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:

• 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.

I'll let you piece together the full scene that took place outside room 412. But suffice it to say that I have not ever in my life been threatened by so many "I swear to God man, I'll sock you right here" statements in my life. Nor have I ever encouraged so many students to follow through on their threats of violence against me. "Please hit me. I'd love to have that conversation with your mama."

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)

So now, after only a few weeks, the kids are slowly beginning to stop showing up to school. I feel like I've known them for months, and I know I'll remember them forever, not only for the challenge they posed for me, but also for their wit and their fervent belief that their current boyfriend/girlfriend WILL someday be their spouse and their peculiar style of innocence and their confidence and their enthusiasm for life. In their minds, I imagine I'll slowly fade from being that hack who tried to teach to that guy from summer school to a vaguely familiar face and back to a total stranger. And that's okay. But I hope they do remember that one time, in the summer after seventh grade, soembody told them everyday how smart they are and how much potential they have. I'll take that, too, because there really is something to be said for little victories.

A demain, mes amis.