I distinctly remember August 1. It was a hot day, but a nice one, and the honeymoon environment still permeated the school. I went out to eat a restauarnt down the street from my house (which remains as sparsely furnished now as it was that day), and turned in early. My monotenous day was however noteworthy for the singular reason that this marked the beginning of an epic silence, a deafening silence, a lull dreaded and impactful from sea to sea: August 1 began my unplanned and unprecedented silence from the Blogosphere. Contrary to what you may believe based on my radio silence since that day long ago, I was neither dead nor kidnapped by Somali pirates, though I appreciate the concern expressed around those two possibilities.
August was a busy but productive month. September came, bringing our fall break and two weeks of tranquility in Da Burgh. October rolled in dramatically, and ended in a typically New Orleanian brand of flamboyance (read debauchery). Now, as I sit here staring at a small mountain of ungraded Exit tickets and ScanTrons bubble sheets, I can't help but wonder where these three months have gone, or what I've taught these kids, if anything at all. Last night, my aunt reminded me that I am rapidly approaching the quarter-of-the-way mark for my Teach for America commitment. Which means I've spent nearly six months playing teacher. Which means I feel like I've been at this game for approximately 1.75 decades.
But these 1.75 decades have been good ones, like living through the Clinton years twice in a row, or better yet, the Harding years six times in a row. I've realized that my world essentially revolves around a 160 five-foot-something suns, who swear like sailors and who can go from hugging you to swinging at you in about 1/70th of a second.
Of course, not all of them, not even a majority of them, reach that level of rascal-cality. One of my favorite students is a sixth grader who bears a striking resemblence to the hypothetical love child of a bowling ball and Fred Flintsone. He clomps along, as any sixth grader does, physically unable to stop his mouth from moving. With most kids, incessant talking drives me nuts. Absolutely insane. Like nails on a chalkboard (which have, incidentally, been replaced almost entirely by whiteboards). But with this kid, I don't mind hearing him squawk, mostly because he is hillarious, and finds no one as funny as he finds himself. This kid could sit in an empty room and keep himself laughing for hours. The good news here is that I'm the Vice President of his fan club (of which he is clearly the President---you think I'm kidding, but he actually told me, in so many words). This child has, since Day 1, ignored the frequent and obvious posters around my name that say things like "Mr. Glasser's Desk" and "Mr. Glasser is reading:" or "Don't forget to call Mr. Glasser for help!". Instead of taking those obvious reminders of my moniker, this laboy (vernacular contracted version of "lil boi", which is an abbreviated version of "Little Boy") insists on calling me Mr. Glasses. For weeks, I thought I was mishearing her. For weeks following that, I heard students correct him. Since then, I've embraced it.
One day, that student was absent. Another student asked me why I don't correct him, "You know that laboy is gonna feel played if you tell him in May that he's been calling you the wrong name." "Yeah," I responded, "you're right. But honestly, I think it's so adorable and so funny that I don't have the heart to correct him." After she laughed for a while, she agreed. "Can we promise to never tell him again?" she asked the class of 20 sixth graders.
It was the one time that all paid attention to me and all agreed, but you have to start somewhere.
Staying in the vein of rotund little guys, I started working with a seventh grader who begged and begged and begged and begged to learn French. We don't have electives in our little schoolhouse, so any interests the young bucks have need to be cultivated outside of school hours. He is not your picture of a typical linguist. Instead, he sounds like Fat Albert after twenty years of a pack-a-day, and he bears in his beer belly, which he affectionately calls his "Wooba." We first started slow, learning the alphabet, learning numbers, and learning to greet one another in French. We met twice a week, introducing each other to awesome Youtube videos while he would kick a beat with a pencil on his desk as we spit the French alphabet.
Fun fact: we have very different taste in humorous Youtube videos.
Slightly embarrasing factoid: we have really similar taste in music. I showed the good Rev. Al Green, and he showed me an underground Lil Wayne mixtape, edited version of course.
After a couple of weeks of these lessons, I turned a corner to hear him reciting a poem I taught him to learn numbers. He didn't turn in any of his homework that day, but he had copied the poem five times in French and in English, and his pronunciation was damn near perfect.
But its not all rainbows and butterflies. Over our Fall break, I got a panicked call from the mother of one of the 8th graders I had gotten to be pretty close with. We went out to buy him football cleats together, I brought dinner to his family and ate it with them (since he was on house arrest, we had to eat in pretty often), and he asked to work with me when he was behind or worked up. But over the break, with no possibility of leaving his house because of his ankle jewelry, he snapped. He went nuts and began to yell at his mother. The situation escalated from there until, finally, it got to be physical. His mom promptly kicked him out to live with his father on the other side of the city.
With that call, my inertia really kicked in. I was living the life in Pittsburgh, and a huge motivator for me at work was gone. Obviously I never even remotely considered leaving my job, my kids, or this city. But the grease was gone off the wheels, and going back was tough.
But about 15 minutes into the day, as students were entering the building, I started to get back into the swing of the day as kids came in refreshed and almost excited to be back in school. One young, ambitious eighth grader came in lacking his usual zeal and awkward, pubescent vocals. I asked what was up.
"You know Au'sha? From our class?"
"Yeah, of course."
"He's dead." he told me, too matter of factly.
I guess my initial reaction was to chastize this boy for making a bad joke about a classmate. But when I saw the stream of young ladies start coming upstairs with streams of tears carrying their over-application of mascara away from their eyes, I could not deny it was true.
The details of the crime were gruesome and senseless and infuriating and sickening. The slow-motion investigation that ensued was enormously frustrating, but ultimately uncovered a perpetraitor.
People say that bad news is a wet blanket. This news was less like a wet blanket on the school as it was like a tennis ball launcher loaded with bricks, set to non-stop. Being at school hurt, for us and for the students. And even as it hurt, and even as students found it impossible to make it through the day or merely walk through the door, they also mobilized for each other. You would see hugs or pats on the back between students throughout the day. No one had the energy to act up, and there was a sense that squandering school was an insult to Au'sha and his memory.
When students lost control orl ost sight of the bigger picture, their friends would remind them. If their freinds weren't around, their classmates would step-in. When their classmates weren't around, their enemies would take up the mantle and give them a hug.
If tragedies have to have a silver lining, I'm still having trouble focusing on that in the case of Au'sha's murder. But I suppose one bright spot was obvious among our students, our scholars, his friends: students learned to cope with devastation, to express their feelings, to grieve a loss, to depend on friends, and to fondly remember a loved one. They're children, forced to grow up too quickly, but their only hope is to rise to the challenge.
Still, its difficult to shake the notion that we, particularly our kids, live in a world devoid of justice, where hard work is often fruitless, and where every single step of the climb is uphill. I want to be there to congratulate them when they finally make it to that summit.
Someone wise once told me that you should never leave a crowd depressed, and so, a lighter note to end:
This past Saturday, after weeks of playing on my Catholic guilt, a few of my students coerced me into going to our flag football game...at 9 AM. Some people have lead feet. I have lead eyelids, and they don't open easily on Saturdays at 9 AM. One student, let's call him Mark, was really excited to go to the game, but didn't have a ride. We made a deal that if he ended the week without detentions, I would buy him lunch and I would take him to the game. Mark came through on his end, so I had to come through on mine.
The boys lost a barn burner 16-12 (we had a six point TD and three, count 'em three, safeties), but it was hilarious to watch them screaming and huddling and hoo-hahing all morning. By their intensity, it might as well have been the Superbowl of middle school flag football.
On the way home, Mark and I stopped for lunch at Wendy's. All morning, Mark had been surprisingly forthcoming about his life: his friends, his triggers, his goals, and his insecurities (he's so embarrassed that he can't swim. So that's next on our To-Do list). Mark had been labeled by our school as a behavior issue, meaning that teachers tended to write him off quickly. He told me that he often felt attacked and vulnerable, unwatned and intolerable.
If I felt that way everyday, I'd act up, too.
A homeless man greeted Mark and I as we headed into Wendy's. We didn't have cash so we offered to buy him lunch instead of giving him a dollar. After Mark delivered the Single Combo meal to the gentleman, he came back in and sighed too deeply for a kid his age.
"What's up, my man?" I asked.
"Man, I don't want to be that guy."
"What?" I asked, not following Mark's half-baked logic.
"When I grow up, I want to be the guy who helps the guy, not the guy who needs the help."
It wasn't much, but it was worth the price of admission.
Thursday, November 10, 2011
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Hey, blogosphere! How Long's It Been?
You can all stop refreshing your pages incessantly. Yes, the wait is over, and Crawfish, Chalkboards, and Politics is officially returning from its one-month hiatus. It's amazing how quickly this month has passed, and equally amazing that, as I sit down to write this, I feel as if I have nothing to report. So, per usual, I'm just going to start writing and hope that eventually something substantive boils up. Hang on, team. It's going to be a wild ride to the end of this post.
There seem to be two main developments on which you are all probably starving for information. First, you're likely asking yourselves, how did Institute, which spawned so many charming stories of huggable seventh graders and teachable moments, finish up? Next, whatchu doing now, Mr. Glasser---er, Brad?
When we last spoke, I was in the ATL trying to reach these kids with mixed results. You may recall the notable example wherein one of the aforementioned students resisted my attempts to reach her by throwing a chair toward and around my face. This experience with the charming and ladylike Ciarra was, I thought, likely predictive of my next two years. I thought I was going to get better at teaching kids, but I'd really hone my expertise around dodging verbal and physical projectiles. In the waning days of Atlanta's Public Schools' summer school program, the inmates-running-the-asylum phenomenon was increasingly palpable. Students had discovered that we had very little recourse to manage their behavior. By very little, I mean that students would be referred to the main office for an outburst or disruption (or fight or threat), only to be sent back to class with a pocketful of candy and a pat on the back from the creepily and indomitably smiley principal. My faculty advisor, the woman who acted as the certified teacher in the room, began calling parents to tell them that summer school had ended early and that students should not attend the last week. Some parents revolted, saying that they just weren't ready to have their kids home yet. In fact, some of my students reported that they struck a deal with their parents: you don't have to go to school, so you can't stay here. The result was a seemingly out-of-place and ever-growing group of middle schoolers who lingered around our building until their friends got out of school. Why didn't they just go to school, you ask? Yeah. Me, too. But certainly the decision by these 13 year-olds to just, you know, not go to school, contributed to the feeling that they were actually running the show in Atlanta.
Underlying the Tahrir Square-esque sense of mass revolt was a major report issued by Governor Nathan Deal's office on July 5 detailing the widespread Atlanta cheating scandal. 178 teachers were implicated in the scandal, in which principals and administrators were accused of forcing classroom teachers to erase answers, correct students responses, and counsel students towards correct answers. It may have been a while since we all played the standardized test game, but these tactics are pretty widely accepted as against the rules. Illegal, you might say. So, as we packed up our modest classroom, the feeling of "holy crap, I think I just got kicked in the face for five weeks" was very apparent and even more widespread. Not only were students disengaged and very much over the monotony of summer school, but it felt as if the system that governed their lives and educations was being run by the Joker from the bowels of Gotham City's City Hall. (Batman references seem appropriate, since my native Burgh is the newest Gotham City.) Rather than leaving with a sense of renewed energy for our united purpose of education, I finished my time in Atlanta wondering how these poor kids could possibly stand a chance of breaking this oppressive cycle.
And I obviously didn't hide my frustration well: In one particular OMG moment, I calmly told the students in my class that they were really "F*cking up" their chances at a surprise. I was so far from cool-headed at the time, that I didn't even know I had said it until my co-teacher told me later. Note to self: Don't swear at kids. Further note to self: If you're going to swear at kids, choose a word other than the queen mother of all swear words. But seriously, don't swear.
But, as is always the case, glimmers of hope abounded. One student in my class was far behind in reading, and therefore in every other subject. As the last week of summer school began, he called my cell phone.
"Mr. Glasser?" I heard over the chaos of a living room that was far too animated for 10 PM on a Sunday.
"Hey, buddy, everything okay?" I asked, concerned that the chaos might be a situation.
"Well...my mom said there's no school tomorrow. But you said there was school tomorrow. What's going on?" His tone here was almost exasperated, as if to say, "Jeez, I'm trying to learn, here. Work with me, people!"
"There's definitely school tomorrow. Go ahead and show up all this week, and we'll have a great time."
DeAnthony was one of two students to show up that week. To reward his loyalty and dedication, I bought him a couple of books that I thought he would like.
Fast forward three weeks: I received the following text: "Mr. G. why'd you buy me this book about robots. I read the whole thing before I figured out they already made a movie! It has Will Smith"
To be fair, this kid had no business reading Asimov's I, Robot, since he was reading at a 5th grade level. But he did it, and he called me, and we talked about it. And he got it. I hear from Deanthony basically everyday, and he graces me with nuggets of wisdom, like "Whatchu doing?" or "It's hot in Atlanta" or "I like going to church but I get sleepy." When I don't respond immediately, he casually resends the message until I appropriately prioritize his response.
So one girl threw a chair in my face. But another student read a book this summer. That's some solace.
Loyal readers may recall the student's parent who commented that she liked my hair. I hear from her every now and then also. For better or for worse, she's even more forceful than DeAnthony when I don't respond. #takewhatyoucanget?
The end of Institute in Atlanta was also notable for me since I traveled through, over, or across something like 98 US states in a week. Beginning in Atlanta, I hopped up to Jackson Hole, Wyoming to join the fam and to remember what sub-volcancic temperatures felt like (although the Universe had a nice little laugh as it imposed the hottest week of the year on the Wyoming town just in time for my arrival). Having spent the 4th up north and over yonder, I scampered back to the ATL to put in my last few days. NB: Travelling from Atlanta to Wyoming too quickly might put you in culture shock. You've been warned. See above.
And now, on to more present material:
As quickly as we came to dominate Georgia Tech's campus, we vacated it en masse, leaving early Saturday morning for New Orleans. Saturday and Sunday were spent with my new roommates, who are incidentally awesome, trying to turbo-furnish our quaint new crib. Then, continuing the theme of "WAHHHHH I just got here and now I have so many things to do!" that has characterized the summer for me, I began work on Monday. While I'm sure that the week we spent on professional development did develop me professionally, the barrage of information proved to be both too robust and too unexciting to include here. But I'll give you some highlights.
There seem to be two main developments on which you are all probably starving for information. First, you're likely asking yourselves, how did Institute, which spawned so many charming stories of huggable seventh graders and teachable moments, finish up? Next, whatchu doing now, Mr. Glasser---er, Brad?
When we last spoke, I was in the ATL trying to reach these kids with mixed results. You may recall the notable example wherein one of the aforementioned students resisted my attempts to reach her by throwing a chair toward and around my face. This experience with the charming and ladylike Ciarra was, I thought, likely predictive of my next two years. I thought I was going to get better at teaching kids, but I'd really hone my expertise around dodging verbal and physical projectiles. In the waning days of Atlanta's Public Schools' summer school program, the inmates-running-the-asylum phenomenon was increasingly palpable. Students had discovered that we had very little recourse to manage their behavior. By very little, I mean that students would be referred to the main office for an outburst or disruption (or fight or threat), only to be sent back to class with a pocketful of candy and a pat on the back from the creepily and indomitably smiley principal. My faculty advisor, the woman who acted as the certified teacher in the room, began calling parents to tell them that summer school had ended early and that students should not attend the last week. Some parents revolted, saying that they just weren't ready to have their kids home yet. In fact, some of my students reported that they struck a deal with their parents: you don't have to go to school, so you can't stay here. The result was a seemingly out-of-place and ever-growing group of middle schoolers who lingered around our building until their friends got out of school. Why didn't they just go to school, you ask? Yeah. Me, too. But certainly the decision by these 13 year-olds to just, you know, not go to school, contributed to the feeling that they were actually running the show in Atlanta.
Underlying the Tahrir Square-esque sense of mass revolt was a major report issued by Governor Nathan Deal's office on July 5 detailing the widespread Atlanta cheating scandal. 178 teachers were implicated in the scandal, in which principals and administrators were accused of forcing classroom teachers to erase answers, correct students responses, and counsel students towards correct answers. It may have been a while since we all played the standardized test game, but these tactics are pretty widely accepted as against the rules. Illegal, you might say. So, as we packed up our modest classroom, the feeling of "holy crap, I think I just got kicked in the face for five weeks" was very apparent and even more widespread. Not only were students disengaged and very much over the monotony of summer school, but it felt as if the system that governed their lives and educations was being run by the Joker from the bowels of Gotham City's City Hall. (Batman references seem appropriate, since my native Burgh is the newest Gotham City.) Rather than leaving with a sense of renewed energy for our united purpose of education, I finished my time in Atlanta wondering how these poor kids could possibly stand a chance of breaking this oppressive cycle.
And I obviously didn't hide my frustration well: In one particular OMG moment, I calmly told the students in my class that they were really "F*cking up" their chances at a surprise. I was so far from cool-headed at the time, that I didn't even know I had said it until my co-teacher told me later. Note to self: Don't swear at kids. Further note to self: If you're going to swear at kids, choose a word other than the queen mother of all swear words. But seriously, don't swear.
But, as is always the case, glimmers of hope abounded. One student in my class was far behind in reading, and therefore in every other subject. As the last week of summer school began, he called my cell phone.
"Mr. Glasser?" I heard over the chaos of a living room that was far too animated for 10 PM on a Sunday.
"Hey, buddy, everything okay?" I asked, concerned that the chaos might be a situation.
"Well...my mom said there's no school tomorrow. But you said there was school tomorrow. What's going on?" His tone here was almost exasperated, as if to say, "Jeez, I'm trying to learn, here. Work with me, people!"
"There's definitely school tomorrow. Go ahead and show up all this week, and we'll have a great time."
DeAnthony was one of two students to show up that week. To reward his loyalty and dedication, I bought him a couple of books that I thought he would like.
Fast forward three weeks: I received the following text: "Mr. G. why'd you buy me this book about robots. I read the whole thing before I figured out they already made a movie! It has Will Smith"
To be fair, this kid had no business reading Asimov's I, Robot, since he was reading at a 5th grade level. But he did it, and he called me, and we talked about it. And he got it. I hear from Deanthony basically everyday, and he graces me with nuggets of wisdom, like "Whatchu doing?" or "It's hot in Atlanta" or "I like going to church but I get sleepy." When I don't respond immediately, he casually resends the message until I appropriately prioritize his response.
So one girl threw a chair in my face. But another student read a book this summer. That's some solace.
Loyal readers may recall the student's parent who commented that she liked my hair. I hear from her every now and then also. For better or for worse, she's even more forceful than DeAnthony when I don't respond. #takewhatyoucanget?
The end of Institute in Atlanta was also notable for me since I traveled through, over, or across something like 98 US states in a week. Beginning in Atlanta, I hopped up to Jackson Hole, Wyoming to join the fam and to remember what sub-volcancic temperatures felt like (although the Universe had a nice little laugh as it imposed the hottest week of the year on the Wyoming town just in time for my arrival). Having spent the 4th up north and over yonder, I scampered back to the ATL to put in my last few days. NB: Travelling from Atlanta to Wyoming too quickly might put you in culture shock. You've been warned. See above.
And now, on to more present material:
As quickly as we came to dominate Georgia Tech's campus, we vacated it en masse, leaving early Saturday morning for New Orleans. Saturday and Sunday were spent with my new roommates, who are incidentally awesome, trying to turbo-furnish our quaint new crib. Then, continuing the theme of "WAHHHHH I just got here and now I have so many things to do!" that has characterized the summer for me, I began work on Monday. While I'm sure that the week we spent on professional development did develop me professionally, the barrage of information proved to be both too robust and too unexciting to include here. But I'll give you some highlights.
- The school where I am currently working was the worst K-8 school in New Orleans two years ago, when it was part of New Orleans' Recovery School District.
- The school was taken over by ReNew Charter Management Organization, the organization by whom I am technically employed, at the start of last school year. The organization itself is only in its second year.
- Last year, it began with a state score of 15/200, a bottom of the barrel score it had earned for years.
- By the end of the year, that score had increased fourfold, to 60/200. Still not good, but, you know, four times better than it had been.
- At the beginning of the year last year, 15% of Batiste students could read on grade level. By June, 43% could. Our goal this year is to take that up to 75%. Check out this news story.
- Special Education and over-aged students are huge centers of focus, since many local schools skirt their legal obligations to serve these students.
- The Charter organization cares students primarily, but does a pretty remarkable job demonstrating to its teachers that student success relies heavily on having teachers who have the tools to succeed. So our classrooms are technologied-out, we get support systems that would make my high school teachers break things out of envy, and our administration is a remarkably united front with a cohesive philosophy on our approach to education.
Take a second to think back to your middle school years. Maybe it was just me, but my years were characterized by hormones, note passing, really explosive (and exciting) hallway fights, so much interpersonal drama, and other uniquely early teenage problems. When the bell rang at the end of a class, students immediately poured out of the classroom wearing a wide range of clothing. We then moved slowly through the halls, making sure we used each of our five free minutes to the best of our ability.
Now imagine this: There are no bells. Students sit in the SLANT position during class (sitting up, listening, asking and answering questions, nodding their heads, and tracking the speaker). Students wear navy pants, shorts, or skirts with a gray polo that bears the school insignia. We move silently in a single-file line from 90-minute class to 90-minute class in a five-point check formation (feet forward, eyes front, mouths closed, hands at your side, ears open for directions). Students have one ten-minute block to use the restroom with their homeroom class. No student is ever in the hallway unattended. Ever. And a failure to uphold any of these standards results in a paycheck deduction. Obviously, the paycheck is virtual money, not real money, and the amount of the paycheck dictates whether the students are eligible for certain incentives. So, when it comes time for our Friday celebration, students can either attend if they have more than $80 on their checks, or not attend if they have less than $80. All of this is monitored and maintained by an online system that requires each infraction to be scanned alongside each student's individual bar code. Yep. Each student has a barcode. We scan that bar code as well as the bar code that corresponds to their infraction. Major takeways: If a military academy and the Tom Cruise film Minority Report had a baby, it might look a lot like Batiste Cultural Arts Academy.
As someone who loved the independence of middle school, I had some concerns about the hyper-structured environment we were cultivating at BCAA. But the results are incredible. In the major sea of cluster nonsense that characterized Atlanta, I heard expletives almost exclusively from some students. That's not an exaggeration. Some students legitimately swore with a frequency that would make Ozzie Guillen and Ozzie Osbourne blush. At this school, it took eight days for me to hear a swear word from a student.
That's not to say that the school doesn't have challenges. We're still serving a population of students who desperately need intervention to get to where they ought to be. We're still serving a population whose lives outside of school are by large volatile at best and dangerous at worst. We're still serving a population that has been turned away too many times to count and failed at every juncture of their education. And we're serving a population who lives in a city that is scarred and recovering from the worst series of events imaginable (Katrina, levees, oil spill to name a few). These are students who are crying out for some structure and routinization in life, in some cases literally doing so. So even when they push back against the structures we've created for them, they eventually internalize them and follow their classmates' example. Oh, also, school goes from July 18th until early June. So we're in it for the longest of hauls.
Another really exciting point of this next phase in my teaching career (an expression I still find to be a little cumbersome) is the fact that I am teaching social studies. While I can't say that latitude and longitude are really the reasons I came to love the topic, even the foundational skills we've been working on so far are enough to get me all fired up.
Some other teacher-y lessons i've picked up along the way:
- Turns out papering an adding borders to bulletin boards SUCKS. Seriously. Crazy amounts of props to my 3rd grade Mrs. Thompson who used to change those guys every two weeks and Ms. Zinger who took great pride in her bulletin boards. I need to lockdown an artsy significant other just to handle that for me.
- Machiavelli, I've got an answer for you: One isn't better than the other. If they fear you, they will learn to love you, too.
- Even kids have strong feelings about the Steelers. I've placed several bets with students already about which team, the Saints or the Steelers, will end the season with a better record. Truth be told, I made those bets before the lockout ended. So I'm really counting on a big year from the Black and Gold, or I'm going to need to find some kind of part-time employment.
- This teaching stuff is not as easy as teachers make it look.
Here's to fakin' it till you make it.
Until next time y'all (did I pull that off?)
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Dog Days are (Almost) Over
I've never been married, but if the wedded bliss of the honeymoon period ends as abruptly and as jarringly as our classroom's honeymoon phase ended, I will steer clear. Almost overnight, we watched as our students went totally gremlin on us, changing from adorable Furby-like creatures to terrorizing villains, deadset on destroying the town. And eventually the world.
That was the unshakable feeling that characterized my first couple of days this week: where did our kids go, and how did these little bastards get in the door? And then yesterday happened.
Yesterday, I left class feeling like a boss. For most of my 90-minute lesson, the classroom was a circus. Literally, I had several students roaring like lions simultaneously and several others attempting to juggle. None of them succeeded, regretably, so they continued to try. One student, Jackie- dear, sweet, adorable Jackie- contorted her face into an expression that can only be described as Quasimodo-esque each time I said her name. That picturesque image was complemented by a teeth-sucking noise which is actually probably best replicated by popping several dozen balloons at once. Other students alternated between kicking beats and busting flows which almost always centered around me. To put it mildly: they weren't complimenting me in their verses (eg: "Your hair too curly, your shoe's ain't black so that mean your tie don't match" NB: they haven't learned internal rhyme schemes yet). Still others strained to hear the long list of directions I feebly tried to put out there in an attempt to find some semblance of order. I had a moment when I felt like we'd all be better off if I just started spitting verses over top of their beats.
Maybe it was the lack of confidence I have in my freestyling or maybe it was the countless hours of classroom management instruction we've endured---er, enjoyed--- during institute, or maybe it was my advisor (who was surreptitiously filming me in the corner), but something told me to hang in there. (I can say pretty categorically that it was my advisor, who told me to "hang in there" several times verbatim). Then, as if by miracle, there was a collective breath, a silence that struck the entire room at once. I pounced. Hard.
I physically grabbed students, put them into small groups, and gave them simple instructions. Read these texts, answer these questions, write this response. The collective silence continued. I felt a whole lot like I was the kid from The Day After Tomorrow, when he enters the eye of the storm. No way it's actually that easy. I've seen these kids work hard, but I have also seen them dig their heels in and stop me dead in my lesson-planned tracks. I was skeptical.
And boy did I eat my words. For the next 45 minutes, the students universally worked hard, followed instructions, and shocked me with the amount of my babble they had absorbed. But the skepticism remained, and I watched the four groups of kids like a hawk, jumping on any sign of diversion or non-complaince. Again, I ate my words as I ran (well, what I call running) over to the group of students (who read at the highest level) because they seemed distracted (they also misbehave at the highest level). When I got there to put them back on task, I overheard the following exchange:
Octavius: I mean, I know, but I'm saying MLK's using the Bible because this is supposed to be read by everybody. Everybody knows the Bible.
Jackie: But this quote don't even make sense here. If he wanted it in here so bad, at least put it where it makes sense. It's just too much right here.
Naja: I guess so, but where else is it going to go?
Shaniqua: Right at the beginning, it'll set it up real nice.
Most people use expressions like "I almost pooped myself" jokingly. But my reaction was one of such genuine, physical surprise that I could had a momentary scare when I thought I might need a diapy change. I looked at my advisor, who had of course NOT caught this historic moment on film, who gestured for me to close my mouth and hide my shock from the kids.
Compounding this shock, every other group in the room--a total of 9 other students-- was working diligently as well. I felt like I had just taught Helen Keller to speak.
Finally, like a cherry on top of some sweet, sweet Ben and Jerry's, I graded their end-of-lesson assessment, or exit tickets, to see that 70% of my students had mastered the skill I taught in the lesson. On average, 1-3 students had performed at a mastery level for any given objective. Over night, I defeated the gremlins, and saved the whole friggin town. And it was awesome.
While we're discussing little victories, yesterday began our post-summer school testing period, when we ask students to retake the diagnostic reading assessment we gave them several weeks ago (read: two weeks ago) to see how far they've come. Despite my belief that I had widened, not narrowed, the achievement gap, two of the four students tested yesterday met or exceeded their goals. So, in two and a half weeks, these two girls moved from mid-fifth grade levels to early sixth-grade levels. Sure, they're entering eighth grade nearly two years behind, but they're no longer three years behind. And that's something. Of the seven we've tested after Thursday, seven showed at least some improvement. Could it be better? Yes. Will I take it? All the way to friggin bank. Jackie, formerly of Quasimodo face fame, even shook my hand and thanked me before leaving the room.
Loyal readers will remember that I only teach every other day, so Thursday was an off day for me, meaning that I primarily deal with behavioral issues while my co-teacher handles lesson execution. Lessons learned today are as follows:
They didn't hit me.
When one girl finally got so frustrated with my calm, cool and collected-ness that she cried, I smiled and told her "I'll be leaving with a smile and she'll be leaving in tears. Given that, who won today? I did. You should get used to that. " Boom. Legit, right? A teacher next door came up later to tell me how "balling out of control I was." Which again, I will take. But still, following a day like yesterday, I felt bad that things had deteriorated so aggressively. Such is life in a classroom, I'm told. Tomorrow is another day.
But, as always, these kids are first and foremost, hi-friggin-larious. Some quotes from students, unless otherwise indicated:
A demain, mes amis.
That was the unshakable feeling that characterized my first couple of days this week: where did our kids go, and how did these little bastards get in the door? And then yesterday happened.
Yesterday, I left class feeling like a boss. For most of my 90-minute lesson, the classroom was a circus. Literally, I had several students roaring like lions simultaneously and several others attempting to juggle. None of them succeeded, regretably, so they continued to try. One student, Jackie- dear, sweet, adorable Jackie- contorted her face into an expression that can only be described as Quasimodo-esque each time I said her name. That picturesque image was complemented by a teeth-sucking noise which is actually probably best replicated by popping several dozen balloons at once. Other students alternated between kicking beats and busting flows which almost always centered around me. To put it mildly: they weren't complimenting me in their verses (eg: "Your hair too curly, your shoe's ain't black so that mean your tie don't match" NB: they haven't learned internal rhyme schemes yet). Still others strained to hear the long list of directions I feebly tried to put out there in an attempt to find some semblance of order. I had a moment when I felt like we'd all be better off if I just started spitting verses over top of their beats.
Maybe it was the lack of confidence I have in my freestyling or maybe it was the countless hours of classroom management instruction we've endured---er, enjoyed--- during institute, or maybe it was my advisor (who was surreptitiously filming me in the corner), but something told me to hang in there. (I can say pretty categorically that it was my advisor, who told me to "hang in there" several times verbatim). Then, as if by miracle, there was a collective breath, a silence that struck the entire room at once. I pounced. Hard.
I physically grabbed students, put them into small groups, and gave them simple instructions. Read these texts, answer these questions, write this response. The collective silence continued. I felt a whole lot like I was the kid from The Day After Tomorrow, when he enters the eye of the storm. No way it's actually that easy. I've seen these kids work hard, but I have also seen them dig their heels in and stop me dead in my lesson-planned tracks. I was skeptical.
And boy did I eat my words. For the next 45 minutes, the students universally worked hard, followed instructions, and shocked me with the amount of my babble they had absorbed. But the skepticism remained, and I watched the four groups of kids like a hawk, jumping on any sign of diversion or non-complaince. Again, I ate my words as I ran (well, what I call running) over to the group of students (who read at the highest level) because they seemed distracted (they also misbehave at the highest level). When I got there to put them back on task, I overheard the following exchange:
Octavius: I mean, I know, but I'm saying MLK's using the Bible because this is supposed to be read by everybody. Everybody knows the Bible.
Jackie: But this quote don't even make sense here. If he wanted it in here so bad, at least put it where it makes sense. It's just too much right here.
Naja: I guess so, but where else is it going to go?
Shaniqua: Right at the beginning, it'll set it up real nice.
Most people use expressions like "I almost pooped myself" jokingly. But my reaction was one of such genuine, physical surprise that I could had a momentary scare when I thought I might need a diapy change. I looked at my advisor, who had of course NOT caught this historic moment on film, who gestured for me to close my mouth and hide my shock from the kids.
Compounding this shock, every other group in the room--a total of 9 other students-- was working diligently as well. I felt like I had just taught Helen Keller to speak.
Finally, like a cherry on top of some sweet, sweet Ben and Jerry's, I graded their end-of-lesson assessment, or exit tickets, to see that 70% of my students had mastered the skill I taught in the lesson. On average, 1-3 students had performed at a mastery level for any given objective. Over night, I defeated the gremlins, and saved the whole friggin town. And it was awesome.
While we're discussing little victories, yesterday began our post-summer school testing period, when we ask students to retake the diagnostic reading assessment we gave them several weeks ago (read: two weeks ago) to see how far they've come. Despite my belief that I had widened, not narrowed, the achievement gap, two of the four students tested yesterday met or exceeded their goals. So, in two and a half weeks, these two girls moved from mid-fifth grade levels to early sixth-grade levels. Sure, they're entering eighth grade nearly two years behind, but they're no longer three years behind. And that's something. Of the seven we've tested after Thursday, seven showed at least some improvement. Could it be better? Yes. Will I take it? All the way to friggin bank. Jackie, formerly of Quasimodo face fame, even shook my hand and thanked me before leaving the room.
Loyal readers will remember that I only teach every other day, so Thursday was an off day for me, meaning that I primarily deal with behavioral issues while my co-teacher handles lesson execution. Lessons learned today are as follows:
- When they want to, 7th grade girls can really hurl chairs down the hall.
- They can also yell loudly enough to be heard on lower floors.
- If someone right next to you is in your face yelling loudly enough to be hear through concrete floors, it's really loud for you.
- I don't know all the swear words that these kids do. And they have no qualms about teaching them to me by using them on me.
- Yesterday was a win for me, not for them.
- If a student wants to hurl a chair down the hall, calling her mother will not stop her.
- Nothing drives a kid crazier than failing to get a teacher fired up.
They didn't hit me.
When one girl finally got so frustrated with my calm, cool and collected-ness that she cried, I smiled and told her "I'll be leaving with a smile and she'll be leaving in tears. Given that, who won today? I did. You should get used to that. " Boom. Legit, right? A teacher next door came up later to tell me how "balling out of control I was." Which again, I will take. But still, following a day like yesterday, I felt bad that things had deteriorated so aggressively. Such is life in a classroom, I'm told. Tomorrow is another day.
But, as always, these kids are first and foremost, hi-friggin-larious. Some quotes from students, unless otherwise indicated:
- Man, Mister Glasser, let me get some scholar dollars. The recession's over, man!
- Me: You done? Student: Came, read, conquered, Mr. G.
- I can't put my phone away. My mom's texting me. She said she likes your hair.
- I'm too tired of these school lunches. I'm a foodie.
- My kitchen's my favorite place in the world. Cuz I stay be cooking up. (Yes, that IS a crack reference #laughoryou'llcry)
- Gandhi proposed non-violence as a way to gain equal rights for Indians in both South Africa and India. And that's not a diaper he's wearing.
- You can't say Negro Mr. G. Talking bout baseball or whatever, you gotta call it the African American Leagues. It's the law.
- What do you mean I read like a fourth-grader? That's upendsive. No, not offensive. I feel upended by what you just said. See I know words.
- Hm. Darfur is either a computer company or a small island in the Indian ocean. (see: Diversity, the Civil War-era ship)
- After volunteering to give the date to the class: Today is July 18th. What?! It's still June. When did school end? When does school start? Why'd I think it was July?
- How you gonna say I'ma kid when I bleed on the monthly? (RAWKWARD)
A demain, mes amis.
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Daily Dose of Political Griping: Choosing to Believe in Reality
In the spirit of Teach for America's mandated self-reflection, I've been thinking a lot about the good ole blog and my performance pertaining to it. I realized that I haven't told any of you what to think about politics in a long time. I'm not angry at myself for this negligence, I'm just disappointed. Just you are, I'm sure. Since there's so much to cover, I'm just going to run through everything really quickly, Twitter-style (make your Anthony Weiner jokes now, before that window closes for good) in chronological order.
So here goes:
(Drum Roll)
New Hampshire Republican Debate
I have to first say that it's been, what, just about two weeks since this modern-day, party-style Lincoln-Douglass debate happened. Since then, I've been thinking, literally daily, about how best to summarize this evening for you.
Well, just as we exited the never-ending NHL season, we entered the regular season of an equally frigid stand-off that promises to leave at least a few contenders toothless and bloodied. But Monday's debate among seven of the candidates for the Republican nomination looked and sounded more like a fraternity reunion at the Nascar track than the free-for-all you may have expected. And while the noticeable lack of elbow throwing was a little disappointing, I'm happy to report that plenty of previously-known opinions were rehashed, very little new light was shed, and literally nothing changed between pre-debate and post-debate polling. Still, there is no doubt in this guy's mind that we just had the pleasure of witnessing the 21st century Lincoln-Douglass discourse.
Before I continue, I should warn my epileptic audience that the linked videos contained herein are ridiculously over-stimulating. Continuing their noble tradition of really overdoing it (remember the Will.i.am hologram who used the Force to speak to us on election night '08?), CNN went bonkers, inviting viewers to tweet @CNN #CNNdebate, like the event on Facebook, friend the moderator on LinkedIn, check in on FourSquare, live Blog along with the press corps assembled, scan the QR barcode for exclusive information and Google chat your emotions using only emoticons throughout the evening. It was like being there! They kept telling us.
The night was all smiles from everyone but the moderator, John King, who awkwardly "mmhmmed" nearly every sentence uttered from the stage and who clearly was displeased to have not been allowed to ask his own questions. The night really began with a strong showing from your neighbor (neighvor?) and mine, T-Paw$$. Who actually used his home-spun appeal to cast himself as my neighbor. Not only am I positive that Mr. Pawlenty lives nowhere near me, I know that I've never even visited his home state. So his banal assertion that he is my neighbor really just made me angry. Because he was lying. And because it was reminiscent of when one Delaware would-be Senator kept insisting that she IS me, and not a witch. Even though she pretty clearly wasn't me and made several statements asserting that witchcraft had at least been a pastime for her. (In my perfect world, Christine O'Donnell would have been on that stage, standing somewhere between Rick Santorum and Newt Gingrich.)
All and all, the debate came off to me as a coffee chat between some alarming like-minded people (excluding Ron Paul) who agree on a lot of things. That still leaves room, of course, for notable moments:
In one of the more terrifying games of Chicken to ever occur on our political streets, Congress has failed to reach a consesnsus on whether or not we should pay our national bills. Instead, they've spent the last two weeks leaking incongruous and erratic messages on the state of negotiations. One day, Mitch McConnell was alluding to the possibility of short-term (one to two months) ceiling increases, a huge departure from his earlier posturing. Three days later, the White House made equally optimistic statements, hinting that perhaps a concrete deal for a three month increase could happen. Three days after that, negotiations fell apart when Eric Cantor got mad, took his ball and went home, promising to never play again. Oy. I get that our debt's irresponsibly high. But we're not Greece. Just raise the roof, er--ceiling. Has anyone tried suggesting that the President and the Speaker hit the links? That has to fix it.
In an attempt to be heartfelt and patriotic for the final round of the U.S. Open, NBC chose to create a montage of children reciting parts of the Pledge of Allegiance. Funny thing was, somebody "accidentally" omitted the words "under God" from the Pledge. Oopsies. Dear NBC, You're not helping the right's opinion of you, friends. Sincerely, Brad.
Clarence Thomas is up to no good, which is an unusual shift his usual default states of doing nothing and just sitting there. Apparently, he has a rich friend named Harlan Crow who has been unusually kind to the family Thomas, mostly by offering up his significant financial means (he allegedly gave Ginny Thomas $50,000 to start her Tea Party group, which I believe is aptly called the Party Animals). The problem arises when you consider that Crow is also just throwing money at ultra-conservative causes, like that of Mrs. Thomas. I've never been a judge, but that seems like it shouldn't be cool with us, right? And all judges, not just this man with his really weird life and unfortunate reputation, should be subject to such rigorous examinations of potential conflicts. But this one is just another reason that I think Clarence's scales of justice need to be calibrated or removed from the highest court in the land.
I would be hard-pressed to choose a winner from the first Republican Debate (see above). To me, that'd be like choosing the best knife from your set of identical silverware. I'm apparently alone in this regard. Less than a week after the debate, Ron Paul cleaned house at the Republican Leadership Conference earning 612 votes. That's 240 more than the place-horse, Jon Huntsman. Who again, opted to stay home.
We crowned Miss USA this past week. And the nation sat, riveted as the big moment arrived. Luckily, judges and audiences around the country chose one of the two (1 of the 2) women in the competition who believed in evolution. Just chew on that for a second.
Okay now spit it out.
Did you vomit?
Me too.
Jon Huntsman, only days after announcing his candidacy, earned the endorsement of the Democratic Senate Majority Leader, Harry Reid. Jon Huntsman ran faraway from Senator Reid and then gave a speech bashing healthcare reform. Just to prove he's actually a Republican.
In the world of what the whaaaaaa???? an LA man said he was kidnapped because of a sex tape featuring Shaq. Just read it for yourself.
Now you don't have to feel guilty for leaving today's paper in the bag. You know everything you need to know.
Until next time.
So here goes:
(Drum Roll)
New Hampshire Republican Debate
I have to first say that it's been, what, just about two weeks since this modern-day, party-style Lincoln-Douglass debate happened. Since then, I've been thinking, literally daily, about how best to summarize this evening for you.
Well, just as we exited the never-ending NHL season, we entered the regular season of an equally frigid stand-off that promises to leave at least a few contenders toothless and bloodied. But Monday's debate among seven of the candidates for the Republican nomination looked and sounded more like a fraternity reunion at the Nascar track than the free-for-all you may have expected. And while the noticeable lack of elbow throwing was a little disappointing, I'm happy to report that plenty of previously-known opinions were rehashed, very little new light was shed, and literally nothing changed between pre-debate and post-debate polling. Still, there is no doubt in this guy's mind that we just had the pleasure of witnessing the 21st century Lincoln-Douglass discourse.
Before I continue, I should warn my epileptic audience that the linked videos contained herein are ridiculously over-stimulating. Continuing their noble tradition of really overdoing it (remember the Will.i.am hologram who used the Force to speak to us on election night '08?), CNN went bonkers, inviting viewers to tweet @CNN #CNNdebate, like the event on Facebook, friend the moderator on LinkedIn, check in on FourSquare, live Blog along with the press corps assembled, scan the QR barcode for exclusive information and Google chat your emotions using only emoticons throughout the evening. It was like being there! They kept telling us.
The night was all smiles from everyone but the moderator, John King, who awkwardly "mmhmmed" nearly every sentence uttered from the stage and who clearly was displeased to have not been allowed to ask his own questions. The night really began with a strong showing from your neighbor (neighvor?) and mine, T-Paw$$. Who actually used his home-spun appeal to cast himself as my neighbor. Not only am I positive that Mr. Pawlenty lives nowhere near me, I know that I've never even visited his home state. So his banal assertion that he is my neighbor really just made me angry. Because he was lying. And because it was reminiscent of when one Delaware would-be Senator kept insisting that she IS me, and not a witch. Even though she pretty clearly wasn't me and made several statements asserting that witchcraft had at least been a pastime for her. (In my perfect world, Christine O'Donnell would have been on that stage, standing somewhere between Rick Santorum and Newt Gingrich.)
All and all, the debate came off to me as a coffee chat between some alarming like-minded people (excluding Ron Paul) who agree on a lot of things. That still leaves room, of course, for notable moments:
- Rick Santorum compared the repeal of Don't Ask Don't Tell to social experimentation. He actually didn't even compare DADT's repeal to social experimentation, he just call the repeal a social experiment. This from the man whose book asserted that any household which relied on two incomes was living beyond their means. Most of what he is says is about that logical. Look out, he's a comer.
- Ron Paul transitioned from the topic of National Debt to unemployment to his favorite Seinfeld episode to healthcare to that funny Taco Bell chihuahua to Islam in 4.8 seconds. If he were a car, he'd be a Maserati.
- The RNC make-up crew, clearly lacking the experience of making-up a female for one of these shindigs, left her looking like a Shaun of the Dead zombie.
- Herman Cain, whose profession was ambiguously identified as 'Businessman' for most of the evening (which I guess is better than Pizza guy?), prefers Deep. Dish. to thin crust. Thin crusts are for the French.
- The candidates all agree that the tenth amendment is real. They unanimously agreed to believe in the tenth amendment. Sometimes they choose not to believe something that is real (see: Global Warming). So, baby steps.
- Mitt Romney enjoys hot wings.
- Newt Gingrich is angry. He says it's because our government is failing us nowaday. I think it's probably because his whole campaign staff up and left when he went on vacation. How do you enjoy Greece with that on your mind? Selfish people, those staffers.
- Tim Pawlenty is pretty sure he likes Coke, but he can be persuaded. How unlike him.
- One question about immigration allowed each candidate to discuss how hard they had worked to be more like Jan Brewer of Arizona. Don't we all just want to be more like, Jan?
- Rick Santorum couldn't choose between Leno and Conan, which I chalk up to a moderator fail on the part of John King. Come on, man. Ask the Senator something he has an opinion on, like Biggie or Tupac.
- Jon Huntsman, living up to his reputed political prowess, watched from his couch.
In one of the more terrifying games of Chicken to ever occur on our political streets, Congress has failed to reach a consesnsus on whether or not we should pay our national bills. Instead, they've spent the last two weeks leaking incongruous and erratic messages on the state of negotiations. One day, Mitch McConnell was alluding to the possibility of short-term (one to two months) ceiling increases, a huge departure from his earlier posturing. Three days later, the White House made equally optimistic statements, hinting that perhaps a concrete deal for a three month increase could happen. Three days after that, negotiations fell apart when Eric Cantor got mad, took his ball and went home, promising to never play again. Oy. I get that our debt's irresponsibly high. But we're not Greece. Just raise the roof, er--ceiling. Has anyone tried suggesting that the President and the Speaker hit the links? That has to fix it.
In an attempt to be heartfelt and patriotic for the final round of the U.S. Open, NBC chose to create a montage of children reciting parts of the Pledge of Allegiance. Funny thing was, somebody "accidentally" omitted the words "under God" from the Pledge. Oopsies. Dear NBC, You're not helping the right's opinion of you, friends. Sincerely, Brad.
Clarence Thomas is up to no good, which is an unusual shift his usual default states of doing nothing and just sitting there. Apparently, he has a rich friend named Harlan Crow who has been unusually kind to the family Thomas, mostly by offering up his significant financial means (he allegedly gave Ginny Thomas $50,000 to start her Tea Party group, which I believe is aptly called the Party Animals). The problem arises when you consider that Crow is also just throwing money at ultra-conservative causes, like that of Mrs. Thomas. I've never been a judge, but that seems like it shouldn't be cool with us, right? And all judges, not just this man with his really weird life and unfortunate reputation, should be subject to such rigorous examinations of potential conflicts. But this one is just another reason that I think Clarence's scales of justice need to be calibrated or removed from the highest court in the land.
I would be hard-pressed to choose a winner from the first Republican Debate (see above). To me, that'd be like choosing the best knife from your set of identical silverware. I'm apparently alone in this regard. Less than a week after the debate, Ron Paul cleaned house at the Republican Leadership Conference earning 612 votes. That's 240 more than the place-horse, Jon Huntsman. Who again, opted to stay home.
We crowned Miss USA this past week. And the nation sat, riveted as the big moment arrived. Luckily, judges and audiences around the country chose one of the two (1 of the 2) women in the competition who believed in evolution. Just chew on that for a second.
Okay now spit it out.
Did you vomit?
Me too.
Jon Huntsman, only days after announcing his candidacy, earned the endorsement of the Democratic Senate Majority Leader, Harry Reid. Jon Huntsman ran faraway from Senator Reid and then gave a speech bashing healthcare reform. Just to prove he's actually a Republican.
In the world of what the whaaaaaa???? an LA man said he was kidnapped because of a sex tape featuring Shaq. Just read it for yourself.
Now you don't have to feel guilty for leaving today's paper in the bag. You know everything you need to know.
Until next time.
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
So Many Teacher's Dirty Looks
There's a really cliche moment in every sitcom where the leading lady gasps, puts her hands to her mouth, and breathlessly stumbles over the words, "Oh my God! I'm turning into my mother!" In the past week, since we last conversated (a word which my students refuse to believe is fake, and which I've therefore invited into my vernacular), I've had about three to four moments daily where I stop myself and follow the sitcom queen cliche. Except for me, I only mentally make that stereotypical "Oh no!" face as I consider how much instantly I've morphed into my junior high teachers.
"Ladies and Gentlemen, we'll all have better days if we can just complete this silently and stay on task."
"I don't want to give you consequences, but apparently you want to receive them!"
"I'm not yelling. Keep it up and I'll show you yelling."
"[choose a student's name], that's your warning. This isn't a conversation. Get back to work."
"No you can't go to the bathroom. If you were that thirsty, you wouldn't have thrown your juice away at lunch."
"I'll wait...[crickets] Ok, as I was saying..."
I think it's worth noting that I actually jot these down after each day, just to serve as gentle reminders to avoid at all costs, absolutely, no matter what, sounding like another droning "Womp womp womp womp wahmp" teacher from Peanuts. And this is in the first week, when energy's still there, and students don't, you know, always hate me yet.
On the first day of class, we began by passing out a survey to students which contained questions ranging from "how can we contact your parents?" to "what would you like to learn about this summer?" Respectively, the most popular answers were "404" and "math". Those of you who know telephones well probably have already recognized that "404", while an acceptable guess at the area code, is probably not the student's entire phone number. Diligent readers will recall that my students are in summer school only for reading. So, you know, strong off the starting block.
From there, we moved to Two Minute interviews, also known as Hot Seat, a game I learned from Corp legends who preceded me. Essentially, this involves the students yelling questions for two minutes and me trying to come up with a witty answer to questions like "How many kids you got?" If you think of a witty answer for that question which also makes clear that I have zero chilluns of my own, please do let me know. Other highlights included:
These kids are smart kids, as I've mentioned before. But, like kids are wont to do, they say a thousand words just by speaking their minds. From that question, I gathered that everything we had learned so far was true for these kids. these twelve and thirteen year-olds, just getting into the glory days, haven't been told in a long time, if ever, that they can succeed, that their work is valuable, or, in a lot of cases, that they themselves are valuable. During training two weeks ago, we watched a video in which a teacher from Chicago told each student who answered a question just how beautiful or brilliant or talented or brave he or she was. Everyday, she would hammer these points home and demand that they do exactly as she told them to do. Her philosophy was that, if she just refused to stop saying these things to her students (who, incidentally, she actually believed were all capable and driven, despite reputations and records) that they might just believe her one day. Fourteen of the sixteen students from that video received at least a college degree. the other two were unavailable for interview.
Without belaboring the point, I also jumped right into the game of calling parents. As you may know, the phone is my jam. I'll write an email, I might respond to your facebook post (though I'm terrible at keeping up with it), and the occasional Saturday night will result in a tweet. But the phone is where I really hit my groove. I spent a week trying to get in touch with half of my class's parents, or about 8 individuals. On day 1, I realized that approximately 1/3 of our entire class roster showed numbers which were disconnected. On day 2, after we issued the student survey, I realized taht I was no better off because, again, 404 is not a phone number. On day 3, I made some initial contact. In each convo with these rents, I explicitly said that his/her student was very bright or a talented reader or some variation thereon. Two of the first three parents legitimately disagreed with me. Tiger moms are one thing, a beast until themselves. But having a mother or aunt or grandmother who not only doesn't encourage you, but downright discourages you can't be a good thing to come home to.
It's no surprise then that many of these students find diversions to avoid going home, or frankly, just to attract some attention from an authority figure. In the past week, at my school, there's been an outbreak of eighth graders drinking some cocktail of Xanex, Jolly Ranchers, Sprite, and Robitussin. Last Wednesday, a student left her backpack in class. Upon exploring its contents to find out who it belonged to, my Faculty Advisor (the real teacher in my classroom), found a blade (exactly nine inches in length and far too haphazard to be considered a knife) rolled in a red bandana. This girl was permitted back into my room the next day. And HOLY CRAP the movies and songs these kids know. I mean, I listened to Tupac in seventh grade, but that would be Disney Radio compared to some of the lyrics that these kids spit in class. Also, no seventh grader should have an unedited knowledge of Friday. Innocence is gone.
In a moment of levity, one of my students did a spot on impression of crazy legs from don't be a menace. I got in trouble for laughing at him. But it was hillarious.
Speaking of levity, here's puppies, a reward for sticking it out this far.
As I explained to some of you, the vast number of TFA new Corps Members training here in Atlanta (nearly 800) means that many of us teach every other day for ninety minutes. Last week, I taught Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. On Monday, I walked in, and my advisor commented that I should prepare to roll with the punches. After all, "First days are rough." Preach. First day was rough. After the smashing success of administering the survey, the train really jumped the tracks. And went barrelling down the whole mountain. It took out women and children and whole villages. It was just not pretty. But think back to seventh grade, and imagine being in summer school for five weeks, five hours a day in the same room. No recess, no cafeteria, no library, no PE, no music, no science, no math. Just reading, reading, reading for five hours. The only natural reaction, as some of students so graciously taught me early on day 1, is to spin move around teachers (read: me) as they run laps up and down the hallway.
Monday ended, and I still felt great. Laps down the hallway I will take. There were no real issues, our kids seemed nice enough, I knew their names, and the didn't seem to mind me. Well. Then came Wednesday. I would have traded eight Monday hallway lap days just to get out of Wednesday. It really all began with what the school calls hot lunch, a Wednesday special in which these kids get more than bologna, bread, an apple, and a suncup. Instead, they get pizza with (probably) bologna on top, bread, an apple, and a suncup. I was caught off guard by hot lunch, but was actually kind of relieved, as I thought that studnets might feel better fed, a little more energized, and at least they burned some calories on the walk down to the steps.
I've never lived through an apocalypse (can't wait til November when I don't have to confess that anymore), but in hot lunch, I saw what the Book of Revelation was talking about. Fire and brimstone surged as students literally Ponged themselves from one side of the room to the other. The nice, neat single-file line which I lost my voice trying to facilitate dissolved instantaneously, and my students straight up dis-afriggin-peared. And then. The punch heard round the lunchtable was thrown, and it was as if he punched right through the floodgates of teenage boy hormones. No sooner was fight #1 ended then fight #2 already had a take down, and fight number #3 had devolved into some weird sort of giraffe fight.
Needless to say, hot lunch has been cancelled. While I wish it was due to lack of hustle, I think it was actually in response to the Grecian-style flash riots our kids whipped up.
One particularly eager hot lunch culprit was a sassy young lady who embodies most things unfun about teenage girls: boy crazy, attention-seeking, way too smart for summer school, but way too self-absorbed to realize it. I told her several times that she either had to get pizza or get back in line, but she could not roam the cafeteria. Several times, she acknowledged my request and made moves, only to pull some crazy under the table crap to avoid all lines. I was not feeling it. Even a little. When I finally cornered her, I felt ready with the BS Teacher D, and strolled up to her knowning exactly how to proceed. "You can either get in line to come back to class or your not coming back into my classroom," I said calmly.
"Betchu I will," she (literally) spat back, much less calmly.
"You're too smart to take such stupid bets, ma'am. You need to go see the principal."
As if she hadn't already ruined her odds, she turns around and looks me in the eye. "FUCK YOU!" she said, channeling Cee Lo Green. Incidentally, having those words put to music only makes them more gratifying for seventh graders to invoke. Just when you thought it wasn't possible. Anyway, sufficiently satisfied with my management skills, I swaggered back into my classroom only to find that student, the Cee Lo impersonator herself, back in her seat, grinning from ear to ear. "Can't kick kids out, Mr. Glasser. Here to learn," the principal informed me. Good thing I didn't take her bet on whether she'd be back, or I'd look like a wounded puppy who just lost $10, rather than just looking like a wounded puppy.
You can imagine how much work we completed in the last hour of that lesson. If you can't imagine it, try to. Then divide that amount in half. 19,000 times and you'll see exactly how much work we did (somewhere between none and negligible depending on the student).
Then came Friday. "Fridays can be really tough" was the best advice my advisor had to offer as students began to trickle in. And Friday was tough. But seriously, if Fridays are tough, Hot Lunch days are tough (Wednesdays), and Mondays are rough, we're looking at a pretty sparse week, eh? Friday was actually like watching a slow motion game of telephone
I just made a lot of fun of these kids, so I feel obliged to lay some more heavy stuff on you all. Scuse me, folks--on y'all. One student, of whom I am particularly fond, wrote a paragrph about her mom. As a warm-up activity, I asked her to expand it by adding details. At 12 years old, this yound girl's happiest, most available memory with her mother is a recollection of her mom arriving home from a jail a month earlier than expected. Why do you care about synonyms when that's what's on your mind? But somehow, she's the allstar in the bunch. Another student who is, once again, plenty smart to ace seventh grade without summer school (but way too lazy to attend enough regular school days to pass seventh grade) wrote freely about a "bad" day when she had to call the Atlanta equivalent of child protective services so that she could be removed from her mother's care. #howluckyweare
Rereading what I have here makes it sound like I'm complaining. I guess I am complaining about a lot of things. But none of them are teaching, or my classroom, or my kids, or this decision. I've righted exactly zero tracks and transformed precisely goose egg students in my four days on the job, but I have a good feeling about day five.
Sure, we still have to do crazy things, like look in the mirror and adjust our "teacher stares" until we are actually burning holes in glass. And yes, we do have to practice our teacher voices, in front of other people. Sure, there's busy work. And Woah my Lawdy Lah, what did teachers do without copiers? It's like the fall of Saigon to get into the TFA-specific copy center (which, though a fantastic resource for us, has named every copier and computer there after famous educators, movie stars, political figures or others. Copier number 19 seems easier to say than "Please advance to Dostoevsky, the ninteenth printer on your left"). But as long as copies are the low point of my day, I'll call it a good day.
Ok, for real finally, I saw Aaron Rodgers just chilling at a burrito place, loving life, and seemingly banking on a lockout (it dun lopped over). I tried to trip him, but turns out the guy's pretty light on his feet. And just in case you still think I'm not living the good life, consider this: I had a burger stuffed with shrimp and grits for dinner recently. My side? Tatchos, a multi-cultural mix between south of the border and tater tots.
If this place kills me, it won't be the kids. It will be the deep fryers.
"Ladies and Gentlemen, we'll all have better days if we can just complete this silently and stay on task."
"I don't want to give you consequences, but apparently you want to receive them!"
"I'm not yelling. Keep it up and I'll show you yelling."
"[choose a student's name], that's your warning. This isn't a conversation. Get back to work."
"No you can't go to the bathroom. If you were that thirsty, you wouldn't have thrown your juice away at lunch."
"I'll wait...[crickets] Ok, as I was saying..."
I think it's worth noting that I actually jot these down after each day, just to serve as gentle reminders to avoid at all costs, absolutely, no matter what, sounding like another droning "Womp womp womp womp wahmp" teacher from Peanuts. And this is in the first week, when energy's still there, and students don't, you know, always hate me yet.
On the first day of class, we began by passing out a survey to students which contained questions ranging from "how can we contact your parents?" to "what would you like to learn about this summer?" Respectively, the most popular answers were "404" and "math". Those of you who know telephones well probably have already recognized that "404", while an acceptable guess at the area code, is probably not the student's entire phone number. Diligent readers will recall that my students are in summer school only for reading. So, you know, strong off the starting block.
From there, we moved to Two Minute interviews, also known as Hot Seat, a game I learned from Corp legends who preceded me. Essentially, this involves the students yelling questions for two minutes and me trying to come up with a witty answer to questions like "How many kids you got?" If you think of a witty answer for that question which also makes clear that I have zero chilluns of my own, please do let me know. Other highlights included:
- Mr. Glasser, how'd you get your hair like that?
- Oh. So do you shower everyday?
- You going to wear those pants tomorrow?
- How many dates have you gone on in your life?
- Do you know Wiz Khalifa? (Actually, kids, this one time...)
- Why are you in summer school?
- Oh. So you ain't got anything better to do?
- Do you think we're smart kids or dumb kids?
These kids are smart kids, as I've mentioned before. But, like kids are wont to do, they say a thousand words just by speaking their minds. From that question, I gathered that everything we had learned so far was true for these kids. these twelve and thirteen year-olds, just getting into the glory days, haven't been told in a long time, if ever, that they can succeed, that their work is valuable, or, in a lot of cases, that they themselves are valuable. During training two weeks ago, we watched a video in which a teacher from Chicago told each student who answered a question just how beautiful or brilliant or talented or brave he or she was. Everyday, she would hammer these points home and demand that they do exactly as she told them to do. Her philosophy was that, if she just refused to stop saying these things to her students (who, incidentally, she actually believed were all capable and driven, despite reputations and records) that they might just believe her one day. Fourteen of the sixteen students from that video received at least a college degree. the other two were unavailable for interview.
Without belaboring the point, I also jumped right into the game of calling parents. As you may know, the phone is my jam. I'll write an email, I might respond to your facebook post (though I'm terrible at keeping up with it), and the occasional Saturday night will result in a tweet. But the phone is where I really hit my groove. I spent a week trying to get in touch with half of my class's parents, or about 8 individuals. On day 1, I realized that approximately 1/3 of our entire class roster showed numbers which were disconnected. On day 2, after we issued the student survey, I realized taht I was no better off because, again, 404 is not a phone number. On day 3, I made some initial contact. In each convo with these rents, I explicitly said that his/her student was very bright or a talented reader or some variation thereon. Two of the first three parents legitimately disagreed with me. Tiger moms are one thing, a beast until themselves. But having a mother or aunt or grandmother who not only doesn't encourage you, but downright discourages you can't be a good thing to come home to.
It's no surprise then that many of these students find diversions to avoid going home, or frankly, just to attract some attention from an authority figure. In the past week, at my school, there's been an outbreak of eighth graders drinking some cocktail of Xanex, Jolly Ranchers, Sprite, and Robitussin. Last Wednesday, a student left her backpack in class. Upon exploring its contents to find out who it belonged to, my Faculty Advisor (the real teacher in my classroom), found a blade (exactly nine inches in length and far too haphazard to be considered a knife) rolled in a red bandana. This girl was permitted back into my room the next day. And HOLY CRAP the movies and songs these kids know. I mean, I listened to Tupac in seventh grade, but that would be Disney Radio compared to some of the lyrics that these kids spit in class. Also, no seventh grader should have an unedited knowledge of Friday. Innocence is gone.
In a moment of levity, one of my students did a spot on impression of crazy legs from don't be a menace. I got in trouble for laughing at him. But it was hillarious.
Speaking of levity, here's puppies, a reward for sticking it out this far.
As I explained to some of you, the vast number of TFA new Corps Members training here in Atlanta (nearly 800) means that many of us teach every other day for ninety minutes. Last week, I taught Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. On Monday, I walked in, and my advisor commented that I should prepare to roll with the punches. After all, "First days are rough." Preach. First day was rough. After the smashing success of administering the survey, the train really jumped the tracks. And went barrelling down the whole mountain. It took out women and children and whole villages. It was just not pretty. But think back to seventh grade, and imagine being in summer school for five weeks, five hours a day in the same room. No recess, no cafeteria, no library, no PE, no music, no science, no math. Just reading, reading, reading for five hours. The only natural reaction, as some of students so graciously taught me early on day 1, is to spin move around teachers (read: me) as they run laps up and down the hallway.
Monday ended, and I still felt great. Laps down the hallway I will take. There were no real issues, our kids seemed nice enough, I knew their names, and the didn't seem to mind me. Well. Then came Wednesday. I would have traded eight Monday hallway lap days just to get out of Wednesday. It really all began with what the school calls hot lunch, a Wednesday special in which these kids get more than bologna, bread, an apple, and a suncup. Instead, they get pizza with (probably) bologna on top, bread, an apple, and a suncup. I was caught off guard by hot lunch, but was actually kind of relieved, as I thought that studnets might feel better fed, a little more energized, and at least they burned some calories on the walk down to the steps.
I've never lived through an apocalypse (can't wait til November when I don't have to confess that anymore), but in hot lunch, I saw what the Book of Revelation was talking about. Fire and brimstone surged as students literally Ponged themselves from one side of the room to the other. The nice, neat single-file line which I lost my voice trying to facilitate dissolved instantaneously, and my students straight up dis-afriggin-peared. And then. The punch heard round the lunchtable was thrown, and it was as if he punched right through the floodgates of teenage boy hormones. No sooner was fight #1 ended then fight #2 already had a take down, and fight number #3 had devolved into some weird sort of giraffe fight.
Needless to say, hot lunch has been cancelled. While I wish it was due to lack of hustle, I think it was actually in response to the Grecian-style flash riots our kids whipped up.
One particularly eager hot lunch culprit was a sassy young lady who embodies most things unfun about teenage girls: boy crazy, attention-seeking, way too smart for summer school, but way too self-absorbed to realize it. I told her several times that she either had to get pizza or get back in line, but she could not roam the cafeteria. Several times, she acknowledged my request and made moves, only to pull some crazy under the table crap to avoid all lines. I was not feeling it. Even a little. When I finally cornered her, I felt ready with the BS Teacher D, and strolled up to her knowning exactly how to proceed. "You can either get in line to come back to class or your not coming back into my classroom," I said calmly.
"Betchu I will," she (literally) spat back, much less calmly.
"You're too smart to take such stupid bets, ma'am. You need to go see the principal."
As if she hadn't already ruined her odds, she turns around and looks me in the eye. "FUCK YOU!" she said, channeling Cee Lo Green. Incidentally, having those words put to music only makes them more gratifying for seventh graders to invoke. Just when you thought it wasn't possible. Anyway, sufficiently satisfied with my management skills, I swaggered back into my classroom only to find that student, the Cee Lo impersonator herself, back in her seat, grinning from ear to ear. "Can't kick kids out, Mr. Glasser. Here to learn," the principal informed me. Good thing I didn't take her bet on whether she'd be back, or I'd look like a wounded puppy who just lost $10, rather than just looking like a wounded puppy.
You can imagine how much work we completed in the last hour of that lesson. If you can't imagine it, try to. Then divide that amount in half. 19,000 times and you'll see exactly how much work we did (somewhere between none and negligible depending on the student).
Then came Friday. "Fridays can be really tough" was the best advice my advisor had to offer as students began to trickle in. And Friday was tough. But seriously, if Fridays are tough, Hot Lunch days are tough (Wednesdays), and Mondays are rough, we're looking at a pretty sparse week, eh? Friday was actually like watching a slow motion game of telephone
I just made a lot of fun of these kids, so I feel obliged to lay some more heavy stuff on you all. Scuse me, folks--on y'all. One student, of whom I am particularly fond, wrote a paragrph about her mom. As a warm-up activity, I asked her to expand it by adding details. At 12 years old, this yound girl's happiest, most available memory with her mother is a recollection of her mom arriving home from a jail a month earlier than expected. Why do you care about synonyms when that's what's on your mind? But somehow, she's the allstar in the bunch. Another student who is, once again, plenty smart to ace seventh grade without summer school (but way too lazy to attend enough regular school days to pass seventh grade) wrote freely about a "bad" day when she had to call the Atlanta equivalent of child protective services so that she could be removed from her mother's care. #howluckyweare
Rereading what I have here makes it sound like I'm complaining. I guess I am complaining about a lot of things. But none of them are teaching, or my classroom, or my kids, or this decision. I've righted exactly zero tracks and transformed precisely goose egg students in my four days on the job, but I have a good feeling about day five.
Sure, we still have to do crazy things, like look in the mirror and adjust our "teacher stares" until we are actually burning holes in glass. And yes, we do have to practice our teacher voices, in front of other people. Sure, there's busy work. And Woah my Lawdy Lah, what did teachers do without copiers? It's like the fall of Saigon to get into the TFA-specific copy center (which, though a fantastic resource for us, has named every copier and computer there after famous educators, movie stars, political figures or others. Copier number 19 seems easier to say than "Please advance to Dostoevsky, the ninteenth printer on your left"). But as long as copies are the low point of my day, I'll call it a good day.
Ok, for real finally, I saw Aaron Rodgers just chilling at a burrito place, loving life, and seemingly banking on a lockout (it dun lopped over). I tried to trip him, but turns out the guy's pretty light on his feet. And just in case you still think I'm not living the good life, consider this: I had a burger stuffed with shrimp and grits for dinner recently. My side? Tatchos, a multi-cultural mix between south of the border and tater tots.
If this place kills me, it won't be the kids. It will be the deep fryers.
Monday, June 13, 2011
Mr. Glasser, huh?
First off, apologies for the delay in updating things. I'm sure you were all concerned for my safety. I appreciate your concern. You'll be glad to hear that I am alive.
Today was what you might call Day 1. That title seems appropriate since it was, in fact, the first day that I was teaching in front of students. It's important to note that this is the first day with actual students, as opposed to the two weeks I've spent teaching seventh grade reading to college graduates. I know practice is supposed to make perfect, but seriously, the most creative minds could only do so much to transform a group of 23 year-olds in suits into seventh grade summer school students. And for most of my TFA colleagues, their imaginations could only go so far in making them into seventh graders. Even when the TFA-ers were piling it on, I had to coax them into throwing a spitball my way. The same was not true for the students in my classroom.
To prepare us for entering the fray of summer school, the TFA training corps (must things in TFA are divided into Corps. Given the other Corps I know--Marine, end list--this seems like an overstep) gave us a series of lessons on classroom management and student investment. For those of you not yet indoctrinated in the Teach For America vernacular, classroom management refers to the series of non-corporal measures taken by a teacher to maintain law and order in the classroom. It's apparently important to specify corporal versus non-corporal because its still legal to beat kids in school in both Georgia and Louisiana. Yep. Why old-style Catholic schools haven't made a surge down here is beyond me. Seems like their cup of tea.
Anyway, classroom management stands in contrast to student investment, which refers to the series of positive reinforcement techniques employed by teachers to encourage students to take more agency in their education. At first, much of the suggested techniques for both management and investment seemed fairly juvenile to me, and I tried like hell to avoid exposing these seventh graders to kindergarten tactics.
I, along with some others in my cohort, expressed this theme of concern to our group advisor (who, incidentally, won the national award for teaching excellence from TFA last year. Casual. And studied at Oxford. Or Cambridge? Either way, she's a year older than me...). In order to highlight the importance of tight classroom management techniques, she recounted a story of bad classroom management which I am obliged to share with anyone and everyone. So tell your friends.
It went like this:
[Student texting]
Teacher: Now, you know we can't have cell phones in school. Put it away now or I'll take it.
[Crickets. Student presumably is exceeding her 160 character maximum.]
Teacher: Ok, I warned you. Give me your phone. You can have it at the end of the day.
[Student does not glance up, let alone hand over the contraband]
Teacher: (Student's name omitted), give me that phone or I'll have to send you to the Principal's office
[Students replies with incomprehensible syllables]
Teacher (in raised voice, approaching student): Ok get out. I'll let the office know you're coming.
Student (as if returning to consciousness all of a sudden): Man, you can't take my phone!
Situation escalates
Student: Man, fuck you, man.
Teacher: Fuck me? Fuck you!
Student: You can't talk to me like that. I'm calling my mom (presumably on the contraband cell phone).
Teacher: CALL DA BITCH!
This is, I've learned, a poor example of how to manage the classroom. For those of you taking notes, never call da bitch. Always don't call da bitch. Got it? Good.
In addition to management, we've talked extensively about lesson planning. I wish I could tell you what I've learned, but the feedback I've gotten on my submitted plans so far has put me in the Novice to Pre-Novice grouping. So I don't feel too comfortable propagating that wisdom yet.
One things that's become increasingly apparent is the number of gulfs between myself (and TFA at large) and the population we're serving. Some aren't too surprising: We, by and large, come from stable, supporting households. They do not. We, by and large, we're raised with college as a eventual educational terminus. These kids were not. We are nerds, almost exclusively. The kids we're teaching are not. Many of us are white, and therefore cannot speak firsthand to how racism feels or manifests itself. These kids can.
Other divides were less obvious: We were motivated by good grades and exciting teachers. Many of these kids are still waiting for an exciting teacher. We had to have our egos reeled in. You could tell these kids how brilliant they are for months, and they'd still laugh at you. Geographically and socioeconomically, TFA members are largely Northeastern, with all the connotations that brings along. These kids are black and from southern cities.
And maybe its not the nature of the divides, but more how obvious they are in watching some new teachers interact with students. For example, I heard some co-teachers debriefing about a "Getting to Know You" survey, during which several kids were confused by a question which asked who they would have lunch with if they could choose any historical figure. A fellow TFA member, in an effort to clear up questions, suggested several figures: "What about Malcolm X or Martin Luther King?" Now don't get me wrong, clearly those are two incredibly monumental figures in American history, and would make for great lunch dates. But when you individually suggest only those to options to each of the 14 students in the room, that becomes a red flag.
Another example: Having come from Georgetown, a place which is bad at diversity and where powerful student voices worked to begin diversity dialogues, I've had the opportunity to be a part of several diversity conversations. These are often uncomfortable, particularly when 11 white kids are staring one person of color in the face. TFA, however, facilitated a really impressive conversation about diversity, which began on a high note when one white, Corps members who was placed in Memphis opened up about his initial hesitations in accepting a placement in Memphis. What began as a soliliquoy about embracing his own ignorance and dismissing his embedded prejudices took a hard turn right and ended soundly in a ditch. One excerpt, which may be paraphrased, but I'm pretty sure is verbatim: "I just have never had a meaningful relationship with a black person. (Later, in a smaller group):I've played basketball with black people. But aside from that, I thought I could only talk to black people about kool-aid, watermelon and fried chicken."
Tactful right. Let's go party like its 1959..wait a second.
But as much as I want to totally divorce myself from statements and people like that, I'm acutely aware that we all, regardless of race, have some learning to do. More importantly, we're all acutely aware that as long as time is of the essence, as it is now, we don't have time to allow mindsets to subvert what we're after here. It's not secret that the achievement gap exists along racial and economic lines. Kids who need the most help are going to be poor minorities, especially poor minority males. And I'll never know even what it's kind of like to live in that skin. But I have learned that half the battle is realizing what you don't know.
I'm just going to go ahead and warn you henceforth: the more you learn about educational disparity in the U.S. the more it sucks. I'm no expert by any stretch. But a little knowledge is a dangerous thing, apparently, because I find it hard to resist indignance. Hence the paragraphs-long diatribes with no levity whatsoever. My bad!
Anyway, so my classroom. First off, I know good things would come since the room number is 412. And I was mostly right. I'm lucky enough to have kids who, by and large, want to be there. Or, at least show up most days, which is a huge plus compared to most classrooms. These kids, also, are by and large reading between 4th and 6th levels, so only 2-3 years behind where they ought to be. Which sounds terrible, until you hear about the 7th grader who's reading at a first grade level. Which is what we teachers call "perspective".
I walked in this morning a little nervous, which I cannot deny, but I had a couple things going for me. First, I chose this awesome sauce book that I read in seventh grade to use for my lesson. And the kids ate it up. Just like I did in seventh grade. Getting to revisit the Outsiders and Monster and Captain Underpants [deep sigh] glory days.
Anyway, probably the most noteworthy that occurred whilst I pedagoged (yep, I'm a reading teacher) was that nothing happened. Kids followed along. And answered questions. And it was awesome. One thing I forgot: Lunch is a huge deal when you're in school for hours upon hours. These guys were like Pavlov's dogs as soon as they heard a brown paper bag krinkle.
As a reward for listening to my co-teacher and I talk for hours and hours (seemingly), we played a game called hot seat, during which students got 3 minutes to ask each of us anything they wanted. I was concerned when the game started off slow.
This concern was erroneous.
One bold little feller started asking if I went on dates. If so, where? If there, with whom? (I actually wasn't too mad at that one since the student used the objective preposition. Big win.) If I'm dating why don't I have kids? Do I want to have kids? How long was I going to wait to have kids? Did I shower? Do I wear normal clothes on weekends? How old was I (they would have bet millions on >30 given the millions to bet)?
Questions went on in this vein for a while until the buzzer finally rang. But even after this period of full disclosure from me, you wouldn't believe how many kids refused to give us real phone numbers for their parents.
I also learned that getting along well with kids is not always a good thing. I'm really inclined to be all buddy with them, talk about their hopes and dreams, build them up, buy them things, hear about their lives, etc. But sometimes, especially inthese early days, they will take that slack and run with. Literally. One kid ran up to give me a high five, as I instructed, then pulled a spin move, ducked under my arm, and ran down the hall. But I felt pretty legit when I wrote him up. Who's laughing now, you crazy fast super human?
So, thus began the career and the series of adorable and infuriating anecdotes that will characterize my next two years. In sum, I don't have it yet. not by a long shot. But I'm feeling like it's attainable now, which is certainly progress. And I'm really rocking the teacher bag with some swagger. Probably the most important progress to date.
In TFA, they talk about setting big goals that challenge students without frustrating them. Talk about big goals: taking the 700 english and polisci majors here assembled and making us good at (at least faking) teaching. But somehow, they're doing it.
Finally, I have to say that I knock TFA for the Kool-Aid drinking a lot. And it is excessive at times. But when we got back to Georgia Tech, there were signs posted all over campus congratulating us "teachers", I couldn't help but get goosebumps. I just hope some kids get as much out of this experience as I am.
That does it for now. More to come tomorrow (now that's kids involved, and we all know they say the darndest things, I'm expecting plenty of fodder).
Today was what you might call Day 1. That title seems appropriate since it was, in fact, the first day that I was teaching in front of students. It's important to note that this is the first day with actual students, as opposed to the two weeks I've spent teaching seventh grade reading to college graduates. I know practice is supposed to make perfect, but seriously, the most creative minds could only do so much to transform a group of 23 year-olds in suits into seventh grade summer school students. And for most of my TFA colleagues, their imaginations could only go so far in making them into seventh graders. Even when the TFA-ers were piling it on, I had to coax them into throwing a spitball my way. The same was not true for the students in my classroom.
To prepare us for entering the fray of summer school, the TFA training corps (must things in TFA are divided into Corps. Given the other Corps I know--Marine, end list--this seems like an overstep) gave us a series of lessons on classroom management and student investment. For those of you not yet indoctrinated in the Teach For America vernacular, classroom management refers to the series of non-corporal measures taken by a teacher to maintain law and order in the classroom. It's apparently important to specify corporal versus non-corporal because its still legal to beat kids in school in both Georgia and Louisiana. Yep. Why old-style Catholic schools haven't made a surge down here is beyond me. Seems like their cup of tea.
Anyway, classroom management stands in contrast to student investment, which refers to the series of positive reinforcement techniques employed by teachers to encourage students to take more agency in their education. At first, much of the suggested techniques for both management and investment seemed fairly juvenile to me, and I tried like hell to avoid exposing these seventh graders to kindergarten tactics.
I, along with some others in my cohort, expressed this theme of concern to our group advisor (who, incidentally, won the national award for teaching excellence from TFA last year. Casual. And studied at Oxford. Or Cambridge? Either way, she's a year older than me...). In order to highlight the importance of tight classroom management techniques, she recounted a story of bad classroom management which I am obliged to share with anyone and everyone. So tell your friends.
It went like this:
[Student texting]
Teacher: Now, you know we can't have cell phones in school. Put it away now or I'll take it.
[Crickets. Student presumably is exceeding her 160 character maximum.]
Teacher: Ok, I warned you. Give me your phone. You can have it at the end of the day.
[Student does not glance up, let alone hand over the contraband]
Teacher: (Student's name omitted), give me that phone or I'll have to send you to the Principal's office
[Students replies with incomprehensible syllables]
Teacher (in raised voice, approaching student): Ok get out. I'll let the office know you're coming.
Student (as if returning to consciousness all of a sudden): Man, you can't take my phone!
Situation escalates
Student: Man, fuck you, man.
Teacher: Fuck me? Fuck you!
Student: You can't talk to me like that. I'm calling my mom (presumably on the contraband cell phone).
Teacher: CALL DA BITCH!
This is, I've learned, a poor example of how to manage the classroom. For those of you taking notes, never call da bitch. Always don't call da bitch. Got it? Good.
In addition to management, we've talked extensively about lesson planning. I wish I could tell you what I've learned, but the feedback I've gotten on my submitted plans so far has put me in the Novice to Pre-Novice grouping. So I don't feel too comfortable propagating that wisdom yet.
One things that's become increasingly apparent is the number of gulfs between myself (and TFA at large) and the population we're serving. Some aren't too surprising: We, by and large, come from stable, supporting households. They do not. We, by and large, we're raised with college as a eventual educational terminus. These kids were not. We are nerds, almost exclusively. The kids we're teaching are not. Many of us are white, and therefore cannot speak firsthand to how racism feels or manifests itself. These kids can.
Other divides were less obvious: We were motivated by good grades and exciting teachers. Many of these kids are still waiting for an exciting teacher. We had to have our egos reeled in. You could tell these kids how brilliant they are for months, and they'd still laugh at you. Geographically and socioeconomically, TFA members are largely Northeastern, with all the connotations that brings along. These kids are black and from southern cities.
And maybe its not the nature of the divides, but more how obvious they are in watching some new teachers interact with students. For example, I heard some co-teachers debriefing about a "Getting to Know You" survey, during which several kids were confused by a question which asked who they would have lunch with if they could choose any historical figure. A fellow TFA member, in an effort to clear up questions, suggested several figures: "What about Malcolm X or Martin Luther King?" Now don't get me wrong, clearly those are two incredibly monumental figures in American history, and would make for great lunch dates. But when you individually suggest only those to options to each of the 14 students in the room, that becomes a red flag.
Another example: Having come from Georgetown, a place which is bad at diversity and where powerful student voices worked to begin diversity dialogues, I've had the opportunity to be a part of several diversity conversations. These are often uncomfortable, particularly when 11 white kids are staring one person of color in the face. TFA, however, facilitated a really impressive conversation about diversity, which began on a high note when one white, Corps members who was placed in Memphis opened up about his initial hesitations in accepting a placement in Memphis. What began as a soliliquoy about embracing his own ignorance and dismissing his embedded prejudices took a hard turn right and ended soundly in a ditch. One excerpt, which may be paraphrased, but I'm pretty sure is verbatim: "I just have never had a meaningful relationship with a black person. (Later, in a smaller group):I've played basketball with black people. But aside from that, I thought I could only talk to black people about kool-aid, watermelon and fried chicken."
Tactful right. Let's go party like its 1959..wait a second.
But as much as I want to totally divorce myself from statements and people like that, I'm acutely aware that we all, regardless of race, have some learning to do. More importantly, we're all acutely aware that as long as time is of the essence, as it is now, we don't have time to allow mindsets to subvert what we're after here. It's not secret that the achievement gap exists along racial and economic lines. Kids who need the most help are going to be poor minorities, especially poor minority males. And I'll never know even what it's kind of like to live in that skin. But I have learned that half the battle is realizing what you don't know.
I'm just going to go ahead and warn you henceforth: the more you learn about educational disparity in the U.S. the more it sucks. I'm no expert by any stretch. But a little knowledge is a dangerous thing, apparently, because I find it hard to resist indignance. Hence the paragraphs-long diatribes with no levity whatsoever. My bad!
Anyway, so my classroom. First off, I know good things would come since the room number is 412. And I was mostly right. I'm lucky enough to have kids who, by and large, want to be there. Or, at least show up most days, which is a huge plus compared to most classrooms. These kids, also, are by and large reading between 4th and 6th levels, so only 2-3 years behind where they ought to be. Which sounds terrible, until you hear about the 7th grader who's reading at a first grade level. Which is what we teachers call "perspective".
I walked in this morning a little nervous, which I cannot deny, but I had a couple things going for me. First, I chose this awesome sauce book that I read in seventh grade to use for my lesson. And the kids ate it up. Just like I did in seventh grade. Getting to revisit the Outsiders and Monster and Captain Underpants [deep sigh] glory days.
Anyway, probably the most noteworthy that occurred whilst I pedagoged (yep, I'm a reading teacher) was that nothing happened. Kids followed along. And answered questions. And it was awesome. One thing I forgot: Lunch is a huge deal when you're in school for hours upon hours. These guys were like Pavlov's dogs as soon as they heard a brown paper bag krinkle.
As a reward for listening to my co-teacher and I talk for hours and hours (seemingly), we played a game called hot seat, during which students got 3 minutes to ask each of us anything they wanted. I was concerned when the game started off slow.
This concern was erroneous.
One bold little feller started asking if I went on dates. If so, where? If there, with whom? (I actually wasn't too mad at that one since the student used the objective preposition. Big win.) If I'm dating why don't I have kids? Do I want to have kids? How long was I going to wait to have kids? Did I shower? Do I wear normal clothes on weekends? How old was I (they would have bet millions on >30 given the millions to bet)?
Questions went on in this vein for a while until the buzzer finally rang. But even after this period of full disclosure from me, you wouldn't believe how many kids refused to give us real phone numbers for their parents.
I also learned that getting along well with kids is not always a good thing. I'm really inclined to be all buddy with them, talk about their hopes and dreams, build them up, buy them things, hear about their lives, etc. But sometimes, especially inthese early days, they will take that slack and run with. Literally. One kid ran up to give me a high five, as I instructed, then pulled a spin move, ducked under my arm, and ran down the hall. But I felt pretty legit when I wrote him up. Who's laughing now, you crazy fast super human?
So, thus began the career and the series of adorable and infuriating anecdotes that will characterize my next two years. In sum, I don't have it yet. not by a long shot. But I'm feeling like it's attainable now, which is certainly progress. And I'm really rocking the teacher bag with some swagger. Probably the most important progress to date.
In TFA, they talk about setting big goals that challenge students without frustrating them. Talk about big goals: taking the 700 english and polisci majors here assembled and making us good at (at least faking) teaching. But somehow, they're doing it.
Finally, I have to say that I knock TFA for the Kool-Aid drinking a lot. And it is excessive at times. But when we got back to Georgia Tech, there were signs posted all over campus congratulating us "teachers", I couldn't help but get goosebumps. I just hope some kids get as much out of this experience as I am.
That does it for now. More to come tomorrow (now that's kids involved, and we all know they say the darndest things, I'm expecting plenty of fodder).
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Please Keep Your Shirt On for the Daily Dose of Political Griping
I think I actually have to make this disclaimer: The views contained in this blog are solely those of the author. Teach for America and Americorps do not endorse the content or political inclinations of the author.
Now before I get into this, I want the record to show that I really, really intended to leave Anthony Weiner conspicuously out of this post. The puns are pretty low-hanging fruit ("Weiner lets it all hang out", "What a Weiner", and "Weiner Dogged"), shirtless New York reps are pretty old news, and, frankly, it's just too friggin' weird to give a fair assessment of it. While I can't say for sure whether it was Monday's non-apology that pushed him back above the fold or today's speculation that his wife of ten months is pregnant, something seemed to compel me to give my two cents.
Here goes:
UGH.
Seriously, Tony? You're wife is gorgeous. You represent one of the safest Democratic districts in your state, if not the country. You had ambitions of going places, man! And worst of all, you literally just campaigned, weeks ago, for Kathy Hochul to take Chris Lee's seat (you'll remember that Chris Lee was the other guy who put himself on Craigslist and immediately fell from grace). How did you not see this coming? But even pretending for a second that you actually thought you could get away with it, why make up the whole hacker story and get indignant on national television...several times? I'm not mad, A$, I'm just disappointed.
That's a lie. I'm kind of mad. But as speculation swirls about where Weiner is sleeping, couch or bed, why he wears boxer briefs instead of boxers, and why his junk lists to the port side, I can't help but wonder how Chris Lee feels about all of this. Poor Rep. Lee was a freshman Congressman from New York's very conservative 26th district. As such, he didn't get a whole lot of air time. That is until he went all Oprah on us and bought EVERYBODY tickets to the gun show. I suppose no politican wants to become infamous, but I would further suppose that most politicians would choose infamous over nameless. And now Anthony Weiner has robbed Chris Lee of his niche, his thing, his pizzazz. No longer can Lee proudly boast to be the sole bearer of the Shirtless Ego Maniac Elected Official from New York Award, presented annually by Eliot Spitzer. But even worse, Weiner's copycat antics have invited a number of side-by-side comparisons of the next-to-nude duo aboutwhich Chris Lee just can't be happy. I'll save you the link, but suffice it to say that Chris Lee looked more like a scrawnier Ahnold of 2011, while Weiner was solidly a scrawnier Ahnold from the early 1980s, back in his hay day.
But honestly, let's have a round of applause for the great voters of New York. Without you, we'd only know our politicians as the dudes in suits and ties. And what kind of democracy are we then?
If there is an upside to this debauchery, it might be that Jack Donaghy (or Alec Baldwin as he calls himself) is now floating some test balloons for a mayoral run in NYC in 2013. According to a friend or maybe brother of Baldwin's, Weiner was seen as a big hurdle and likely contendah in the '13 race. With his panties now all in a bunch, Alec's feeling a little encouraged. I'd rather vote for Tracy Morgan, but I'll take whatever 30 Rock will give me.
Speaking of people who once had the support of an electorate but likely won't ever again, remember Rick Santorum? He's running for President! Huzzah!! If you haven't already played this game, take a second to see what happens when you Google "Santorum". It's not for the weak of heart, but the results should give you a clue as to why no one seems to take his candidacy seriously. In a letter to supporters this week, Santorum encouraged them to tune in on Monday as he began a new kind of presidential campaign rhetoric. Alas, zero, nada, zilch camera crews were present to allow us to tune in. He also hasn't been mentioned in a Reuters, Quinnipiac, or CNN poll in Iowa, South Carolina, or New Hampshire since his announcement early last month. And yet, he keeps on keeping on. If you have a spare fiver this week, send it on to him. He's got like 18 really adorable (and potentially Amish?) kids to feed.
With the Santorums, Pauls, Gingrichs of the Republican world leaving hardliners disappointed, several right wingers are now the subject of lobbying efforts. Last week, a group of Iowa business men met with New Jersey Governor Chris Christie to beg him to run for president. He said no. Apparently he didn't know that the White House comes with a plane, which is much cooler than a helicopter. Also under pressure from the right is Texas Governor Rick Perry. Who once, in an official capacity, mentioned that Texas would consider secession. It begs the question: if these are the guys being begged to run, who are they begging not to run?
But conservative Republicans aren't the only ones who are choosing between lotsa crappy choices. Late last week, Moody's announced that it would downgrade America's debt if we did not successfully raise the debt ceiling. The Senate, where this bill would have to originate, has really been putting up a fight, although their House Brethren seem have caught the contrarian bug lately, too. Thanks to the likes of Rand Paul (Super R-KY) and House Majority Leader John Boehner (Great Tan-OH), this once-routine piece of legislation has become such a deeply embedded point of contention that it was very difficult to know how this dance could end. The Democrats said adopting the cuts put forth by the Republicans would make us into a gentrified, heartless oligarchy. Weirdly, the Republicans disagreed and suggested that failing to adopt those cuts would make us Greece with a pita to stand on.
And then Moody's made their announcement this week, and offered a third solution: compromise before you actually bring about our economic ruin. And this isn't like that one time when the rapture was going to come, and the sheep would be separated from the rams. I liked my odds in the rapture. But I really don't like my odds, or any of our odds, in a defaulted American economy. But no rush, Congress. We all know how hot it gets in DC in the summer, and you guys really earned some lounging time from all the governmenting you've done of late (I'm looking at you, Weiner).
Oooo! Oooo!! While we're on such a happy note, go ahead and take a look at May's jobs report. But I promise it's not as grim as it seems. The Obama campaign announced a myriad of (actually upwards of 1,000 for now) new paid positions this week, suggesting that the President may just be trying to single-handedly employ all of our unemployed himself. And why not? He's going to spend a billion dollars this cycle, so he might as well get an approval rating boost out of it.
Remember when he was going to accept public money? Oh, Glory Days.
Well that's all I've got this time. Mostly because Anthony Weiner's Hanes have the news pipeline all stopped up. But until next time, so long and may images of Michelle Bachmann as the Republican nominee dance in your dreams.
Now before I get into this, I want the record to show that I really, really intended to leave Anthony Weiner conspicuously out of this post. The puns are pretty low-hanging fruit ("Weiner lets it all hang out", "What a Weiner", and "Weiner Dogged"), shirtless New York reps are pretty old news, and, frankly, it's just too friggin' weird to give a fair assessment of it. While I can't say for sure whether it was Monday's non-apology that pushed him back above the fold or today's speculation that his wife of ten months is pregnant, something seemed to compel me to give my two cents.
Here goes:
UGH.
Seriously, Tony? You're wife is gorgeous. You represent one of the safest Democratic districts in your state, if not the country. You had ambitions of going places, man! And worst of all, you literally just campaigned, weeks ago, for Kathy Hochul to take Chris Lee's seat (you'll remember that Chris Lee was the other guy who put himself on Craigslist and immediately fell from grace). How did you not see this coming? But even pretending for a second that you actually thought you could get away with it, why make up the whole hacker story and get indignant on national television...several times? I'm not mad, A$, I'm just disappointed.
That's a lie. I'm kind of mad. But as speculation swirls about where Weiner is sleeping, couch or bed, why he wears boxer briefs instead of boxers, and why his junk lists to the port side, I can't help but wonder how Chris Lee feels about all of this. Poor Rep. Lee was a freshman Congressman from New York's very conservative 26th district. As such, he didn't get a whole lot of air time. That is until he went all Oprah on us and bought EVERYBODY tickets to the gun show. I suppose no politican wants to become infamous, but I would further suppose that most politicians would choose infamous over nameless. And now Anthony Weiner has robbed Chris Lee of his niche, his thing, his pizzazz. No longer can Lee proudly boast to be the sole bearer of the Shirtless Ego Maniac Elected Official from New York Award, presented annually by Eliot Spitzer. But even worse, Weiner's copycat antics have invited a number of side-by-side comparisons of the next-to-nude duo aboutwhich Chris Lee just can't be happy. I'll save you the link, but suffice it to say that Chris Lee looked more like a scrawnier Ahnold of 2011, while Weiner was solidly a scrawnier Ahnold from the early 1980s, back in his hay day.
But honestly, let's have a round of applause for the great voters of New York. Without you, we'd only know our politicians as the dudes in suits and ties. And what kind of democracy are we then?
If there is an upside to this debauchery, it might be that Jack Donaghy (or Alec Baldwin as he calls himself) is now floating some test balloons for a mayoral run in NYC in 2013. According to a friend or maybe brother of Baldwin's, Weiner was seen as a big hurdle and likely contendah in the '13 race. With his panties now all in a bunch, Alec's feeling a little encouraged. I'd rather vote for Tracy Morgan, but I'll take whatever 30 Rock will give me.
Speaking of people who once had the support of an electorate but likely won't ever again, remember Rick Santorum? He's running for President! Huzzah!! If you haven't already played this game, take a second to see what happens when you Google "Santorum". It's not for the weak of heart, but the results should give you a clue as to why no one seems to take his candidacy seriously. In a letter to supporters this week, Santorum encouraged them to tune in on Monday as he began a new kind of presidential campaign rhetoric. Alas, zero, nada, zilch camera crews were present to allow us to tune in. He also hasn't been mentioned in a Reuters, Quinnipiac, or CNN poll in Iowa, South Carolina, or New Hampshire since his announcement early last month. And yet, he keeps on keeping on. If you have a spare fiver this week, send it on to him. He's got like 18 really adorable (and potentially Amish?) kids to feed.
With the Santorums, Pauls, Gingrichs of the Republican world leaving hardliners disappointed, several right wingers are now the subject of lobbying efforts. Last week, a group of Iowa business men met with New Jersey Governor Chris Christie to beg him to run for president. He said no. Apparently he didn't know that the White House comes with a plane, which is much cooler than a helicopter. Also under pressure from the right is Texas Governor Rick Perry. Who once, in an official capacity, mentioned that Texas would consider secession. It begs the question: if these are the guys being begged to run, who are they begging not to run?
But conservative Republicans aren't the only ones who are choosing between lotsa crappy choices. Late last week, Moody's announced that it would downgrade America's debt if we did not successfully raise the debt ceiling. The Senate, where this bill would have to originate, has really been putting up a fight, although their House Brethren seem have caught the contrarian bug lately, too. Thanks to the likes of Rand Paul (Super R-KY) and House Majority Leader John Boehner (Great Tan-OH), this once-routine piece of legislation has become such a deeply embedded point of contention that it was very difficult to know how this dance could end. The Democrats said adopting the cuts put forth by the Republicans would make us into a gentrified, heartless oligarchy. Weirdly, the Republicans disagreed and suggested that failing to adopt those cuts would make us Greece with a pita to stand on.
And then Moody's made their announcement this week, and offered a third solution: compromise before you actually bring about our economic ruin. And this isn't like that one time when the rapture was going to come, and the sheep would be separated from the rams. I liked my odds in the rapture. But I really don't like my odds, or any of our odds, in a defaulted American economy. But no rush, Congress. We all know how hot it gets in DC in the summer, and you guys really earned some lounging time from all the governmenting you've done of late (I'm looking at you, Weiner).
Oooo! Oooo!! While we're on such a happy note, go ahead and take a look at May's jobs report. But I promise it's not as grim as it seems. The Obama campaign announced a myriad of (actually upwards of 1,000 for now) new paid positions this week, suggesting that the President may just be trying to single-handedly employ all of our unemployed himself. And why not? He's going to spend a billion dollars this cycle, so he might as well get an approval rating boost out of it.
Remember when he was going to accept public money? Oh, Glory Days.
Well that's all I've got this time. Mostly because Anthony Weiner's Hanes have the news pipeline all stopped up. But until next time, so long and may images of Michelle Bachmann as the Republican nominee dance in your dreams.
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
A-T-L-A-N-T-A I Could Do This All Day
Well, I'm in my third week since graduation (NB: My nose still hasn't stopped peeling) and now, my third city. Although I've taken to calling this booming metropolis Hotlanta, the truth is that I just can't complain about it after the brutality of the Nawlins ray. At least not yet.
Sunday began the five week program known as the TFA Institute, during which we are slated to be transformed from students to teacher, grasshoppers to sensai, apprentice to master, Wolverine to Professor X, Cartman to Mr(s). Garrison. There are six regional Institutes around the country, and Atlanta serves as the home base for Greater New Orleans, Memphis, and, logically, the Metro Atlanta area. So, just as I finally got my below sea level legs in Nola, we shoved off for the seven hour pilgrimage to the ATL, during which we covered about 350 miles on 3 roads.
Now I hate to stereotype, but there were a couple observations that I simply feel must be shared. First, I noticed a high correlation between people who drive Ford F-150s and people who drive downright homicidastyle. In some cases it was hard to tell whether the Confederate flag draping their rear window actually prevented them from seeing or if they were just as drunk as they appeared to be. In either case, I was judging them pretty hard core. Next, it seemed as if we drove the same 50 miles of road about six times. Turns out Mississippi and Alabama, at least from I-85 East, are pretty identical. Who knew? Finally, I knew that Coke was the official sponsor of Georgia, but I had no idea that they were so generous as to buy up most of the deep south.
So if you have any dentist friends who are looking for a new place to settle down, send them my way. From the looks of it, they'd have no trouble finding a couple hundred acres to squat upon.
But driving through Alabama especially wasn't entirely the joyride you might anticipate. Before the catastrophic tornadoes that massacred Joplin, Missouri, similar funnel clouds victimized Alabama. While the majority of the damage struck Tuscaloosa, north of our route, we had to pull over once to notice the defined path of destruction that cut across the highway. It definitely made me appreciate the lifelong refuge from these sorts of disasters which Pittsburgh's terrain has always provided.
Finally, after seven hours of basically country highway, we hit Georgia, which appropriately prompted me and my passengers to tribute the late great Ray Ray's "Georgia on My Mind". We were pretty tired of being in the car by that point, so our concern for pitch was secondary. If RC hadn't already died, I'm pretty sure the hack job we did on his classic tune would have done him in.
From my friends who preceded me in Teach For America, I heard that Institute really boils down to a lot of Kool-Aid drinking and reflecting time. They're really big on reflection. And also discussing. They really love to discuss things. thoroughly. So, honestly speaking, I can't say I was looking forward to these five weeks, mostly because 35 days just seems too long of a pep rally for a pep-less fellow like myself.
But it's amazing what an open mind will do for you. A good deal of the programming so far has not been explicitly a pep rally. In fact, I'd say there's an obvious and universal sense of urgency among the TFA staff and us young bucks alike. For the staff who's in charge of training us, there's a strong sense that time is of the essence. In five weeks, we're supposed to learn how to manage a classroom, how to write lesson plans, and how to make up years of wasted classroom time in a matter of months.
For those of us trying to become teachers, there's a sense of real terror. TFA keeps casually dropping knowledge on us, like the fact that 30 states adjust their prison capacities based on third grade literacy rates. Third grade. So we either need to teach these kids how to read, or we might as well ship them off the prison now. More shockingly, 44 million parents in the United States don't have the literacy skills to read their kids a bedtime story. Although these stats are enough to blow anyone's mind, it's still fairly easy for me to imagine these as faceless numbers. And then you meet individual students, like Scarlett, an 8th grader who reads at somewhere between a first and second grade level.
My sister once told me that it takes at least three years to become a good teacher. But kids like Scarlett don't have three years to wait while we play teacher. Seeing her stumbling over words like "always" and "lonely" is enough to make these 9-14 hour days worth it. It's also enough to make you wet the bed. But even laying in wet sheets, I know this is worth it. It's worth sitting in elementary desks, and stooping to reach the bathroom sinks, and having the lights flickered at us when we get too raucous. Which is just adorable.
I really don't feel like a teacher, even if I'll have to fake it starting next Monday. But you better believe I look like one from head to toe, complete with good hallway clunking shoes and somewhat premature (although stylish) teacher bag. I've not only gained an increased appreciation for the difficulty and importance of being a teacher, but also for the difficulty of pulling off the educator garb while standing for 8 hours. It'll take some getting used to, but I'm expecting to have some killer calves by the end of Institute.
If one thing gets old, it's that teachers can't stop being teachers. The staff members who are training us just can't shake that tone of voice and those sophomoric classroom tricks ("Clap once if you can hear my voice. Clap twice if you can hear my voice. Don't make me get to three claps..."). It's stirred up some long-forgotten images of nuns at St. Maurice elementary.
If one thing will never get old, its the confidence that the organization has in us. They truly believe that TFA, and each of us individually, can make significant gains towards closing the achievement gap.
When you hear that enough, you start to believe it, too. I don't feel like a teacher yet. But I can't wait to give it my all so that kids like Scarlett can go to high school, college, and then med school if they so desire. That's what we're here for. And that's pretty awesome.
One anecdote that all of you from the 412 might appreciate: I decided to get aggressive with housing in New Orleans and proceeded to call one real estate agent who was recommended to me by a 2010 TFA Corps member. I really wanted to call her today, but all of our training sessions were running long and I had trouble finding time. Finally, I decided to suck it up and optimize, so I called her whilst taking advantage of our infrequent and all too short restroom breaks. As a result of my multitasking ambitions, I stumbled awkwardly as I tried to describe my rent parameters and neighborhood preferences. She became understandably frustrated and told me that she'd try to find an agent to look into some properties for me. Then she asked for my phone number. (Get your mind out of the gutter.) After I gave her my area code, 412, she stopped me and asked where in Pittsburgh I was from. Turns out she graduated from Norwin in 1986. I had 15 listed and unlisted properties sent to me in 45 minutes. Along with a few Steelers Youtube videos. Seriously.
Well. That was some heavy stuff. Sorry, team--- but I did warn that it would continue to be a stream of consciousness. More to come soon.
Sunday, June 5, 2011
Daily Dose of Political Griping: John Edwards' Haircuts and Herman Cain Besting Newt
I think I actually have to make this disclaimer: The views contained in this blog are solely those of the author. Teach for America and Americorps do not endorse the content or political inclinations of the author.
Those of us who are rooting for a seven game series in the NBA finals are also likely hoping beyond hope for a year-long grudge match among the field of likely GOP presidential contenders. The good news: all signs are pointing to a fight-to-the-death among the field of loud-mouthed, largely irrelevant candidates--er, excuse me, candidates and likely candidates. Mitt Romney shocked the world when he took 90 minutes to announce his candidacy this week, telling supporters and desperately bored cable news audiences that he was dismayed at President Obama's leadership. You know, the sort of leadership that ushered in a national version of Romney's baby, the Massachusetts universal healthcare law. What sort of leadership would the Mitt-en (a nickname I've suggested to his camp several times via email) bring to 1600 Pennsylvania? Based on his reportage of skewed and just blantantly wrong economic statistics, his style will be Powerpoint-based, dishonest or just plain stupid. But you know what, when you're running for President it doesn't matter if you play with the facts a bit, right? Because no one really listens to what you're saying. (Actually, each and every news station cut away from Mitt's speech before he actually announced it. Oops.)
But bad news timing wasn't the only problem for the former governor from Massachusetts. Another former governor stepped on his toes, almost definitely not by accident. Guess who?! Yep, Sal Pal (another emailed suggestion which the Palin campaign has rejected) and her magical painted not campaign bus blew through Boston just in time to criticize Romney in his own hood...by suggesting that he just wasn't crazy-right-wing enough. Sarah Palin, she graciously pointed out for the illiterate and the blind, holds much more conservative values AND beliefs. Both values and beliefs held by Sarah Palin are conservative. Seriously, she's conservative. If you made it through those sentences, you can go ahead and mute any news coverage of her not-campaign tour, because that's all you'll hear. You are welcome.
Sal also got some love earlier in the week when she stopped by New York rocking a new, big old piece of bling in her Star of David necklace. She wanted to use her bully pulpit to garner support for Israel and to honor the 44th Anniversary, or Golden Jubilee (right?), of the reunification of Jerusalem following the Six Day War. Israel, I'm not a doctor, but you need to go ahead and nip that in the bud.
In other news, the two-year long FBI investigation of fallen Democratic pretty boy and former North Carolina Senator John Edwards culminated in a pathetically weak indictment against him. Before standing in front of the courthouse and declaring that he had unquestionably done wrong, he stood inside the courthoues and pleaded not guilty. Prosecutors say that Edwards used donations from two wealthy political allies to cover up his affair and subsequent love child. The money in question, $925,000, exceeded the limit which one person can donate to a presidential campagin, and also went unreported by the Edwards camp. A couple of things that add some much-needed context to this story:
Gingrich announced early that much of his campagin staff and central campagin operation would be based in Georgia, hoping to retain his down-home, favorite son image (bear in mind that he didn't live in Georgia until he was grown). Well, that was back when only pizza enthusiasts knew who Herman Cain was. Those days are apparently long gone, according to a recent poll: Cain led the pack of candidates and likely candidates with 26% support. Where was Georgia's favorite son? A distant third, behind Michelle Bachmann, with a sickly 12% figure. While he did fare better than "Other", the "Undecided" category clearly beat the former House Speaker. Better luck next time, Tiger.
Among the candidates who might have been included in the "Other" category is former Utah Governor and, until three weeks ago, Ambassador to China (yep, during the Obama administration) Jon Huntsman. Huntsman is reportedly climbing in esteem among social conservatives. Consider that support with his fairly strong economic record in Utah and his rich international experience, and this dog just might hunt(sman). Huntsman hasn't formally entered the race, but all the tea leaves are holding their breath to see if their "going to run" predictions were right. In my opinion they probably are and he probably will run and prove to be quite a contender. Rumor has it that, should Huntsman throw his hat in the ring, he will follow the road paved by 2008 candidate Rudy Giuliani (who, you may recall, lost). For those of you who devote valuable memory real estate to esoteric trivia from previous election cycles may recall that America's Mayor cobbled together an innovative and stupid campaing strategy: Let the other guys rack up the big early wins and gain momentum and meet them in Florida. Whether Rudy thought this would work or just actually cared about his tan that much is unclear. What is clear is how much this plan did not work in 2008, and certainly won't in 2012. Still, sources close to maybe-candidate Huntsman say he will pursue a similar strategy and bypass the Iowa caucuses. Now, maybe as a Mormon candidate in the highly religious political context of Iowa, Huntsman didn't like his odds. But the huge question mark remains: how can you make it to the playoffs if your season's shorter than everybody else's? Jon, we don't really know each other that well yet, but you seem like a sharper kind of Ginsu knife (particularly in the context of your fellow contenders)--why you acting so crazy for?
And that's your daily dose of political griping.
Those of us who are rooting for a seven game series in the NBA finals are also likely hoping beyond hope for a year-long grudge match among the field of likely GOP presidential contenders. The good news: all signs are pointing to a fight-to-the-death among the field of loud-mouthed, largely irrelevant candidates--er, excuse me, candidates and likely candidates. Mitt Romney shocked the world when he took 90 minutes to announce his candidacy this week, telling supporters and desperately bored cable news audiences that he was dismayed at President Obama's leadership. You know, the sort of leadership that ushered in a national version of Romney's baby, the Massachusetts universal healthcare law. What sort of leadership would the Mitt-en (a nickname I've suggested to his camp several times via email) bring to 1600 Pennsylvania? Based on his reportage of skewed and just blantantly wrong economic statistics, his style will be Powerpoint-based, dishonest or just plain stupid. But you know what, when you're running for President it doesn't matter if you play with the facts a bit, right? Because no one really listens to what you're saying. (Actually, each and every news station cut away from Mitt's speech before he actually announced it. Oops.)
But bad news timing wasn't the only problem for the former governor from Massachusetts. Another former governor stepped on his toes, almost definitely not by accident. Guess who?! Yep, Sal Pal (another emailed suggestion which the Palin campaign has rejected) and her magical painted not campaign bus blew through Boston just in time to criticize Romney in his own hood...by suggesting that he just wasn't crazy-right-wing enough. Sarah Palin, she graciously pointed out for the illiterate and the blind, holds much more conservative values AND beliefs. Both values and beliefs held by Sarah Palin are conservative. Seriously, she's conservative. If you made it through those sentences, you can go ahead and mute any news coverage of her not-campaign tour, because that's all you'll hear. You are welcome.
Sal also got some love earlier in the week when she stopped by New York rocking a new, big old piece of bling in her Star of David necklace. She wanted to use her bully pulpit to garner support for Israel and to honor the 44th Anniversary, or Golden Jubilee (right?), of the reunification of Jerusalem following the Six Day War. Israel, I'm not a doctor, but you need to go ahead and nip that in the bud.
In other news, the two-year long FBI investigation of fallen Democratic pretty boy and former North Carolina Senator John Edwards culminated in a pathetically weak indictment against him. Before standing in front of the courthouse and declaring that he had unquestionably done wrong, he stood inside the courthoues and pleaded not guilty. Prosecutors say that Edwards used donations from two wealthy political allies to cover up his affair and subsequent love child. The money in question, $925,000, exceeded the limit which one person can donate to a presidential campagin, and also went unreported by the Edwards camp. A couple of things that add some much-needed context to this story:
- Edwards wife, Elizabeth, who succombed to breast cancer at the age of 61 last year, was terminally ill as Johnny boy was ruffling his otherwise immobile hair in the sack. He was not mentioned in her will.
- The love child is quickly approaching the period in his life when he'll remember these things, but there's no evidence that Edwards has contact with the child, although the millionaire former senator does claim to be supporting him financially.
- The donors in question initially began offering these funds to the Edwards campaign under the table after his $400 haircut became the subject of ridicule. So, if he could have just settled for Bo Rick's we might not be in this mess.
- Apparently, he still finds sleeping at night possible. Remember when he was almost Vice President? Ew.
Gingrich announced early that much of his campagin staff and central campagin operation would be based in Georgia, hoping to retain his down-home, favorite son image (bear in mind that he didn't live in Georgia until he was grown). Well, that was back when only pizza enthusiasts knew who Herman Cain was. Those days are apparently long gone, according to a recent poll: Cain led the pack of candidates and likely candidates with 26% support. Where was Georgia's favorite son? A distant third, behind Michelle Bachmann, with a sickly 12% figure. While he did fare better than "Other", the "Undecided" category clearly beat the former House Speaker. Better luck next time, Tiger.
Among the candidates who might have been included in the "Other" category is former Utah Governor and, until three weeks ago, Ambassador to China (yep, during the Obama administration) Jon Huntsman. Huntsman is reportedly climbing in esteem among social conservatives. Consider that support with his fairly strong economic record in Utah and his rich international experience, and this dog just might hunt(sman). Huntsman hasn't formally entered the race, but all the tea leaves are holding their breath to see if their "going to run" predictions were right. In my opinion they probably are and he probably will run and prove to be quite a contender. Rumor has it that, should Huntsman throw his hat in the ring, he will follow the road paved by 2008 candidate Rudy Giuliani (who, you may recall, lost). For those of you who devote valuable memory real estate to esoteric trivia from previous election cycles may recall that America's Mayor cobbled together an innovative and stupid campaing strategy: Let the other guys rack up the big early wins and gain momentum and meet them in Florida. Whether Rudy thought this would work or just actually cared about his tan that much is unclear. What is clear is how much this plan did not work in 2008, and certainly won't in 2012. Still, sources close to maybe-candidate Huntsman say he will pursue a similar strategy and bypass the Iowa caucuses. Now, maybe as a Mormon candidate in the highly religious political context of Iowa, Huntsman didn't like his odds. But the huge question mark remains: how can you make it to the playoffs if your season's shorter than everybody else's? Jon, we don't really know each other that well yet, but you seem like a sharper kind of Ginsu knife (particularly in the context of your fellow contenders)--why you acting so crazy for?
And that's your daily dose of political griping.
Saturday, June 4, 2011
A Streetcar, Not a Trolley
Today was the last day of what Teach for America (TFA) calls Induction. Essentially, its the week you spend in your placement region (in my case Greater New Orleans or GNO) before moving to the five week-long rapidfire training session known as Institute. So after this first glorious if sweaty first week in Nola, we're shipping off to Georgia Tech bright and early Sunday morning.
Remember those first days of college, when you hung out with anybody who looked like they needed a conversation buddy and you dug deep for anything you had in common with those people? I mean those super awkward first nights, when you bounce around from dorm room to dorm room, seriptitiously chugging beers and adding numbers to your phonebook which you will never use again. Well, fun fact: those nights are not limited to college. In fact, I've spent the last five nights reliving my first week at Gtown in a Tulane freshman dorm--excuse me, residence hall. Don't get me wrong, the people are all really impressive (I met experienced lawyers, people who have spent years on other continents, entrepreneurs and education majors all in one day), but I was transported back four years almost immediately as we all exchanged phone numbers and blindly ventured downtown as if we knew where we were going. Among my favorite conversations that I've seen this past week is the cookie-cutter housing conversation. Since almost all of us are new to Nawlins, and since most of us came down here with very few (or in my case, goose egg) friends, there's a scramble to find quality roommates and lock them down before somebody else scoops them up. How you can choose a roommate in the first 48 hours you've known somebody is beyond me, but apparently it is possible. Me, I'm resisting the urge to pop the question, and will continue to do so for at least another week or two, much to the chagrin of my nervous parents.
This week, God apparently needed a good laugh and cranked the local heat up to temperatures that haven't been reached in June since the Korean War. It's straight up equatorial. I've averaged three showers, four wardrobe changes, and somewhere between 10-15 lost water weight pounds each day. So the first impressions I'm making must really be stellar, perhaps the reason I haven't had too many roommate suitors of late.
Heat aside though, it's been fantastic so far. I arrived on Tuesday, and moved into my suite at Tulane. First off, hot damn, the campus is really pretty. I didn't know palm trees were a thing here, but there are millions of them. Not to dwell, but that's because New Orleans' climate is somewhere between tropical and hellacious, which is right in the comfort zone for the balmy palmies. This week is largely intended to assist with the placement of those new CMs (Corp members--sorry for the TFA vernacular, but I'm trying to get the hang of all these letters) who have not yet been hired into a particular school. The fact that I came here with a job has meant that I've largely been chilling (get it? because it's so hot?), investigating the city and getting my real person life in order. On Wednesday, for what were definitely some of the coolest hours of the week, I spent the morning on a school visit at New Orlean College Prep. I could write paragraphs about how impressive every element of the school was, but I'll sum it up with this.
I spent the better part of the afternoon painting a Katrina damaged house with a really cool organization called Phoenix NOLA. More to come on the disbelief that now, in 2011, we're still renovating Katrina houses, but go ahead and take a second to ruminate on that. Anyway, Phoenix had just about finished renovating the basement of this shotgun house so that its owner could move out of his FEMA trailer--the last thing they needed to do was paint, so we took up the brushes and got down to it. On Wednesday morning, there were 150 FEMA trailers in the parish that still acted as homes for New Orleans residents. On Thursday morning, there were 149, and to be even a tiny part of that process was really amazing.
Quickly: FEMA recently announced that they would be charging for the continued use of their trailers in New Orleans. On Tuesday, a city zoning ordinance took effect which fined any residents who still had trailers on their property. Because clearly, these are people are really thrilled to be living in their driveway in a doublewide. But since everything Katrina related was so well handled, this seems like an appropriate step in the process.
Thursday was less exciting: we had to go to a couple of info sessions for TFA (one of which was on social media--here's hoping I absorbed as much I thought I did).
Friday was the real winner. I started the day volunteering for the charter network that runs the school where I'll be working. Let's just say that, while I really enjoyed it, it's pretty clear that the organization is young. But the motivation among the teachers and students is actually (pardon the cliche) palpable. I met the director of my middle school for lunch and although the conversation and the company were both riveting, most of my attention was dedicated to the jumbalaya. Words cannot explain. I can literally still taste it. After an afternoon of real life things like opening a checking account, signing up for my insurance policies (yep, I now have a life insurance policy with a beneficiary), and botching another fingerprinting session due to my palm's constant moisture, a group of us ventured down to the Bourbon Street. For those of you who have been to the French Quarter, you know what I mean when I refer to hand grenades, huge ass beers, and strip clubs that seem to be trying to cater to every proclivity and deviance. Before I came here, someone described this city as hedonistic. I'm not sure the city at large is, but even militant hedonists might be put off by the antics and sights of the Quarter. NB: I'm not one of those people. It was amazing, from what I recall. The night out was book-ended by grabbing a roadie for the streetcar and one for the cab, mostly because the law says that's cool. I say it's pretty cool, too, frankly. When I went back there Saturday for dinner, I got a little nauseas just looking at the pre-mixed crowd favorite drinks, Hurricanes, which in my estimation consist of kool-aid mix and rum with a slice of lemon and a little ice.
So, some major takeaways from the week:
Remember those first days of college, when you hung out with anybody who looked like they needed a conversation buddy and you dug deep for anything you had in common with those people? I mean those super awkward first nights, when you bounce around from dorm room to dorm room, seriptitiously chugging beers and adding numbers to your phonebook which you will never use again. Well, fun fact: those nights are not limited to college. In fact, I've spent the last five nights reliving my first week at Gtown in a Tulane freshman dorm--excuse me, residence hall. Don't get me wrong, the people are all really impressive (I met experienced lawyers, people who have spent years on other continents, entrepreneurs and education majors all in one day), but I was transported back four years almost immediately as we all exchanged phone numbers and blindly ventured downtown as if we knew where we were going. Among my favorite conversations that I've seen this past week is the cookie-cutter housing conversation. Since almost all of us are new to Nawlins, and since most of us came down here with very few (or in my case, goose egg) friends, there's a scramble to find quality roommates and lock them down before somebody else scoops them up. How you can choose a roommate in the first 48 hours you've known somebody is beyond me, but apparently it is possible. Me, I'm resisting the urge to pop the question, and will continue to do so for at least another week or two, much to the chagrin of my nervous parents.
This week, God apparently needed a good laugh and cranked the local heat up to temperatures that haven't been reached in June since the Korean War. It's straight up equatorial. I've averaged three showers, four wardrobe changes, and somewhere between 10-15 lost water weight pounds each day. So the first impressions I'm making must really be stellar, perhaps the reason I haven't had too many roommate suitors of late.
Heat aside though, it's been fantastic so far. I arrived on Tuesday, and moved into my suite at Tulane. First off, hot damn, the campus is really pretty. I didn't know palm trees were a thing here, but there are millions of them. Not to dwell, but that's because New Orleans' climate is somewhere between tropical and hellacious, which is right in the comfort zone for the balmy palmies. This week is largely intended to assist with the placement of those new CMs (Corp members--sorry for the TFA vernacular, but I'm trying to get the hang of all these letters) who have not yet been hired into a particular school. The fact that I came here with a job has meant that I've largely been chilling (get it? because it's so hot?), investigating the city and getting my real person life in order. On Wednesday, for what were definitely some of the coolest hours of the week, I spent the morning on a school visit at New Orlean College Prep. I could write paragraphs about how impressive every element of the school was, but I'll sum it up with this.
I spent the better part of the afternoon painting a Katrina damaged house with a really cool organization called Phoenix NOLA. More to come on the disbelief that now, in 2011, we're still renovating Katrina houses, but go ahead and take a second to ruminate on that. Anyway, Phoenix had just about finished renovating the basement of this shotgun house so that its owner could move out of his FEMA trailer--the last thing they needed to do was paint, so we took up the brushes and got down to it. On Wednesday morning, there were 150 FEMA trailers in the parish that still acted as homes for New Orleans residents. On Thursday morning, there were 149, and to be even a tiny part of that process was really amazing.
Quickly: FEMA recently announced that they would be charging for the continued use of their trailers in New Orleans. On Tuesday, a city zoning ordinance took effect which fined any residents who still had trailers on their property. Because clearly, these are people are really thrilled to be living in their driveway in a doublewide. But since everything Katrina related was so well handled, this seems like an appropriate step in the process.
Thursday was less exciting: we had to go to a couple of info sessions for TFA (one of which was on social media--here's hoping I absorbed as much I thought I did).
Friday was the real winner. I started the day volunteering for the charter network that runs the school where I'll be working. Let's just say that, while I really enjoyed it, it's pretty clear that the organization is young. But the motivation among the teachers and students is actually (pardon the cliche) palpable. I met the director of my middle school for lunch and although the conversation and the company were both riveting, most of my attention was dedicated to the jumbalaya. Words cannot explain. I can literally still taste it. After an afternoon of real life things like opening a checking account, signing up for my insurance policies (yep, I now have a life insurance policy with a beneficiary), and botching another fingerprinting session due to my palm's constant moisture, a group of us ventured down to the Bourbon Street. For those of you who have been to the French Quarter, you know what I mean when I refer to hand grenades, huge ass beers, and strip clubs that seem to be trying to cater to every proclivity and deviance. Before I came here, someone described this city as hedonistic. I'm not sure the city at large is, but even militant hedonists might be put off by the antics and sights of the Quarter. NB: I'm not one of those people. It was amazing, from what I recall. The night out was book-ended by grabbing a roadie for the streetcar and one for the cab, mostly because the law says that's cool. I say it's pretty cool, too, frankly. When I went back there Saturday for dinner, I got a little nauseas just looking at the pre-mixed crowd favorite drinks, Hurricanes, which in my estimation consist of kool-aid mix and rum with a slice of lemon and a little ice.
So, some major takeaways from the week:
- My primary mode of transportation is streetcar. I don't intend to allow that to change because it's awesome and makes me think of those old school Rice-A-Roni commercials.
- A streetcar is not to be confused with a trolley. Don't ask me what the difference is.
- No one actually knows what a bayou is, although "going down to the bayou" is a frequent activity for the locals.
- Life is much cheaper here than in D.C. (2.25 draft microbrews).
- I need to think up how to decorate my classroom...because I'll have students in there one, count 'em one, week after I get back from Hotlanta.
- Weezy just isn't as popular down here as he was before jail. Personally, I think it's the sell-out factor.
- Something other than snow causes potholes and general road degradation, because they've got some winners, and they don't get too much snow as I understand it.
- This city is very difficult to navigate. Why? Because there are very few street signs. Why? Because Katrina washed them away, apparently. Which again, is mind-blowing.
- There are some really incredible teachers, and some even more incredible kids down here. I'm pretty juiced to get my hands dirty.
- I'm really going to love it here.
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