"Are You Really Reading This, Thomas Jefferson?"

As a kid, I had the feeling most teachers didn't really read what I wrote. They passed out hundreds of "worksheets" and who could stay on top of all that paper?

In high school, the English teachers (or was it the school?) employed what they called "readers," college students who would read the papers, correct them, and even assign suggested grades. I knew my teacher at least read mine, anyway, because she'd often write a different grade on top, once with the little note, "I don't know why this reader consistently underrates your work." Smiley face for me.

I had a half-hearted (perhaps broken-hearted, but that's another story) Spanish teacher who assigned work for us to do each day, but collected the whole lot on one day. Now I most assuredly did NOT do one bit of that homework until the night before it was due when I frantically ripped some paper out of my spiral notebook and began typing out those jillion ejercicios. But after doing a few, it occurred to me that this lazy man was not going to read all of pages. I began skipping numbers:

1.
2.
3.
5.
6.
7.
8.
9.
11.
12.

And sometimes an ejercicio called for me to do 1-12, but I only hammered out 1-10. I probably shaved off about 15% of the actual assignments on the calculated gamble that this fellow wasn't going to check my work.

I began typing nonsense sentences, sprinkling them throughout the ejercicios: 
 9. El viejo quiero una banana para su perro ("The old man wants a banana for his dog")....  
13. "Hay una banana en mi cuarto, a veces en el piso" (There is a banana in my room, sometimes on the floor).

(I wrote many sentences about bananas. I don't know why; it was a fun word to type, perhaps.)

And then this very bold sentence I'd put in more than once: ¿Ud. esta leyendo esta tarea? No creo que Ud. esta leyendo esta tarea ("Are you reading this homework? I don't think you are reading this homework").

And when I got my ejercicios back, there was the large red A- with an arrow pointing to the raggedy spiral notebook margin I hadn't bothered to cut. Clearly he'd counted the number of ejercicios and was fooled by the dignity the typewriter lent them. Clearly the raggedy notebook margin was the reason for the minus part of the grade.

Clearly this has impacted me as an educator.

I am compelled to actually read what the kids write, to comment on their thoughts, to circle errors and question their answers. Over the years, I find expressions of my same doubts: "Are you really reading this?" And I respond: "Of course not." Sometimes a student writes asides or doodles little cartoons, and I add to the art and write my own asides. "Miss M was here, paying attention to your work," my additions report.

This commitment makes me testy when kids turn in half-hearted work. But is my annoyance directed at the right target? Have other teachers taught them that their work is merely checked for completion, not content? Didn't I have a history of dodging work when I could? Kids soon learn that I truly read their papers, so it isn't until December that I get really truly annoyed when someone turns in hasty, shallow, poor work that promptly receives a pathetic score.

Anyway, with super smart kids, their "Are you really reading this?" queries can be a bit more subtle:

D. sends out a test. Miss M. passes again!

And the answer is, was, and ever shall be: "YES. I am dignifying your thoughts and analyses with thoughts and analyses of my own. This is a dialogue. I care about the time you spent doing work I asked you to do because I believe it will help you better grasp this skill, content, or idea. I grade your work because I sometimes never received essays back from teachers and I suspected my time and efforts went into a trashcan, leaving only a checkmark in a gradebook, and I promised I'd never disdain a student's work that way. Even as I begrudge the time it takes me, I grade your work because I want to dignify your work with my time. I grade your work because I care about you."

That's the truth.

The Temporary Amnesia of July and the Mystery of Exciting Housework

I'd forgotten.

I'd forgotten how much grading is generated by thoughtful instruction. I'd forgotten how much time it takes to carefully read and respond to thoughtfully done work, to give meaningful, helpful feedback.

I'd forgotten how, faced with ten piles of work, I suddenly get the mad urge to clean the house, which in all fairness really DOES need a good cleaning. It is a triumph of will to sit and grade and not run towards the vacuum.

Suddenly MugBook is compelling. Words with Friends is frolicsome, even when all I have is auuwiio. On a beautiful day, I simply must remember that I am employed serving wonderful people doing stimulating work.

Mostly, I'd forgotten about the incredible amount of time. I remember now.



(Note that I am writing this entry as the ten piles glare balefully at me.)

The YMCA School of Swimming, German, and Feisty Sharks

Long ago when we were wee 'uns and enrolled in a Backyard Swim class, my brother told me that at the YMCA, they just threw you in the pool and let you figure out how to stay afloat. Although that's not true (is it?), my student teaching felt a bit like being thrown in the deep end after having merely READ about swimming, with a university supervisor, master teacher, and my own rising panic all screaming, "Swim better!" as I flailed about in a pool with 30 smallish but feisty sharks. Consequently, whenever I have student teachers, I've always tried to make things easier for them.

My current student teacher began the semester boldly independent, sure that he could be an amazing teacher right away, mostly by building rapport with kids, which meant talking about football. Without realizing it, he began pretty much copying my day-to-day lesson style and sometimes whole presentations, using my examples and pauses, borrowing far more from me than he imagined, because lesson planning is time consuming and he was teaching, going to school, and working ten hours a week: "I liked the test you're giving, so I'm going to use a lot of it" meant he was pretty much going to change my joke question to one about the Philadelphia Eagles. I suggested activities, had him spin them his way, let him use my homework, and let him believe that he was mostly original.

So. Student Teacher realizes his 4th period is beginning to turn on him (the worst feeling) with only two more days of school, today and next Monday. Finals are over today. "What do you have planned for Monday?" I ask.

"I don't know."

"You better think of something, because the natives are restless." With no test to dangle over young teens and as a teacher without much life experience and with not much originality, he's in deep water.

He hemmed and hawed and hung about, and said, "I wonder what I could do? I wonder what would keep them involved? Hmmmm."

Yes, he was flailing, hoping I'd rescue him. "The internet is loaded with ideas, M." Suddenly, I was working for the YMCA.

"I know! I'll teach them to count in German!" He looked at me for feedback. (Teach them to count in GERMAN?!? OK, that'll be interesting to about ten of them. But twenty sharks'll kill you just as dead as thirty. "If you were thirteen, would that interest you?" is normally what I would ask, pushing him to fix his lessons until the answer was "yes.")

"What incentive will you use? I think you are going to have to cave and buy candy."

"Yes, that's what I was planning to do." I tell him I'm glad he thought of that, because middle schoolers will do anything for a Jolly Rancher, but I think he told a fib. I hate fibs: my brain thought, "You and your German lesson are on your own. After ninety days of Lola-designed, -modified or -approved lessons, you are going to have to apply what you've learned at Backyard Swim."

I'll be in the room so there will be no blood, but fifty-five minutes feels a lot longer when you see fins.

 

A Bad Morning, A Kiss and Two Poems

It doesn't happen often, really only about once a year, and who knows why. Perhaps it's a convergence of gravitation, weather, hormones, CST testing dread, a strange dream, and the usual sad Padre win-loss record, but comes an odd day when I simply do. not. want. to. go in that classroom and face anyone. That day was yesterday.

Before school, I shared my dread with my close colleagues. "I don't wanna be that whiny teacher," I whined. A. listened with love and her eyes didn't judge me. K. commiserated and made me laugh, even when I shared that part of my low is my persistent belief that education can transform EVERYONE into Lola's ideal of a Fine Human Being with Noble Character Who Loves Reading when the disappointing truth is that the Bell Curve of Life indicates that a large portion of the population will forever gravitate toward daytime reality TV and hangovers. And this crushes me.

Of course I got on with it. The Compromise of 1850 wasn't going to teach itself. As usual, teaching itself became its own reward as I turned away from me to them and the task at hand.

Then it was time for my seminar English class--and two boys, D. and I., had spent their own money to buy Hershey bars for everyone in class! Their final flourish was to hand me a gigantical Hershey's kiss. Of course my heart grew three sizes.

And then it was time for Haiku Friends!! That's right--we are studying poetry, and for fun, students were assigned a fellow student to write about. I collected their little poems, read them aloud, and the students guessed the subjects. It was delightful and yet another time of bonding with this really wonderful class, but as I read the last one, C. rushed up to me waving one last haiku:

"Hamilton's girlfriend

In third grade, Calhoun punched her

Educates many"

I'm a big Alexander Hamilton fan--I'd told them of the day when Doug hit me--C had written a poem about me! For laughs? So I wouldn't feel left out? Because he was enjoying our time together? All good.

And then after school, I found my colleague K. had put a poem in my mailbox:

Maybe Dats Your Pwoblem Too by James Hall

All my pwoblems
who knows, maybe evwybody's pwoblems
is due to da fact, due to da awful twuth
dat I am SPIDERMAN.
I know. I know. All da dumb jokes:
No flies on you, ha ha,
and da ones about what do I do wit all
doze extwa legs in bed. Well, dat's funny yeah.
But you twy being
SPIDERMAN for a month or two. Go ahead.

You get doze cwazy calls fwom da
Gubbener askin you to twap some booglar who's
only twying to wip off color T.V. sets.
Now, what do I cawre about T.V. sets?
But I pull on da suit, da stinkin suit,
wit da sucker cups on da fingers,
and get my wopes and wittle bundle of
equipment and den I go flying like cwazy
acwoss da town fwom woof top to woof top.

Till der he is. Some poor dumb color T.V. slob
and I fall on him and we westle a widdle
until I get him all woped. So big deal.

You tink when you SPIDERMAN
der's sometin big going to happen to you.
Well, I tell you what. It don't happen dat way.
Nuttin happens. Gubbener calls, I go.
Bwing him to powice, Gubbener calls again,
like dat over and over.

I tink I twy sometin diffunt. I tink I twy
sometin excitin like wacing cawrs. Sometin to make
my heart beat at a difwent wate.
But den you just can't quit being sometin like
SPIDERMAN.
You SPIDERMAN for life. Fowever. I can't even
buin my suit. It won't buin. It's fwame wesistent.
So maybe dat's youwr pwoblem too, who knows.
Maybe dat's da whole pwoblem wif evwytin.
Nobody can buin der suits, dey all fwame wesistent.
Who knows?

.... I realized that K. understood, that James Hall understood: My suit won't come off and sometimes that's my pwoblem. I am SPIDERMAN FOR LIFE, and sometimes trying to save the world--or even just one thirteen year old--gets a little discouraging or even tiresome. But I am here to testify that the generous big hearts of boys and the power of compassion and poetry are transformative. The odd day is over, and I know that I am doing what I am supposed to be doing, and that changes everything.

COMPLETE TRIUMPH of the WEATHER over RESPONSIBILITY.

Bucket of essays,

You lose: it's 80°--

You'll just have to wait!!!

today's parent conference

THREE parents, one kid:

how can it be that the kid

does not do homework?

baby steps

Sometimes you explain a new concept, and a student or two doesn't grasp it right away. That is to be expected, so you plan to explain it more than once, and in more than one way. You draw pictures. You have kids act out a concept. Together you connect the new learning to prior knowledge. You break a task into manageable pieces (I hate the word "chunk"-- reminds me of something waaay gross); you have students put the new learning into their own words. You have them practice.

But after all this, if a student still says she doesn't understand, it's time to size up the situation.

a) Was the student involved in the process?
b) Has the student a history of comprehension issues evidenced by reading scores or misfollowing directions?
c) Does the student generally "get it", and this is an unusual situation?

Each of these situations requires a different approach. Today, Homework Avoidance Queen M. said she didn't have her intro paragraph because she didn't understand. My teacher gut told me that she fell into secret option: d) Will do anything to avoid work, and has learned that an exasperated teacher will sometimes either excuse you or do the work for you.

Point blank, I said, "It would be refreshing if you would just say 'I forgot to do it.' "

I waited for a retort or an eyeroll that would show I hit the target, watched for a hurt eye squint and an involuntary head recoil that would prompt a swift and sincere apology from me, but what I got was a small one-sided smile: bull's eye.

At least she didn't claim I lost her assignment. Progress, perhaps? Just lying instead of lying and blaming others is, I suppose, a step in the right direction.

The Bill (Clinton) System...

...or the BS, as I like to think of it: If you deny (or assert) something long enough, you'll be off the hook.

A few days ago I wrote about supposedly lost homework. M. was the inspiration. She told me she had turned it in (and implied that I had lost it), and furthermore told me that she had worked on the assignment with the principal.

OK, so that was easy enough to confirm, except the principal said she'd never worked on it with M.

M. insisted yes, they had worked on it together on Friday.

No, said the principal, she'd never seen that assignment before, and on Friday, they had just worked on math (my principal was a math teacher).

BUT M. CONTINUED TO ASSERT--TO THE PRINCIPAL-- THAT YES, THEY'D WORKED ON IT. Whoa. M. has waaay overplayed her hand and now is going to Saturday School.

I hope the bungalow is too hot and she has to sit next to someone with bad b.o.

i'm just gonna say it

you are a LIAR:
you lied to me, to your mom,
to the principal..........

C'mon.

So many kids across America (I may be exaggerating--maybe it's just across my district) do their HW, but don't turn it in. I just think that's fascinating. Here is a kid, he just spent a good twenty minutes of his free time completing an assignment, and he doesn't turn it in.

OK, so I think I've solved that problem. At the beginning of class, on my cue, out comes everyone's assignments and they hold the HW in front of their schweet faces. I scan, prompt the faces I can see, and once the forgetful are ready, I pass around what we call The HW Bucket. Kids put their HW in it and pass it to the next kid. The system works, and it takes care of one big problem some have had with HW.

Another problem dealt with is the old "Teacher Lost My HW!" shriek. Here's my solution: kid does HW, puts in bucket. Teacher grades papers, puts them in her tray of graded papers. After papers are passed back, all graded work is placed into folders that stay in the classroom. If a kiddo thinks she turned it in, she is invited to check her folder. Sometimes the paper is there, graded by my fabulous and doctor-worthy handwriting; the kiddo has fallen victim of "sticky paper syndrome", and I joyfully fix the gradebook. If the paper is not there, I invite the kiddo to check her notebook. Often the paper is there, but because said kiddo was absent on turn in day or something, the paper never made it into the bucket.

And sometimes the kiddo looks in both places and finds nothing. After teaching this long, I have acquired, thankfully, a little bit of understanding of human nature. My heart no longer whispers, "Believe the children!" when it comes to homework-adverse adolescents. I just brightly smile and let them know they can redo the assignment. No matter how much they wish they had it as an excuse, the following are not really plausible:
1) There is no HW black hole.
2) We are nowhere near the Bermuda Triangle.
3) I don't use their assignments as kindling as much as I'm tempted: I have a gas fireplace.

Bermuda Triangle

"But I turned it in--
I swear I did--" (trying to
buy another day)