School Memories: Decisions, Part Two

Yesterday I set up the context for today's reflection from my time spent teaching. If you didn't see Part One, you really ought to read it first.

When I entered that teaching job, I was able to borrow heavily from other colleagues. Since they had established curriculum, I thought that was the best place to start, and I could tweak as necessary. In my course for seniors, the format had them begin by writing an essay entitled, "What I Wish." I gave them little guidance other than to give me an essay fulfilling that topic. Some students chose to be flippant whereas others approached the topic earnestly. Whatever the tone of the essay, I was able to learn more about my students and gauge their writing strengths and weaknesses. From there, we could delve however deeply into the nuances of formal writing.

Once we reached the end of our semester together and began reading Staggerford together, students were able to connect with the text as Hassler included excerpts from the essays as Miles Pruitt graded them.

However, before that point, I had an opportunity to face a similar crisis as I shared in the excerpt yesterday. One student of mine chose as her topic her broken family. Her wish was that her brother would return home and that he would stop his deception; that she could turn back time and save her brother from being faced with parenthood and supporting his pregnant girlfriend when he had no steady employment.

The girl wrote well, so I wasn't faced with the dilemma of correcting her grammar or style, but I sat transfixed, deliberating as to what I should write for comments. The raw emotion in her paper had me riveted, and being the mediator that I am, I wished I could solve the problem. But how could I share with her that I empathized? After all, I barely knew my students, it was the start of the year. What would be appropriate?

I decided to be honest with her. I wrote that I appreciated her frankness, and that while the situations weren't identical, I had gone through a family situation that wasn't altogether different. Our family wrestled with the best way to support my sister in the midst of her decisions, and in the end, she matured so much through the experience and I had a new closeness with her. I wished a similar fate to my student's situation.

After no follow-up from the student, I soon forgot my comment and her what her response to it might have been. Then October came around, and I was conducting conferences with parents in the cafeteria, converted to accomodate meetings between all the teachers and parents. While meeting with this girl's mother, we discussed the routine information, the daughter's grade sheet before us.

Towards the end of the conference, the mother brought up the "What I Wish" essay: "My daughter came home from school the day you returned those essays, and she said, 'Mom, you have to read what my teacher wrote on my paper.' We both were so touched. That meant so much to her. Thank you for doing that. Can I ask you more about your experience?"

We shared the experiences we had in common, both of us blinking back tears. I relived the uncertainty of that time in our family and the eventual transformation in my sister, and her eyes and words betrayed the anguish she was facing daily. She took comfort in the hope that her situation could improve, and that reconciliation could come in time.

As our conference ended and I collected myself for the next one, I was gratified that I had followed through on my instincts. What had my comments actually done? The brother hadn't returned home, the family was still dealing with the brokenness. But in being transparent, I shared my experience and perhaps gave a measure of hope. That I wrote something personal meant something to the student, so much so that this girl showed her essay to her mother, wanting to pass on the hope that though things be hard now, they could change.

That was one of my prouder moments in teaching.

School Memories: Decisions, Part One

I recognize, for lack of anything better to write about, I have been posting reminiscent stories from my time spent teaching. But as the blog address claims to be a fount of "introvert reflections," I don't feel this is against my purpose.

While teaching a class preparing seniors for the rigorous reading and writing demands of college, I would end the semester with the novel Staggerford, by Jon Hassler. This was a pleasant way to end our time together, but it also allowed us to work in a seminar format with the novel.

Before this particular teaching job, I had previously been unfamiliar with the work (and the author, for that matter), but as I learned quickly in my tenure in Minnesota, we embrace Minnesotan authors.

Opinion was split on the book. I loved it from the beginning. The story chronicles a week in the life of one Miles Pruitt, a disillusioned English teacher. It starts out slow, which caused some seniors to reject it as a poor literary example, but I see it as a deliberate ploy to make the readers experience the same monotony and frustration that Miles has lived. The plot intricately escalates to an unexpected turn of events, but that's all the teaser I will give.

As far as the connection I wanted to share, I must relate that Miles has been grading essays, and he stumbles upon one from Beverly Bingham, another key character. The topic for the essay is "What I Wish," and Beverly ends hers this way:

I will only say this: How would you like to have a mother on your hands who's a little more deranged every day? How would you like to be known as the Bonewoman's daughter? How would you like to live in a dump? So there's a lot of things I wish. I wish my dad had had a normal sort of life and I wish my mother was normal and I wish I knew where my sister was and I wish I lived in a house where the birds didn't fly around upstairs and I wish I knew what was going to happen to me in the future. Please help me, Mr. Pruitt.

And this is where I feel my heart ache. What would I do in such a situation, when a student reaches out and drops her guard and pours out her innermost thoughts, wanting resolution? What do you say? How do you get her the needed help without embarrassing her once she realizes what she wrote in haste?

Miles Pruitt struggles with what he should write in return, as he doesn't want this student-teacher relationship to become any more awkward and familiar than has been occurring. Yet, he wants to help Beverly in this genuine cry of desperation.

Finally he comes to a conclusion:

He must guard against becoming anything more than her English teacher. At the top of her paper he wrote, "This should be more than one paragraph."

Ouch. I get deflated even now, even when I have read this book several times. I wish I could alter his choice and instead encourage him to go with his initial instincts and offer aid, passing on the names and numbers of people to contact.

So how exactly does this tie in to my actual classroom? As this has already turned into a lengthy post, I will save the heart of this reflection until tomorrow, when I will wrap it up with a more direct connection. O the anticipation!

School Memories: One-Liner

In response to some flatulence which forced a girl to try to casually vacate her seat near the offender, his friend responded with, "Good push."

School Memories: Most Grandious Reflection

School has started in the surrounding districts, and my oldest niece is starting kindergarten tomorrow, so it only seems appropriate to include some of my leftover school memories.

Students, long before I came and long after I'm gone, complete the Me Book in seventh grade. Each quarter, the students base their essay on a specific focus (their social characteristics, physical traits, et cetera). At the end of the year, we compile them and have a short unit on editing. Students also add dedications and reflections on the process.

I have shared some of the more memorable dedications, but by far the most verbose reflection had to be from a certain gentleman student of mine. He's a jock through and through, with steady pressure from parents to achieve in his studies.

As I look back at this whole thing, 7th grade, this "Me Book," I realize how important this book was to growing up, to learning life lessons, to making friends. How incredibly important it is, I can't explain to you, but I can express my feelings. This book has made me really reflect on life, and the kind of person I am. This book has helped me as a person, and as a friend. This book has helped me bring out the real...ME.

I'm a cynic to say I think I'd believe it more if I heard this from him in twenty years. But at least he wrote effusely of it at the time.

School Memories: A Tale of an Infatuated Seventh Grader

I was winding up my poetry unit, wherein we were writing some poems to close the time. Most students need guidance to write poems, so I had structured lessons. One such lesson was to write a poem inspired by a photograph.

Students were asked to bring their own, but knowing that some would forget, I printed several from my computer for students to use. Pictures would be analyzed for details that revealed their stories. I selected pictures based on "narrative" or "descriptive" quality. There were several from when I was a child, one of our wedding showing a nondescript couple running through birdseed to the awaiting car, and some photographs of artwork from the Minneapolis Institute of Arts.

I also had some Czech pictures from my youngest sister. Some were quite artistic, like a black and white of a man in a dark subway. There was also one of a friend of mine, Shalin, with perhaps a fondue pot in front of him at a restaurant.

In fifth hour, one girl grabbed it and asked who it was. I replied, "A friend of mine from college." She took it to her desk, her parting words being, "He's HOT!" I told her I'd inform him a 12-year-old girl thought thus, and she was embarrassed (and hopeful) as only a seventh-grade girl can be.

I'm not completely sure of the accuracy of the following, as I was just out of earshot, but someone asked her about the picture, and I believe she might have claimed the picture was hers from home. Oh, what the throes of young love will push you to say!

Then, my next class rolled around...and I realized that Shalin's picture was missing. I imagined this girl at home, fawning over Shalin's image. In time, she would pull it out to show others and brag about Shalin being her boyfriend, or some other equally entertaining story.

I had printed these off anew, knowing some could be bent or misplaced through the exercise, so I wasn't despondent about the loss of a picture. Curiosity, however, caused me to near the girl's desk the next day and ask her about the picture. Should she have claimed it was in her locker or at home, I would have let it be. Bashfully, however, she opened her binder where it was displayed and returned it to me.

Yes, I recognize I am cruel to break up a harmless, imagined romance. Alas, I am the ogre English teacher, and I must keep my reputation intact.

School Memories: Leet

You will find geeks in every grade you teach. Many of us can remember who the geeks were in our classes growing up (some of this may hit too close to home for some of you, as you represented these awkward individuals). One such student, a gregarious geek in my American Lit class, was not ashamed to show his roots. He would wear shirts with slogans such as: "There's no place like 127.0.0.1" and many would look confusedly while the elite, the few knew what the numbers represented--your home network.

I heard the term Leet thrown around last year, and couldn't completely understand it until this student forced me into a corner. With Eric's tutelage, I was able to make sense of it. Essentially, in my overly simplistic definition, Leet is a language for nerds alone. They take letters and morph them into similar looking numbers and symbols, so the transliteration can be indecipherable to some. This can be called Leetspeak, or 13375p34k. Make sense? There can be many variants of how to do this, but if you look closely enough at the shapes, you can pick up on it if your mind can think abstractly. For the curious who want to know more about how it came to be called Leet or some common transliterations, Wikipedia tries to define it for the ignorant masses. And Google created a search page in 1337 to cater to fans who just can't get enough.

So how does this relate to teaching? Well, once in a while, this student would write a phrase in Leet, and when I had no idea what it was, it read as a meaningless jumble. One day, after I'd been educated, I was handing out a quiz on The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. Students are rarely ecstatic for quizzes, so this student groaned and threatened to write his answers in Leet. I wasn't intimidated, and he began. What was meant to be a relatively easy quiz, just meant to assess that students were keeping up in their reading, kept him busy in his attempts to make it challenging for me to read. I had to make a copy of it before I graded it so I could remember this antic. For instance, in response to my question,

"What is one superstition Huck believes in?", this student writes:

"+l-l120\/\/1l\lg 54l_+ 0\/312 j00r 5l-l0l_312," which translates to:

"Throwing salt over your shoulder." Easy, right?

School Memories: Perks of a Chaperone

In the fall, the seventh-graders have an opportunity to go on an annual field trip. It is an educational experience involving team-building activities and physical challenges. I was invited as a chaperone, as one of the regular teachers had to remain behind for potential jury duty.

In her stead, I was told I had big shoes to fill. The challenge every year is the same: see if you can get through the whole trip without having to bus your own tray. I was up to the test. The one rule was simple: students could not know this was a challenge; they must agree out of the goodness of their heart. It was early in the year, so the "honeymoon" stage was still in full force.

I'm not a pushy person, so I knew if I was refused, I would cave and just do it myself. I had several students, when asked directly, gladly agree to take my tray. Sometimes they took it if they got to eat my dessert, which was a fair trade in my eyes.

I had to get creative when I was in charge of my breakfast crew: we ate first, and then cleaned all the other trays of the students as they finished. Here I had a small sampling of volunteers to coerce. I was elaborate in my ruse. Once the first student finished and sat waiting for the rest of us, I mentioned that I was taking pictures of our time so my husband knew what I was doing in his absence, and would she mind dumping my tray so I could take a picture? (This trip tried to make students aware of food waste, and had students separate leftovers on their trays into separate tubs and then weighed the results.) She looked at me doubtfully, but another student chirped up, "I'll do it!" She posed so well, too!

The field trip was a success; I bused my tray once, only because one night when I finished, there were no more students in the cafeteria. I figured I could have one blip from the trip when I had all other meals covered.

School Memories: The Last Day of School

Today was the last day of school. Even with that being the case, I still have several "School Memories" to share for the next week or two. I've found this is a good way to catalog my memories from the year before they become fuzzy and lost.

Even though I've only experienced two "last" days of school as an educator, I feel that they are anti-climactic. In the high school, we end with finals: students come in on one day, take a seat, take a long test, and then leave when the time ends. In middle school, we slowly ramp down: students have some casual days with word games, have a final day where they ask teachers to sign their yearbooks, and all this during a whirlwind shortened schedule. I try to somehow capture what we have experienced together, but words fail me and I falter.

Then there's the rush to make sure that your room is closed up for the summer and that you get checked out as efficiently as possible. Students are straining to have summer begin, while there's this feeling of, "What's next?" I wonder what will come of my students, how they will change, what forces outside their control they will encounter and how they will respond. Unfortunately, I will learn little of these developments, since I'm taking my leave of the district. Some updates will reach my ears and I will rejoice in the successes and mourn at the losses. Once they leave my room, we lose a special connection; I am a teacher they rushed to daily with updates about life, and I learned of the reasons for their mood swings. We are a collective that bonded through the year, and now this unit is being separated. I, too, am glad for a season of change, but I need to reflect on how this time has changed me before I too quickly celebrate my freedom from the more trying children.

So at the end of the day, I am left with a few new tokens to expand my collection, gifts and cards shyly given by students, and I fondly remember the words of colleagues spoken in parting. I go through life day by day, sometimes too distracted with minor demands that I loose sight of those around me. However, I always cherish the connections I make with teachers in passing. One esteemed math teacher entered my room before school today and wished me luck, speaking specifically as to why she will miss me. As she did so, she became choked up. As I went for a hug, my eyes became teary as well. Here, a woman I greatly respect was counting me as a friend and spoke of the impact I had on her, even with the slight encounters we had throughout the year.

This is a bittersweet parting. I feel as if I'm on the cusp of relationships; were I to stay, I would be delighted to see them deepen and to watch my students mature and become adults.

So as this chapter ends, I remain grateful that a high-school principal saw potential in me and offered me a job in a district that shaped and supported me through the process.

School Memories: Gifts

Teachers are periodically given gifts. When I completed student-teaching, I received some small gifts from individual students; the one that probably meant the most to me was a card and a small trinket cup that said, "Super Teacher" on the side. These were given to me from some ESL students I had been able to help during their study hall on a couple occasions.

As a high-school teacher, the gifts are scarce. As a middle-school teacher, however, I can boast of my small collection of odds and ends. They range from a pound of coffee from the local establishment to a small radio/travel alarm/calendar combo. Some of these are accompanied by cards, which are gratifying to read and serve as nice mementos.

In my first-hour class, I have two caffeine addicts who regularly frequent Caribou Coffee and finish their drinks during morning announcements. These girls were telling me last week that they should bring me a drink on the last day of school. I smiled, but didn't hold my breath. Students are constantly speaking whatever's crossing their mind at the time, not necessarily meaning it. Tomorrow is the final day of the school year. As I arrived in my room today, one of my addicts walked by and I greeted her. A couple minutes pass and into my room enters the two of them. One asked, "Do you like chai tea, Mrs. H?" while from behind her back she pulled a delicious cup of froth. Oh, joyous refreshment!

School Memories: Verbal Faux Pas

One student had asked for my help on his computer. As I was en route across the room, another student tried to snag me with a question. I reminded him he needed to wait his turn, as I was already occupied with Jack's request. Heads of several nearby students shot up quickly when I finished my response, mouths agape. I had to replay the scene in my head to learn why there was such interest in this commonplace scene.

So this is how I learned I need to be careful how I address certain students' names followed immediately by verbs. For instance, "Jack asked..."

School Memories: Sherlock Holmes is on the Case

When I find worksheets with no name on them, I set them aside and refrain from grading them until they're claimed by their rightful owners. Otherwise, it's amazing to see how many lackluster students suddenly "remember" they had chosen to complete that assignment and it had slipped their mind to write their name on the paper with the perfect grade. Perhaps with the lack of practice with assignment followthrough, that's a believable oversight on their behalf?

Seventh graders are notorious at leaving their names off of their papers, especially at the beginning of the year until they've been adequately "trained." My process is honed to an art: each paper missing a name is appropriately marked with the hour of the day it came from before I set it aside (this helps narrow down the field of suspects significantly). I then mention the findings in the appropriate sections during the day, where they are thus returned to me, now with the owner's John Hancock in its rightful place. If the offender is not paying attention to the desperate calls issuing forth from the unredeemed worksheet, then their property is relegated to the depths of a file folder, only to be referenced if the delinquent notices the slip in their grade.

One student of mine lacked the necessary foreknowledge to connect "not doing assignments" with "midquarters sent home," so when the dreaded gradeslip arrived in the parents' hands, she was chastized. Naturally, she claimed she had done the work and her teacher must have misplaced it; I rarely receive this complaint, but when I do, it has never been substantiated. In the unlikely event that I misplace an assignment, I am not going to consistently do so for only one student all quarter. It just doesn't happen like that.

When that tirade was over, her next move was to claim she must have forgotten her name on the papers. This is faulty, in that she was missing assignments in which the whole batch of turned-in papers proudly boasted their ownership, leaving none unclaimed. Again, I must remind you these no-name papers cry out in desperate shrieks, begging for their owners to rescue them from their forsaken place. Said student had not exhibited the usual signs of an owner with no-name papers adrift. Nevertheless, I braced myself for their mad cries as I brought forth these lost souls for her examination.

When left alone with these papers, said student attempted to claim work that I had unwittingly graded before I noticed the lack of a name. The two assignments she was passing off as hers happened to be two perfect assignments. Not yet red flags, but perhaps rose ones began to go up. I couldn't quiet the pleas of these papers, either. The only fate worse for jilted papers than remaining discarded without another thought is to be taken home by harsh masters, overlords only interested in taking advantage of what you have to offer them; they would probably be hurled to the recycle bin seconds after being handed back. I finally noticed what these papers were trying to convey to me: there, blazened in a dark, dare I say attractive, scrawl, I had jotted two separate periods of the day.

Said student, handing these to me, continued to display her guilt as she nonchalantly stated, "I write in two different ways." This statement revealed the fact that these assignments were, indeed, quite different; one was illegible chicken scratches, the other quite elegant in penmanship. I called her bluff, so she then proceeded to demonstrate how she writes "differently" by first writing her name quite large, then she wrote it in a smaller size...no other changes.

I could have walked away with a sigh, no longer acknowledging this facade. Lesser teachers have been known to stumble in the face of absurdity. But said student was no match for our heroine. I examined the two papers, perhaps I even paced and struck a stance. If I would have had my small-rimmed glasses on, I could have looked over the lenses, as this strikes fear in all. One of the assignments had pretty sophisticated words employed. I asked her to write one such word. She bit her lip, she rolled her eyes, she gritted her teeth and tried to calm her raging heart. As she gripped the pencil, the words I longed to hear issued from her lips: "How do you spell that?" This victim was doing a fine job implicating herself. As expected, she butchered the word. Apparently, she must also write in a third way.

Never fear. The elegant penmanship assignment was returned to her rightful owner. Praises were sung by the jubilant masses; our heroine polished her magnifying glass and rested her head after another job well done.

Add stellar deduction powers to my list of skills.

School Memories: Unbecoming Parent Comments

This memory harkens back to student teaching, right as the first semester was ending for my freshmen and I was entering the scene. Grades had been earned by students and delivered home.

Perhaps I should alert you to the fact that this district I was in was very affluent; students spent spring break in Europe and in their second homes in the mountains. Parents were powerful, and they were quite involved in their children's education.

One particular parent had a bright daughter. This parent was a teacher in a neighboring district; if my memory serves me right, she was also an English teacher. Her daughter had received A's in all classes...except for English, where she received a B+. What a scandal. The mother had at least two meetings with my cooperating teacher about this, as well as a phone call. After all, it had to be discovered how this girl could have faltered and just let herself go. What depths she had fallen! In the words of her mother, words that prefaced the initial meeting, "How can we remove this blemish from my daughter's grade report?"

Being a perfectionist, I grew up with putting too much stock in my school performance. It took until college for me to fully recognize that my self-worth was not determined by my grade point. This epiphany came when I was faced with the possibility of receiving my first B ever. Never fear--I managed to get through that trying time, and my B didn't come until a later class. Although I put pressure on myself, it wasn't because my parents demanded it of me. In actuality, my parents just expected me to do my best, whatever that would be. Many times they made no mention of my grades when they came out.

So as I entered the teaching profession, I gained a larger perspective. Now I was in my own classroom, seeing firsthand students' efforts and their resulting grades. Some students do the minimum necessary to still get an A, whereas others do all the assignments and devote extensive time to each task, but with all their efforts, they will just skate by with a C. I was reminded anew that a C was average, not something demanding apologies and crestfallen looks. My feelings towards my students were not based on their grades in my class (although I still believe they should make an effort, whatever grade that results in).

With the evolution of my perspective, I was taken aback with this fellow teacher's comment. A B+ as a blemish?! Why start showing your daughter that even though she tried her hardest and turned in all assignments on time, but happened to fall short of an A, that you don't think it was good enough? What pressure that girl was facing. I don't envy living in that home when grades came or when big projects were due. What unnecessary pressure to pile on her, when students find enough ways to become stressed and overwhelmed. I'm not surprised to sense these expectations from parents, but I rarely encounter them from parents who are also teachers.

Needless to say, the B+ remained.

School Memories: Paranoia in its Many Forms

I'm going to let you in on a little secret. Sometimes, if I am short on sleep, my active imagination takes over. Before I share with you the school stories, first I must set the stage.

Imagine one Sunday night last year. Eric and I are returning home from being with friends, and Eric, ever the gentleman, states he's going to stop at the gas station and fill my car with gas so I don't have to the next morning. He also wants to run inside for a gallon of milk instead of paying at the pump. Here I am in our car at 10:30 PM, people-watching from my location since I have a perfect vantage point of the whole gas station. Suddenly, I see a car haphazardly brake in front of the door, two young men jump out, leaving their car running, and rush to the counter. This is playing on all my associations of robberies and all the surveillance videos shown on television, so I quickly begin fearing for my husband's life. I begin committing their license plate to memory, perhaps even reaching for my cell phone. Fortunately, I was proven wrong. These men were both apparently just desperate for a nicotine fix. They'll never know how I almost called the authorities for an attempted robbery.

Fast forward to the next morning. Soon after entering my high-school classroom, I suddenly hear quick movement. I look back to the source of the sound, where I see the leaves of my peace lily plant mysteriously waving in the still air. Crouched behind the leaves, hidden behind the pot, I see a dark, furry creature. I'm on the opposite side of the room and I'm cautiously trying to get a glimpse of said animal. Is it a skunk? Perhaps a cat? I do wonder, How did it ever get inside my room? Sure, it's an older building, but there are no obvious holes to the outside. I'm mentally planning my morning: there's plenty of time to find a custodian and somehow evict this squatter before my students will be arriving for class. I want to have a clear description to paint for the custodian so we know what we're dealing with, so I try to approach the animal without spooking it before locking it again in my room. As I near, I see it clearly. There it was...a mask. Yes, a mask from our Romeo and Juliet unit that had fallen off of my bulletin board, immediately above my peace lily. It was covered in black feathers, and its fall, so perfectly timed with my entrance into the room, had given it bestial characteristics.

This year is not without its episodes. I'll leave you in ignorance for now of my most recent embarrassment. This one actually became known to others because of my own paranoia. The setting: Cub Foods. The event: paying with a credit card. Perhaps it will all be made known at a later time. I can only reveal so many examples at a time, as you can't expect me to incriminate myself all at once. For now, you must be satisfied with another school episode.

Now we're in my middle-school room. In my room, in addition to my computer, I have a bank of four Macs against a wall. Each Thursday night, they are turned on and some updating is done. One Friday morning, I unlock my door and flip on my lights. I am presented with an unsettling noise. There I am, all alone early in the morning, hearing a ticking sound coming from the row of computers. I again tried to reason with my overactive mind, explaining how middle-school students have little reason to plant a bomb in my room. After all, they don't have access to the building after hours, no one has tampered with my door, and who has the wherewithal to collect all the pieces to make a working bomb? Yet I still can't shake why I'm hearing this ticking sound. I slowly inch towards the computer I suspect to be the culprit. The ticking increases in volume. I carefully lower myself and glance underneath the computer. I doubted I would see a small box with a timer fitted to it, conveniently visible, but I had to appease my raging thoughts. Okay, fine. Nothing to be seen. No new stash of wires. Now that I was convinced no hooded seventh graders had entered my room and planted a bomb in retaliation for having to learn the parts of speech, I could approach the keyboard full of confidence. I jostled the mouse and examined the screen. All I saw was a file folder icon with a question mark on top of it. Not very informative. I forced it to shut down and then restarted. Still, the ticking, still the uninformative question mark. Later I learned it was a fried hard drive. You'd think they could find a more appropriate sound than a ticking. Foiled again.

So our final score is Excessive imagination, 0. Reasonable explanations, 3. Maybe one of these days I'll finally learn my lesson. But then I'd be stuck with mediocre conversations with myself.

School Memories: The Ogre English Teacher

As the school year comes to a close--only eight more days remaining--and I am about to end my time in this Minnesota district, I'm becoming reflective. I have so many memories from my time, many of them heretofore unmentioned. It is easy, as the students become antsy with the countdown and beautiful weather, to wish these days away. I've decided to be deliberate and focus on some of the defining moments of my past two years. Perhaps this will make me more patient and forgiving during these trying times!

I love the relationship I have had with my students. When students have mock-grumbled about a minor issue and jokingly called me on it, I retort with humor, often referring to myself as the Ogre English Teacher. It's pretty easy to assign homework or give tests when you're the Ogre English Teacher. This title can be altered for your own use, if desired. For instance, you can be the Ogre Computer Programmer, or the Ogre Patent Lawyer. Even the Ogre Art Curator could work.

One day in class, a middle-school student entered my room asking, "Are we doing anything fun today?" I countered with, "No, absolutely not. In fact, we're not ever allowed to do anything fun in English. It's part of the hiring process, to find the dullest candidate so they can beat out any love you formerly had for the subject. The moment I would ever attempt to do anything fun with you, men in trench coats, shades, and microphones in their sleeves will storm in here and haul me away. I can't take that chance." Another student, not understanding the banter that was going on, looked at me with his upturned face and puppy-dog eyes, "But Mrs. H, they haven't taken you away yet, and we've done TONS of fun things!" Needless to say, the original student was not amused by this show of devotion!

Wherein I Encounter a Misprint and an Incivility

One of my students was going to be gone much of this week, so he completed work in his absence. He turned in a news article that began as follows: "May 17, 2005, a day that will live in infancy." At least he's paying some attention in his social studies class.

On a more sour note, I had a phone conversation with a parent today. Her son has been struggling in my class all year and had been a discipline problem. The issue is motivation, not lack of competence. At fall conferences, she admitted that every year they have struggled with their son not wanting to do work in school and frequently being disrespectful and behaviorally disruptive in classes. So, "As a teacher, what are YOU going to do about this?" I didn't know how to tell her that the issue seemed to be more systemic then I could solve; it began at home years ago and couldn't be solved in a school setting. She had been bailing him out, finding excuses: inept teachers, a school system that was victimizing her son. But today, as we talked, she ended with this quip: "I think the main reason my son has struggled in your class is because of personality differences. And after this conversation, I think I know why." With that, she ruined my lunchtime. By sixth hour, I had healed, though. I was reminded what I meant to my students through a couple of spontaneous comments and that this was just one disgruntled parent. I had been professional and understanding on the phone, apparently to no avail. Throughout my two years in the district, I have received praise and support from many parents, and yet I allowed the dissatisfied parent in that time to make me doubt myself. It is so true that a harsh word needs many positive affirmations to counter it.

Poetry and Potatoes

While teaching poetry to my students, I've learned how preferences evolve over the years. My feeling towards poetry wasn't quite apathetic in college, but I struggled finding poets I enjoyed. Then I discovered Billy Collins and Ted Kooser, coincidentally the previous and the current poet laureate. They brought a newness to the genre, spanning from thoughtful to the tongue-in-cheek. I loved how they manipulated language and brought their sense of humor through to the reader.

While teaching poetry the last two years, I've tried to have a mix of older and newer pieces. The older ones are traditionally more structured and rhymed, while the newer ones were delightful in their word pictures. As students read the mixture, the majority were drawn to the ones with predictable rhyme and structure. I'm trying to recall when I made that switch. However, when students had opportunity to look through some anthologies and select poems they enjoyed, one kindred spirit found a "Mashed Potato Love Poem" that tickled my humor. As Eric and I indulged in sampling a new restaurant tonight, it was brought to mind. Eric had a spectacular baked potato, so this is only appropriate. While he knows my love for all things spud, he's confident I wouldn't go this far.

Mashed Potato Love Poem
-Sidney Hoddes
If I ever had to choose between you
and a third helping of mashed potato,
(whipped lightly with a fork
not whisked,
and a little pool of butter
melting in the middle...)

I think
I'd choose
the mashed potato.

But I'd choose you next.

Poetry Poker

Writing poetry can be daunting for everyone. For some, like my youngest sister, it comes naturally, but for most, being told to write a poem on command can bring about delightful visions of acquiring a debilitating disease that will leave you without the use of your hands until the deadline passes.

As a teacher, I feel underqualified to teach on how to write poetry, but I enjoy reading it and feel that I must do a unit on how to write it; I don't want to create students who are frightened of it because of underexposure. I've read many journal articles on this subject and have discovered some great lessons that have been used successfully in my classroom.

There is one exercise I especially like to use as an introduction. It introduces students to poetry in a non-threatening way and is called Poetry Poker. The teacher prepares in advance by creating word cards and directions for play. I like to use actual playing cards with words or phrases typed on the card, as they're a nice size and offer more stability and durability than unlaminated paper. Plus, there's something great about getting to pull out a deck of cards in class (although I have blank decks on hand for those that are more interested in the "poker" part of the exercise!).

Students are dealt cards that they must then arrange in an enticing order to form a line of poetry, and they can add some additional words as necessary to help the flow. After a day or two of playing, students look at the lines they have created and they can do some rearranging or minor editing as necessary. Then students rewrite their poems and decorate them accordingly. We display them in the classroom, and students are drawn to the walls, reading what their peers have written.

It's great to see them get into the exercise. They enjoy the word play and you end up with some poetic lines. I've done this with ninth graders and seventh graders. The only difference I've seen is that my middle-schoolers sometimes encountered unfamiliar words. When this transpired, they were more likely to discard than use the available dictionaries. Nevertheless, I was delighted to read what students had as finished products. Here are two for now:

Then she felt that fond
Yet dreadful rage coming on
Again and suspected people
Would throw streamers
At her

My rage will smother
Me with a stale piece
Of cake over the
Telescopic cliffs of
DEATH!!

Not Everyone Should Teach

I was again asked to substitute during my prep today. Alas, no orchestra this time! Instead, I was to cover for a sixth-grade teacher who had a doctor's appointment.

Unfortunately, while I generally have a positive view of teachers, especially after seeing them first hand, I have noticed this particular woman does not contribute positively to the profession. She is frequently losing student assignments, claiming they were never done (as a side note, I wasn't surprised to recall this fact when I entered her room, as the papers were haphazardly piled in a basket, and it looked as if the basket contained worksheets from at least a week, precariously stacked). Of course, intelligent students learn to never throw returned work away so they can pull it out, proving they had done it. Sometimes, though, it isn't returned and is found, months later, in a vent in the classroom. Or, she'll announce, "Everyone gets a B on the assignment" because she has somehow misplaced the pile. Although she has a decade or two under her belt, she still seems confused and frazzled. Frankly, I'm surprised she received tenure.

I entered her room with reservations, not sure what to expect. It was a circus. She was trying to finish up sub plans for the next two periods and students were creating havoc all around. The bell rang, and nothing changed. I was shocked. While middle-school students are active, they should have the decency to take their seats and quiet when appropriate. I waited until she left the room, as this behavior seemed normal to her, and I firmly told students to find their assigned seats. What a transformation. They did as I asked, and I started the class. During the first ten minutes, while students worked, one came up to me and admitted, "We're better for substitutes than our regular teacher. She never even notices when we leave the room." How do I respond to this? I let it go. While I had not allowed disagreement when I quieted the class to begin, apparently I was still approachable; some wanted to know if they would have me as a teacher next year, claiming that I seemed nice and like a good teacher. They were saddened when I informed them I was actually moving; however, I thought it was premature for them to already have an attachment, so I couldn't take it too much to heart.

Here I was, making the kids behave appropriately, and they loved it. I overheard, "Wow, it's never been this quiet in this class before." I was disgusted that they spent all year in such an environment. Parents expect their students to learn, and this teacher was doing a disservice by letting them act as they were. Furthermore, what about next year's teachers? These students will enter their rooms, assuming they can continue acting the exact same way.

The moral from the day: Students like a measure of discipline. They may not want a fierce taskmaster, but neither do they want to be in control. They flourish when there are clear expectations and appropriate consequences.

This is not to say I'm the perfect instructor. I am a perfectionist, so I tend to be hard on myself, but I know I still have much to learn. Even though I've received glowing reviews, I still seem to think I have pulled the wool over everyone's eyes. But one of the greatest compliments I received from a paraprofessional this year was the following: "You're leaving?! I was going to request you for my child next year. I have learned so much by being in here this year! You are so great at what you do." I was floored. Here this woman was, seeing me day in and day out, on the good and less-than-good days, and she was so complimentary. That went much further than comments from an administrator who sees me for a handful of times throughout the year.
Especially since she has been in my class that has those who are not academically inclined. I have been pleased with the alterations that have taken place in that class as we have grown to understand each other and what needs to be done to succeed. They are not the same class they were in September (although I still see remnants from time to time!).

More Writing Samples

I had to share some more aptly written passages from my students. Here are some more amusing dedications.

From a well-read student:

"I dedicate this to the tourists in pity.

'Why do they call it tourist season if we can't shoot 'em?'

Also to J.R.R. Tolkien for writing such literary legends,
Hayao Miyazaki for his imaginative animation,
And Garrison Keillor for using his mottos. All of them."

From someone who admires her teachers and gives them their due, all the while putting in some parallel structure to make it fluid:

"Dedicated to:
My mom, you were there,
My dad, you gave me the joy of books,
My dogs, you made me laugh until I cried,
And Mr. K., you gave me the gift of science."

Here's another one that is simple in meaning but expressive: "This book is dedicated to my friends for making me laugh so hard all the time I fear one day I shall explode from it all."

And now from a student who is an avid reader but struggles with writing: "I dedicate this to my sister, Issy, because it was as big a pain as she is."

I'm frequently amazed that these students are only thirteen. Sometime I'll share some of the short poems they did during a Poetry Poker exercise. It's astounding how imaginative and clever they are. Something happens to them as they get older, and they lose this innocence and confidence in their skills.

Writing From the Heights of Eloquence to the Depths of Erratum

Students compile their essays from the year, edit them anew, and then bind them into a book. They are all centralized around aspects of themselves, a staple in the seventh-grade curriculum. Parents even have the opportunity to write a chapter of their own, and those students who have parents that have participated in this have been beaming as they read what has been said about them. The additions to the essay components are a dedication, as well as a reflection on their work. I have been equally amazed by their eloquence and dismayed by their oversights. Here are the more memorable.

Some of the brilliant dedications are: "To anyone who woke up on Monday and thought it was Saturday" and this one from my little orchestra violinist: "To B-flat, the most resonant note of all."

Many students dedicate the book to their families, thanking them for their support and love. Here's an awkward one: "This book is dedicated to my parents. Without them, I wouldn't be here." So, what is she thanking them for, exactly?

I like to imagine the student writing her essays throughout the year after reading this: "This book is dedicated to Fiona, Bun-bun, and the rest of my animals. Without their funny antics, I would have gone crazy trying to meet my deadline."

One student added an Editor's Note to the close of her book: "Twenty years after this paper was written, the author became an eccentric hermit. When she told her mother and father of this, she reportedly said, 'I go in search of personality and mysteriousness.' To this day she lives somewhere in the Rocky Mountains with a flock of Belgian Quail D'Anvers. This should not alarm the reader if they plan on going mountain climbing: simply take along an offering of books to give to her when she comes to take the toll."

And here is the most memorable beginning to a chapter written by a parent: "[Our son] was born in Honolulu, Hawaii due to an ill-timed vacation by his normally responsible parents."

And if you want to end on a pleasant note, you should stop reading now. Below follows the tragic typos in these finished works.

First, let's begin with some irony, found in this reflection: "This year my writing is a lot better than the begging of the year."

And here's a dedication: "I dedicate this book to my mom. She is the one who helped me edit and prefect all off my papers." Somehow I imagine her mother didn't get to check this particular writing sample.

I don't even know where to begin with this reflection: "When I was righting these essays I notes a lot of things. I became a better righter. I became a better speller. I have learned how to right good essays."

And just more proof that when this year is finished, I won't know how to spell anything correctly: "When I reflect back on my essays from the beginning of the year I notice a lot of big mistakes and some miner mistakes." Is a "miner" mistake one where you accidently extract lead instead of iron? And when do you have opportunities to write in all that barren darkness? I can't imagine it's good for the eyes.

Here's an example of one of the most commonly misspelled words, by children and adults alike: "If you like sports, then you should defiantly read this." And as you read, perhaps you can scowl and vigorously thrust your fist in the air at appropriate intervals.

Finally, "I want to get married and have children, but I think I'll adapt." One must always remain flexible in such areas.