I could tell lots of stories of immigrants and refugees that I have taught over the past few years. I could tell about kids whose only idea of school is a 30 minute lesson under a tree as the sun scorches them. I could tell about families who gave up their prospering careers as doctors and lawyers so that their kids could go to a school that does not close every few days due to violence or political tensions. I could tell about teens who came here--sometimes alone--with nothing but the clothes on their backs. Instead, I'm going to tell the story of an immigrant who is near and dear to my heart--not a student, but my husband.
While his story is not nearly as heart-wrenching or difficult as the others that I mentioned, it does show what kind of journey an immigrant undergoes--and how each step in the journey brings them closer to their goals. The story begins seven years ago in San Cristobal de Las Casas, Chiapas, Mexico, where we met and married. Step one on the journey: apply for a visa. After paying about $2,000 (our earnings from the past 6 months of working in Mexico!) and submitting all of the necessary paperwork, we were ready for the visa interview appointment. We spent about $1,000 more on airfare to Cuidad Juarez, a city on the complete opposite side of the map from San Cristobal and one of the most dangerous cities in the world. In fact, as we were looking for a hotel shortly after arriving, a woman pulled up to the sidewalk, said it wasn't safe for us to be walking around, and offered us lodging at her home for much cheaper than the hotels. We accepted, not knowing what else to do. Two days later, as I was walking to meet Jose Luis after his appointment, I witnessed a drive-by shooting just feet from where I was standing. That's right: a real life, drive-by shooting. As it turned out, the visa was delayed and we had to stay in this dreadful city for the rest of the week--spending much more money than anticipated on lodging, food, and the change in flights. It was all worth it, though, when Jose Luis finally held the visa in his hands. Step one on the journey complete.
Step two: look for work and a place to live in the U.S. In the span of one week, we bought a car, moved from Georgia to Tennessee, stayed in a dump motel, and finally managed to find a one-bedroom apartment within a reasonable price range--all while I greeted and planned for my first set of students in the U.S. Jose Luis, poor thing, was forced to pass the time while I worked by watching my crazy collection of chic flics and trying to study English. Needless to say, our checking account was depleted. After working a couple of months and catching up on rent, we had to pay $1,000 in immigration fees once again in order for Jose Luis to apply for his permanent residency. And again, we found ourselves broke while making 11 p.m. visits to Kinko's to send more documents, more photos. Finally, 4 months later, we received confirmation that our application was approved and that he was now authorized to work. But, in order to get a driver's license he had to show a social security card, and in order to get a social security card he had to have worked for at least 2 months. So, I drove us to church, to the mall, and even to his new place of employment, even though his macho Mexican pride couldn't bear to be seen in the passenger side.
Once again we found ourselves submitting application after application. We tried to apply for jobs in person, but they always told us he would have to do it online. We tried to do it online, but the websites never let us advance past the parts that asked "Are you a United States citizen?" or "social Security number" (not "are you authorized to work in the United States"). Are you starting to see how messed up the system is? Just when we had given up hope, he received a call for his first interview. His English was still so limited that he used the Spanish/English translator I had given him during the interview. Luckily he received another call a few days later asking when he could start. So in a matter of months he went from teaching physical education classes at a university and making decent earnings by Mexico standards to flipping burgers and making minimum wage. After being cooped up by himself all day in a cramped apartment for the past five months, though, he was happy to take whatever he could get. Step two in the process complete.
Step three: buy a house. Over the next couple of years we settled into a rhythm and learned to be content with our jobs--even though deep down we were both hoping for something better. We became curious about a program designed to help first time homebuyers and thought, why not try it? Unfortunately, since Jose Luis had no credit history, we didn't qualify. So, we bought some new furniture in his name and paid it off quickly--and little by little something strange happened; Jose Luis started to receive mail for the first time that wasn't from USCIS or family members, but from actual credit card companies. Against our better judgment, he applied for a credit card--feeling like we had no choice if we were ever going to own our own place. About the same time, we learned that we were expecting our first child and debated whether to stay in the small, noisy apartment or seek a more comfortable space. We took a chance and talked to our realtor--and this time he gave us good news! More paperwork, more applications, more fees, but we closed on our first house just two months before baby Susana was born. Step three in the process complete.
Jose Luis was now working the third shift at Steak 'N Shake, which meant that we rarely saw each other. One of his managers left to work for Vanderbilt University Dining and recommended Jose Luis for a cook job. He was interviewed just a few days before Susana was born, and when I called and interrupted his work at Steak 'N Shake at 5:30 a.m. to tell him that my water just broke, he basically told his coworkers that he would not be back.
Step four in the process: get a job teaching Spanish. Jose Luis came to love his job at Vanderbilt, in spite of the fact that he received a "temporary lay off" for three months every summer. But he felt a little strange about not utilizing the degrees he had worked so hard for in Mexico. Not long after moving to Tennessee, we started to investigate what Jose Luis would need to do to become a certified teacher in the U.S. The Tennessee Department of Education informed us of a company that could translate and evaluate his documents from Mexico, as long as they were originals. Since his two universities from Mexico refused to mail the original transcripts and had a policy that only he could pick them up, not a family member, our first trip back to Mexico, in summer 2009, included a stop at his two universities--one of which was 14 hours away by overnight bus ride. Did I mention that we also had to pay 500 something dollars for this service?
So we got everything translated and certified. But of course it couldn't be that easy. Now Jose Luis would have to pass 3 praxis tests before he could begin teaching: the Principles of Teaching and Learning, which consists of 3 essays and is so difficult that even many American students fail it the first time, the Physical Education test, and last but not least, Spanish. (By the way, the tests are also very expensive.) Although he put a great deal of time into preparing for the first two tests, his English was still not at the level necessary to write long, fluent essays, and he was devastated by the results. He was so crushed, in fact, that it was almost 5 years later before he worked up the determination to take the tests again. This time his English was much better, he received extra time, and he changed his method of studying. Unfortunately, he still came up short--failing to pass by only 1 measly point.
At the same time, he was growing more and more used to his job at Vanderbilt and received constant praise from both managers and coworkers. Just when he finally made up his mind to give up on teaching and even applied for a position as a higher level cook, he received a message that changed everything. It all started around the beginning of January. A friend he had met on a mission trip, who has been teaching Spanish at Greenbrier High School in Robertson County for many years, told him that one Spanish teacher had already left and that another one would be leaving in March. At first we were leary of spending several hours going through the application process again and didn't want to risk the disappointment of a rejection. But one lesson we have learned from all of these experiences is, you never know what might happen if you don't try.
After several phone calls, emails, and visits back and forth between Jose Luis and the human resources office, he was finally asked to come in for a job interview. The interview was much more difficult than he anticipated, and he thought for sure he bombed it. So he was more surprised than ever when he was offered the job. He has been teaching for one week now, and he is full of the energy and passion of an excited new teacher. I'm overjoyed too, because for the first time since we moved here he is working a normal schedule and able to spend much more time with us at home--just in time for the new baby's arrival. Step four in the process: complete.
We have not arrived at all of the steps on our journey, and it may be a long time before we do. But we have persevered, and each step has brought us closer to the next. Our lives are extremely hectic (some days we have to depend on caffeine just to make it through), and we may not have the fanciest house or the biggest cars. But we are blessed by so much more than material things; we have the love and support of an amazing family, a God who does not fail us, and so much more than what we deserve. We especially need to remember how much more we have now than what we started with. Of course, it would not have been possible without many who helped us along the way, from giving us things, to assisting with applications, to recommending us for jobs. More than anything, God answered our prayers and opened doors of opportunity for us, as I'm sure He will continue to do as long as we keep our focus on Him. I have also learned so much from Jose Luis's humility, patience, and positive attitude through it all. No matter what your view on immigration is, I hope you can appreciate how difficult the journey is for many immigrants. In spite of the constant challenges they face, they do not give up and often work harder than many others to reach their goals--and ultimately reach a greater level of happiness because of it.
Monday, March 14, 2016
Friday, October 2, 2015
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.
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.
Thursday, September 24, 2015
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.
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.
Monday, June 1, 2015
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.
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.
Thursday, May 28, 2015
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 ; )
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 ; )
Monday, April 6, 2015
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!"
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!"
Friday, April 3, 2015
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.
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