat on! We're going to Wal-Mart!" It wasn't just the fact that I was irritated by the mess that I wanted to get away; it was that I missed my routine, my busy lifestyle, and yes, I even missed my students. The same students who drove me to a higher level of annoyance than the two girls who wrecked my living room, day after day after day. The same students who talked when they were supposed to be silent and were silent when they were supposed to talk. The same students who could instantly ruin a well-crafted lesson with the smell of a fart or the sight of an insect. So, why did I miss those hooligans? Why did I miss the same silly behaviors that made me more anxious for the next break than for my weekly dessert? For the same reason that I miss my daughter anytime I am away from her. Because deep down, there's a part of me that loves each of my students as one of my own--even the ones who constantly interrupt, laugh, bully, curse, cheat, or anything else to irritate me. Parents understand that we don't get to choose the qualities our children are born with, but we love them all the same. It doesn't matter if they're a straight A student, a standout athlete, a talented musician or a nobody; the only thing that matters is that they're ours, and we've been honored with the great responsibility of teaching and raising them. Normally those students who annoy me most don't possess any hidden talents, either; they're simply crying out for attention in the only way they know how. All they really want is someone to listen to their quirky questions, laugh at their obnoxious jokes, correct their pesky behaviors; all they really need is someone to love them. Sometimes it just takes me being away from them for a few days to remember how much.

The Ride Home

My music-listening, cell-phone texting, social butterfly of a student surprised me today by asking me to give her a ride. My initial thought was, “No!” Not on Friday afternoon before a three-day weekend, when the sun is shining bright and I was already dreaming of my feet running for the first time in two weeks; not to mention that I had a daughter to pick up, groceries to buy, and clothes to wash. Yet she had the courage to make this request as if I had all the time in the world. But instead of saying no, I found myself instantly saying yes—and instantly regretted it. First, she showed up 15 minutes later than the time I told her we would leave. Next, she had me take her to a post office so that she could pick up her new shoes that she was eagerly waiting to try on; and even asked me to get out of the car and wait in line with her. Then, I found out that she also intended for me to take her home—another twenty minute drive in the opposite direction. A new tank full of gas and several traffic jams later, I finally arrived at the babysitter’s house to pick up my daughter, tired, hungry, and desperately needing a bathroom. But somewhere in the middle of the conversation about the shoes she bought for $80 from Vancouver, Canada that was her first new pair of shoes in more than a year, I realized that I was the one being selfish—not her. An integral part of my Christian responsibility is to let others see Christ living in me in at all times—even when someone asks me to do something that I really don’t want to do. As we drove, she started telling me about how her parents constantly argue, never provide enough food for her, and try to control everything she does. They don’t even let her talk to any of her friends from school for fear that she might turn on them. I imagine that once she gets home in the afternoon, she has very little human interaction until she arrives at school the next day. More than anything, I patiently listened and just let her talk. Great teaching is just as much what happens outside of the classroom as what happens during class time. It’s about so much more than being just a teacher; it’s about being a listener, a caregiver, and sometimes even a mother. It’s about teaching the students valuable life lessons that they can never learn from sitting in the classroom—like how, exactly, to retrieve a package from the post office and sign for it (she really did not know!) Those are the kind of acts that the students will remember more than any classroom lesson. So, I can only hope that one day, several years from now, this student will remember me not as the one who helped her pass a test, but as the one who showed her love and compassion on a day that maybe no one else would have. If she does, then my one day of forfeiting my run and arriving at the house an hour and a half later than anticipated with no groceries and no time to make supper is one small sacrifice that is worth so much more than a typical Friday afternoon.

Music to My Ears

Music to my Ears A few weeks ago, when I picked up my 3-year-old daughter Susana from the babysitter, she did not run up to give me a hug and kiss and declare how much she missed me; instead, she ran the other direction when she saw me coming, then went to hide under a small table where she knew I couldn’t reach her. When I did finally grab her a few minutes later, she was kicking, screaming, hitting, and anything else to show how unhappy she was about leaving her friends and their many exciting toys. It didn’t stop there; once we got in the car, she continued to scream so loudly that even the radio couldn’t tune her out, and even yelled at me to stop the car a few times. By the time we got home, ten minutes later that felt more like thirty minutes, I was crying and couldn’t even look at her without becoming more upset. Blame it on my hormones, blame it on my students, or blame it on the fact that I am a woman and allow my emotions to overrun me sometimes, but whatever the case, I reached a point when I simply did not know what else to do. I had tried every kind of discipline I’d read about and even a few of my own, yet none of them could take away the screaming in my ears—or worse, the pain inside my heart. The next day, I took my third and fourth grade students to the computer lab for a research project. Big mistake. Half of the computers didn’t work, three-fourths of my students didn’t know how to log on to the internet by themselves, and all of them needed me to help them with something in just that moment. Once again I felt the excruciating ringing in my ears (this time in the form of “Mrs. Jimenez! I need help! Mrs. Jimenez! What do I do?”) and the increasing feeling that if the noise didn’t stop soon, I might have to implode. But teaching, like parenting, means loving your students even when they are yelling in your ears. Somehow I finally managed to get around to all of my needy students, help them log on, and get them started on their assignment—all without imploding. In return, they were able to work independently (well, almost), doing something that they loved. For once none of them asked to go to the bathroom, and by the time class ended they couldn’t believe it was time to go already. When we did leave, several of them asked me when we were going to come back and do it again. In order to make music, you have to make noise. You also have to practice, practice, practice, relying on others to help you learn. At the beginning of the class my students made a lot of noise, distracting me, distracting others, but it was necessary for the beautiful melodies they created at the end of the class in the form of their finished research projects. If I had given in to the noise and taken them back to the classroom to do “boring work” like I had threatened, I would have never heard the final sounds. More importantly, my students would have never learned the valuable lesson of sticking with it when something is new, different, or seemingly difficult. Susana’s music that started as screams ended as joyful laughs. A few minutes after we got home, I was sitting on the couch, tired of the crying and screaming and anger. Susana finally noticed how upset I was and came to sit with me. She started tugging at my eyelashes, making me laugh. Before I knew it we were both laughing hysterically, and the meltdown from the previous twenty minutes was soon forgotten. As a mother, I must be firm and discipline my child even when she is doing everything in her power to make me give in. I must also show her love and attention, rejoice when she rejoices, cry when she cries. I must show her through my example that I don’t let temporary moments of insanity change my resolve. As a teacher, I must also be there for my students when they are acting unmotivated, uncooperative, or unreasonable. I must be patient with them when they feel like giving up and teach them how to endure difficult situations. If I do, the end product will always be music to my ears.

Friday, AKA Assessment Day

Friday, aka Assessment Day We made it! It’s Friday, it’s finally Friday! So why do we feel drained instead of energized? If you are like me, you count your days until the weekend, daydreaming of dwaddling in the park, sipping milkshades in the shade, and reading books that have nothing to do with teaching. Then when Friday afternoon finally gets here, we go home…and crash. No energy left to even think about a relaxing soak in the tub, much less a fun night on the town. Today was a typical Friday for me; in other words, hectic, but without a lot of direct instruction. For many of us teachers, Fridays are the days that we assess students for everything learned during the week, and today was no exception. I ran around like a chicken with its head cut off printing and making copies before class. I tried to sound angry and threatening as I warned my students “today is the last day!” to get the work done that they’ve been putting off all week (even though secretly I know I’m not allowed to take off points for late or unfinished work because of the new grading policy). I walked from desk to desk, trying to keep each student on task as each and every one worked on a different assignment. I answered question after question, spelled word after word. I made on-the-spot accommodations for my lower level students and tried to provide effective feedback for my higher level students. I monitored my entire classroom as one-fourth took a test, one-fourth “read” books on the carpet, one-fourth STILL was trying to get their work done, and the last fourth was doing who knows what. I listened intently to my students taking a reading assessment while at the same time scanning the room for potential chaos. I tried to score the reading test objectively and effectively, even though in the background I could hear the student all the way across the room louder than the one who was sitting right in front of me struggling to read the words that were way over his head anyway. I resisted my inside urge to yell “stop the craziness!” and calmly rang my warning bell instead (they were on task and following directions, after all). I finally managed to ignore all the noise and focus only on this one student, only to discover minutes later that another boy had thrown up all over his desk (and test paper) while I was shooing away anyone who tried to interrupt me YET again. I stayed after my students were gone to clean up the disgusting throw up mess, not wanting to get the custodian on my bad side. I ate most of my lunch in the car because my class ended late and I was cleaning up the throw up when it should have been my actual lunch time. And now, when I finally have a chance to do some planning, I take out my laptop and write about my day; which means that tomorrow, I will be scrambling to get my lesson plans done, and Sunday, I will be scrambling to get my grades done. So…why am I so excited that today is Friday? Why do I feel like this day is really any different from any other day? For starters, the boy who gave me lip and attitude at the beginning of class was smiling and talking jokingly by the end. The boy who was at the point of tears because he “didn’t know where to start” came up and gave me a big hug out of the blue. The boy who threw up will (hopefully) remember that I listened patiently when he told me three times that “I’m not sick, I just ate a cookie for snack time that had too much sugar in it.” I’m excited because when I finally get around to grading those papers on Sunday (or the next Sunday), I will see that most of my students do not earn low grades because I took the time to push them through the assignment even when it killed us, and that most of them will pass the test because we took the time to carefully review. And hopefully, by the end of the year, I will see the scores on those cursed reading tests go up…because I was able to block everything out of my mind and let the students act a little crazy for 20 minutes of my day. Fellow teachers, I hope your Friday was as memorable as mine was. Teach on.

Miniscule and Worthless

Miniscule and Worthless A girl killed herself Today Because of bullying. She was only 13. A few hours later, I watched two boys With a strong build Get taken away— Handcuffed. They were also 13. They were selling drugs On the school bus To some younger students— All of them children. Children. Not even old enough to drive. 13. 13 years for their mothers To protect them, Provide for them, And punish them. 13 years for their Teachers to instruct them about Figurative language, ancient civilizations, ratios, and plant cells. And all for what? Because in one moment, 13 years of coddling, pleading, and guiding, Turned into a 13 second mistake When they made a single decision— Alone— Their parents and teachers not there to shout “NO!”— That will forever change their lives; Maybe even haunt them. What will their mothers do now, after those 13 years of parenting wash away in their endless tears? As a teacher, I teach my students How to add, How to read, How to write, How to conduct experiments, And a number of other so called skills that will one day make them successful. But if I don’t teach them how to live their lives: Overcome challenges, Stand up for themselves, Ask for help when they are truly struggling— Then all of the other miniscule facts That I’ve taught them Are just that— Miniscule. Miniscule…and worthless.