Middle v High

When I first imagined becoming a teacher, I saw me in a high school. I saw only English lovers in my class, all engaged, competent, and sharing, laughing and loving each other. (I suppose this was a lot like my English class, part of the reason I wanted to teach high school English to begin with.)

I was first hired for middle school history. I was surprised at how funny the kids are, how they don't hold grudges, how fervent and affectionate and loyal and adorable they are. I liked them so much I decided to stay. And then I was "declared in excess," "pink slipped." That is the public school version of being fired. It happens either because there really are too many teachers and the one with the least seniority goes, or because the administration wants to get rid of a teacher but because of seniority, has to dig deep in order to do so, "declaring in excess" all the teachers up to the target. I was last hired and there was a teacher high above me whom they wanted out. It was inevitable.

I ended up being picked up by a high school. My English class was filled with English lovers...AND:

     English haters-

     English apathetics-

     silent kids-

     eye-rollers-

     the chronically bored-

     those too cool for school-

     shruggers.

Their ability levels ran the gamut. They sat slumped in their chairs, sleep heavy on their eyes. Some kids had writing that was positively hieroglyphic. I lasted one year there before my mom talked me into taking some time off to explore other career options.

I'm back in a middle school and oh so glad. But after a decade or so, a person can get curious and want to check out the color of other people's lawns. So today I checked out a high school. I liked it...a  lot. I liked the kids and that it looked like the teachers' efforts were directed toward helping students understand, not just repeating/reprimanding/redirecting. Yes, there was a ton of passivity, but after 16 years in Middle School Land,  also known as Squirrel Country, it was almost refreshing.

But then we noticed the conditions. The school is huuuuuge. There are so many teachers that they don't really know each other. There is competition for juniors and seniors. The toughest kids? Good luck. Stakes are super high. There is little collaboration. There is a ton of politics.

I head back to my little middle school tomorrow. Z will hail me with a happy smile. I'll have to tell O. to settle down. I'll likely have to interrupt some silent cross-room mouthed conversations between S. and J. BUT....I'll wave to every colleague, ask specific questions about their family, be blessed to know that everyone loves all the kids, eat lunch with good people. I will be home. I am not settling. The grass is always greener where you water it, and we positively have sprinklers at our school.

October 31

So I do not enjoy this holiday. Its origins bleed through in all the fear and horror and ugliness that folks seek out and that is thrown at us, and as a believer*, that's bad enough for me. Add to that the excuse for our children to dress slutty (yes, in middle school we have had prostitutes, pimps, and a Hooter girl, not to mention the whole menagerie of sexy bunnies, cats, Minnie Mouses, you name it, I've seen it). I'm ever tired of tired costumes, store-bought costumes, hours spent on makeup to make gunshot wounds, zombies, things calculated to nauseate.

BUT.

Every so often the creativity and boldness of a kid will blow me away. Here are the best of this year. (All boys, probably because of the pressure on girls to be "hot" at all costs. Ever see Mean Girls?)

Here, A. is dressed up as my favorite starfish, Patrick. You can't see his pink tights and his pointy head is drifting west, but he is definitely Patrick. My only regret is not seeing him with his friends; I understand there was a Spongebob and Squidward, too.

R. is committed to his persona--rolled down pantyhose, fake nails, breasts sagging. (As to the latter, nothing was more disturbing all day than to see R. holding up one to another student dressed as our principal, commanding him to smell it.) His face was lined with wrinkles and he hunched around all day.

If it were up to me, D.'s Pizza Samurai would have won first prize. His whole costume was beautifully crafted, completely original, and hey, eco-friendly.








This last one wins my heart. Today was our Declaration of Independence test, and J. came as The Natural Rights Pumpkin who rises out of the pumpkin patch once a year delivering good grades to those who have studied. Yes, those are flowers coming out of his "stem." How can you not melt when a kid is so inspired by your class that he wears something like this to actual school???

*Philippians 4:8 : Finally, brethren, whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things are honest, whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever things are of good report; if there be any virtue, and if there be any praise, think on these things.

Pigasus, Pasta, Pennies, and Student Strategy

We hate cancer.  We love competition.

So we love The Olive Garden's Pasta for Pennies competition at our school. The period 1 classroom that brings in the most money for the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society wins an Olive Garden lunch.

Money goes to research to get rid of this horrible disease

While I have huge reservations about "giving to get" charitable drives, there is no denying that the competition makes it far more about winning than eating. Hm, is that much better? OK, then, there is no denying that the drive to win makes for some wonderful team building.

Our class leaps ahead of Mrs G's class by $40 on the first day. I mention that if each kid in class brings in $10, we'd have $360 (stupid California class sizes); I remind them that I pitch in, too. The kids whine that Mrs W's class always wins. I point to the two first place pennants from The Olive Garden hanging by the door. "By 'always wins' do you mean 'always comes in second to Miss M's class?' " The kids perk up.

That afternoon, our collection box returns from the money counters in ASB decorated as a pig, er, Pegasus, er, Pigasus with a unicorn horn:

AB, NT, and RT show off their amazing creation

So the race is on. Mrs G, a new teacher, gains the lead. My students decide the way to win is to withhold some of the money we bring in; they decide to put only one third of the donations into Pigasus and the rest into this special jar my daddy had bought for me:

I don't keep this on display. But it came in handy for this activity.

We watch as Mrs W takes the lead; the class groans--they had her in 6th grade and know she has very persuasive techniques to make sure kids bring in money! Some kids in another class contribute to Pigasus. We learn that Mrs G's class has a hidden stash too, and our "spies" press in to discover the estimated amount. Some other classes find out about our hidden stash, but do not seem to know how much we have. At some point, the ASB box decorators make Pigasus's nose 3D. (I have no photographic proof....but trust me, it's a thing of beauty.)

The jar is too small to hold all of our rolled coin, loose change, and bills, so we hide the rolled coin and bills in a project on display, a project shaped like a bald eagle; it feels patriotic somehow. The students vote to stop putting more than five or so dollars daily into Pigasus and hoard almost all of it for Friday, turn in day.

Friday, yesterday--Pigasus is almost full. His top won't close properly. His legs buckle. He is taken to the ASB to have his innards counted.

After lunch, five ASB kids--all my first period students--come in. "We have good news and bad news!" N says sadly (but with dancing eyes and a persistent grin), "The pig's legs didn't make it....but the pig did! We won by $200!" It's actually kind of a pain for me, because I have to race out to La Mesa during my prep period and then deal with my fourth period kids drooling over bread sticks they can't have, but Mrs W has offered to help me serve, and frankly, my period 1 kids are so delightful that I absolutely look forward to lunch with them all.

The formal announcement is made over the intercom, period 7, right before the end of school. My period 7 graciously cheers and whoops as if it were they who had won. That's what I love about our school--we are good sports, and in the end, the more we raise, the more research we fund. That's a win-win in my book.

Must Be Nice

Courtesy shuttle--driver, passenger, myself.

P: You're going home, not to work?

M: It's spring break! I'm a teacher at DPMS.

P: Must be nice.

D: My sister went there! Did you have J.I.?

M: I did for a while, then she transferred to Mr F.

She's a junior now, right?

P: You must have a great memory to remember each student. How many kids in a class?

M: About 34.

P: YOU TEACH 150 KIDS A DAY?

M: It used to be worse--around 180. 

P: How do you know what they don't know?

M: I grade their papers, but you're right, it's hard.

P: You can't grade all their papers--you have TAs for that.

M: I wish. I grade it all. There are no TAs for that. Look, here are some papers right here. (shows bag full of work to be graded) That's what I'm doing when I get dropped off. Look, some studies say class size doesn't much affect student learning, but no one ever studies how it affects the teachers.

P (sympathetic): How could it not? My kid's elementary class has eleven students.

M: Must be nice.

P: What do you teach?

M: History.

P: Excuse me for asking this, but can't they just ask their smart phones for what they need to know? For when stuff happened?

This is where normally I would bridle and get out the soapbox and quote George Santayana and preach for twenty minutes and totally school him. But you know what? My head didn't explode and I didn't melt his face off. I tell myself I must be nice: he simply demonstrates once again that the study of the past is both undervalued and misunderstood. Unless it is taught poorly (and this is why there were no explosions or melting, because it so often is poorly taught), it is about WHY stuff happens, HOW it happens--much more than just WHAT happened. 

Although it would be nice if people knew WHAT happened, too.

Day One, Harry Wong, and Pie

The first day of school isn't, really.

I mean, it's not a normal day of school. Colleagues who ordinarily wear polo shirts are wearing ties. Every student's binder is perfectly neat and orderly. Usually, not the least because teacher demigod Harry Wong says to, the hour is spent establishing the rules and norms of the classroom.

I try something different.

As I wrap up a truncated version of The Rules & Consequences information, I pass out slices of pumpkin pie to random students. The slices are not evenly cut--some are wide wedges; others, narrow slivers. Not everyone gets a piece. In fact, only about ten kids get any at all.

I ask them what they think is going on. The unusual event--random, unequal pie distribution on the first day of school--is enough to get the conversation going, something that can be reallllly hard at the beginning of the year.

"You gave us pie," says one genius.

 "No, I didn't. I gave SOME of you pie."

"You gave pie to the people who weren't talking."

"Nobody was talking when I gave out the pie."

"Some pieces were bigger." "We didn't all get any." "The pie is pumpkin." "I'm hungry."

"This year, we will be looking at three big ideas that drive everything that happens in US history: ideals, economy, and POWER. I gave you pie to symbolize power. In a society, power is not usually distributed equally, and sometimes not everyone gets any power at all. Is that fair?"

A strong chorus of Nos, mostly from boys who received no pie.

"Should I take away pie from kids who had it and divide it that way?" I query.

In fluent Middleschool-ese, a student points out "there wouldn't barely be nothing for no one, just a crumb." Another student, full of pie, points out that taking away his pie would make him mad, even if it was more fair that way. "So would you agree that making a society more fair could be a struggle? Maybe people don't want to share their pie--er, their power. That is what this year is about, folks--trying to build a country where more and more people get a piece of pie--preventing some people from hogging it--all sorts of power struggles."

"Couldn't you just buy more pie so we all could have some?"  It's too early for me to tell if he is wisecracking or serious. I choose to believe he is joking. "Uh oh, no pie for you, ever!" I laugh, and the class laughs with me.

Do you know it can be hard to find pumpkin pie in September? I needed a pie that was easy to slice and would maintain its shape and not schmoosh all over the tables or kids' new clothes.

We end by taking notes (some groan--work already? ha! I am establishing the norm of the class--academic and hardworking from day one, but hopefully unpredictable) on the nature of power, and the bell rings, but they wait to be dismissed by me, because, after all, I have more pie than they do: I am the Pie Master.

Huh? Whah?

Julian Treasure, an advertiser whose expertise is sound, fears we are losing our listening skills and wants us to teach listening in schools. In his TED talk, he gives a few tips after he explains the dynamics of listening. He begins by noting that our ability to record (writing and sound waves) has drastically reduced the premium on listening.

Julian Treasure gives some sound advice

Inattention isn't just a problem in the classroom; for those of us who make a living through communication, it's the quintessential obstacle we must overcome. And today we have more competition for attention than ever before. Ever deliver a lesson to someone whose head was bobbing and fingers were drumming, and realize he is listening to a song in his head, and you'd have to repeat everything? Ever try to get someone's attention only to notice that she was wearing earplugs, forcing you to flap your hands about, and then feel as if you are an intrusion?

These past five years as a teacher, I've noticed a shift in the level of imagination that kids bring to the table. They are as exuberant as ever, as intelligent as ever, but when you turn the thinking over to them, many seem truly lost. Are we also losing the ability to listen to ourselves? Isn't that what thinking is?

I have a friend who said she couldn't fall asleep unless the radio was on. Her eight hours were infiltrated by all kinds of lyrics and commercials that seeped into her brain at some level.

I have a friend whose television is always on, loud enough to compete with our conversation, though no one is watching it.

My uncle leaves NPR on in the car, even though he has lively conversations with his passengers.

Mr. Treasure suggests three minutes of daily silence and notes incidentally that nearly every spiritual tradition has contemplation as a component of its practices. Three minutes off the grid with only our thoughts to occupy our minds--could you do it? Could our kids? Would that be "a waste of time" or part of a true education?

Graphology, Television, Plato, and Paul

When I was in third grade, we had a guest speaker who was a graphologist. I was FASCINATED by the idea that you could discern someone's personality traits from their handwriting.


The guest said since we were just learning cursive, it was too soon to really analyze our own writing. But I do remember a classmate asking that since our writing showed our personalities, could CHANGING our handwriting shift our personalities--because the guest said YES. I tripped out.  (Hold that thought.)


Now I have never researched graphology (although I admit to analyzing people's handwriting all the time based on what I learned that day--high cross on your t's mean you think highly of yourself. Open loops above your a's and o's? You can't keep a secret), but this morning I wondered if there was a similar link between SES and TV viewing. 


I found a study from 2001 which analyzed viewing habits of 26,420 people in five Latin American countries, and sure enough, what they watched was influenced by their wealth and education.


Here is what the researchers found:


" Insofar as their television viewing are concerned, we observed these preferences:

• SES Level A: travel, business & finance, economy, recent Hollywood movies (on premium cable channels or pay-per-view), internationally produced drama series, politics  [TOP 10% of SES]
• SES Level B: biographies, documentaries, general interest & education, local news, sports [NEXT 20%]
• SES Level C: sports commentary, live music concerts, music videos, cooking, home decoration, entertainment, home shopping, internationally produced telenovelas [NEXT 30%]
• SES Level D: domestically produced novelas, game shows/contests, comedies, horror, cartoons. [NEXT 40%; see chart below; all brackets Haiku Education's]"

Back to the held thought: can changing one's viewing habits influence one's SES? Hmmm.

Here is the education connection. Aristotle believed that the purpose of education is "to make the pupil like and dislike what he ought." Everything Else Thrown In puts it this way:  "Plato, the teacher of Aristotle, said that a properly trained youth was one “who would see most clearly whatever was amiss in ill-made works of men or ill-grown works of nature, and with a just distaste would blame and hate the ugly even from his earliest years and would give delighted praise to beauty, receiving it into his soul and being nourished by it, so that he becomes a man gentle of heart.”    As scary and Big Brother-y as this can sound, it's true that children tend to develop tastes heavily influenced by those around them and their culture, INCLUDING their teachers. 

AND SO... I want to expose my charges to the beautiful and the true. I want them to feed on integrity and good character. I want them to ask "why?" I want the novels in my class library to help them become noble and jolly. This TV study supports my notion that mainstream TV is an enemy of their financial future; perhaps so are certain types of books. This is not a censorship argument--if a kid is into bodice-rippers, that's her business--but I want to have a shot at helping to WIDEN and perhaps shift that taste to include, perhaps, some Charlotte Bronte or Jane Austen, or Ray Bradbury for that matter. 

I guess I am just echoing what Paul wrote in  Philippians 4:8:

"Finally, brethren, whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things are honest, whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever things are of good report; if there be any virtue, and if there be any praise, think on these things."

Bad Manners and No Class

If your doctor makes you angry,
do you barge into her appointments with other patients to tell her so?

If you think your lawyer made a mistake,
do you choose his courtroom time to inquire about it?

Today's hero is my colleague. As he is doing his job, educating the ignorance out of his jillion 8th graders, into his classroom DURING CLASS TIME strides a parent who begins to berate him. My colleague keeps his calm. Instead of reaching for the phone to call for the VP to bounce her out, or the cops, or Chuck Norris, he asks for the parent's work address so he can return the favor. "Really, tell me, where do you work? Sharp Hospital? I will come by to conference with you when you are on the job because apparently that's ok with you."

I want to shower him with accolades and palm fronds and leis and ticker tape and whatever heroes are showered with. I want to carry him on my shoulders before cheering crowds of teachers who have been disrespected in similar ways simply because they are public servants. Why do some parents treat teachers differently than they do other professionals? Could it be because they don't value what we do? I can't stand it when a parent comes by before or after school without an appointment; invariably I am tutoring or counseling kids or setting up my classroom or on my way to or from a meeting or from the workroom. (Why? BECAUSE I AM AT WORK, WORKING. Imagine that.) They always seem a little surprised when I ask if they have an appointment. ???

Parents are ALWAYS welcome to visit my class as observers. I am ALWAYS glad to conference with them at appropriate times. I just wish some parents would use good manners, because they are teaching their children how to behave, and trust me, that is getting to be a scary proposition these days.

Hmm, some people need to work on #1.

The Only One: Pepsi and Morgan Freeman

I show only one movie to my history class.

(Despite conventional wisdom that says history teachers show a movie a week.) (Or daily.) (I like parentheses.)

Sure, I show clips from others.  I show the ten minute "Small House of Uncle Thomas," a Thai-style adaptation in "The King and I" to show the impact of Stowe's tale--plus it is unbelievably beautiful and exposes tragically literal students to another culture's spare, lovely sets and dancing. I show a few clips from "Roots":  Kunta on the slave ship, Chicken George finding one of the slain participants of Nat Turner's failed slave rebellion. I show some short pieces for fun--like JibJab's Founding Fathers Rap and Lin-Manuel Miranda's piece on Alexander Hamilton for President Obama.

Full disclosure:  if I am unexpectedly ill or don't have the time or brain to make lesson plans (as happened once when I got the sad phone call that my Nana had passed away and I was on a plane that day to be with the family), I will have the guest teacher show a stand-by video--either the appropriate volume of "Roots", or "Nightjohn" (soooo goood).

But movies are too long; kids' attention spans are too short; California's history standards are too plentiful; the state history test, inexorable. History movies in particular tend to be too violent, and Hollywood seems to think Americans need to watch other people having sex in every movie.

So: the only movie I show is Edward Zwick's "Glory." It is rated R, but God bless Pepsi--Pepsi issued an edited-for-classroom-use version and distributed them free to schools across the United States. One landed in my hands, because God loves me.

And despite the fact that I have seen this movie an average of five times a year for almost twenty years, I do not tire of it. I still tear up when the soldiers march through Boston for their send off. I still am struck with the weight of the story, the quality of the acting, the cinematography, the moving score.

And despite short attention spans and less and less background knowledge every year (today, S. gasped, "They had newspapers back then!?"), despite the fact that I have to wrestle them into paying full attention for the first day, by the end of the film I believe the kids are better people, deeper people, and Lord help us, better educated people.

(Plus Morgan Freeman's in it, so you know it's chock-full of avuncular goodness.)

Louisa May Alcott, personal affirmations, and nausea

I was nine when I first read Little Women; I wept copiously when Beth died. Her goodness and gentleness inspired me to make a little sign for my desk at school to remind me to be as good as Beth, and as silly as it was, I was in earnest:

    "Be nice and

     be kind and

     don't forget to

     always mind!"

Fast forward to 2012. Kids decorate their school notebooks with stickers, photos, song lyrics, notes, all manner of personal touches slid under the plastic cover. But my stomach lurched when I read a little sticky note one girl had written to herself:

   "Dear Me,

       You are the sexiest one that walked the earth."

                   Love, Me"

Aside from the unmatched grammatical tense, just the idea that, at thirteen, sexiness was her highest aspiration made me feel queasy and sad. 

Such is the pressure on girls to please and attract the opposite sex. 

I think everyone who teaches elementary school and middle school should see Thirteen (2003), directed by Catharine Hardwicke, about the pressures of modern thirteen year olds. What's stunning about this film is it was mostly written by one of the teenage stars of the film. It is not easy to watch. But maybe raising teens isn't easy, either.  

link to Thirteen: www.youtube.com/watch?v=E7AV6nRq9a8

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.

Haiku: To the Newcomer

Promethean Board--

Gigantical monolith--

You hold much promise

You're yet one more screen

in my kids' overscreened life

(Almost theater-sized--)

My learning curve: steep

My exploration time: nil

The day you came, I sighed:

"My super powers

Are gone! It's like Kryptonite

For educators!"

But I accept you,

will integrate you, and soon

Will master you, yes.

But tell me one thing:

Will kids learn more? Or faster?

Impress me, I beg.

So I am pretty skeptical. I think it's the netbooks that will make the real difference in lessons. That's what will connect us to information instantly, allow us to share it and stuff. All the lessons on Promethean Planet strike me as Power Point-ish, and I never liked Power Points for lessons, just for funny pictures. Presentations delivered via PP's have generally bored me and, it seemed to me, control the presenters. History is a story at heart. I am not down on the Promethean Board--I am so glad I have one, am in love with having two microphones, surround sound, can't wait for a printer--I am just not impressed with the how technology has affected the digital natives in my class. (They know more about less than any kids I've taught in twenty years.) Watch--I'll probably fall in love with it. Here's hoping.

Fat Albert, The Lion King, and Disrespected Deer

Early December: Students write their intros for their Animal Farm papers, using a step-by-step process, teacher demonstrating each step. All students EXCEPT A. turn in intros; teacher edits/critiques them; students now have direction and really good intros. (Except A.)

Mid-December: Students bring in drafts of papers; randomly assigned fellow students read, instructed to give kind, helpful, and specific criticism. A. receives N. as his "critical friend;" she is insightful--he is lucky.

Five minutes ago: Teacher reads A's paper and despairs. The intro is awful, but A is just getting started. Here is a transcript, but just a sampling of a much longer and more awful paragraph in a much longer and more dreadful paper--mind you, his paper is supposed to be about Orwell's Animal Farm:

"Deer aren't respected; they just mind their own business and are shot, cooked, and eaten. Why was the play called "The Lion King" and not "The Monkey King"? I personally think an ape should be king of the jungle. And why is Fat Albert so fat? I mean that has nothing to do with my point and point is in the next sentence. My point is that class issues isn't always how we interpret it."

As much as his paper makes me want to fall on my sword, it is an indicator of my next steps. Upon return, our class will read some of the successful papers and identify what makes them good. This student will be required to write a new, PROPER intro, and if I have to personally ok every sentence as he writes it, so be it. I am not allowed to throw up my hands (although they can't stop me from throwing up) and dismiss him; I am going to educate the pop culture out of him. I am gonna work him until he writes a paper he can proudly show his grandma, who happens to be a friend of mine from my early teaching days.

I have my work cut out for me.

Santa, Linus, Compassion, and Education

This past December 9, during my prep period, I turned a corner and found one of our most fabulous 6th grade teachers SOBBING, a student comforting her. The teacher saw me, waved me on. I ran and hugged her and then left them, respecting her wish to continue the conversation with the student.

Yesterday she shared what had happened, her eyes flooding.

"I ruined Christmas," she whispered.

A supporter of all things magical and joyous, a generous soul who quietly gives to her students, a Martha Stewart in the classroom which is tastefully decorated according to each season--there was no way this statement was true, even aside from its hyperbolic breadth; my face told her I didn't believe her.

"Inadvertently, of course. But parents have written and complained that I have no respect for imagination or the magic of Christmas and that I am an insensitive soul."

You see, my "callous" colleague thought it would be wonderful for her students to participate in the Make-A-Wish Foundation's® holiday campaign. She wanted her students to remember children across America who are experiencing medical challenges, to remind her class that thinking of others is important, to help them do something practical and easy to help others. (Can't you just feel her insensitivity and lack of imagination?)

But when a student asked why the class needed to stamp the envelopes to send letters to Santa...nonbelievers hooted, and the student looked to the teacher to call foul, but this HONEST EDUCATOR, who loves all things magical and respects truth and wants her kids to trust her, said something neutral along the lines that "Myth or not, we all can support this wonderful cause."

So. Some kids at age 11 believe Santa is real, that he's the one who, at no financial cost, is able to bring gifts to good kids, who sees them when they are sleeping and awake, omnipresent and omniscient, reaping all the love for the labor and sacrifice of the flesh-and-blood True Givers, flooding him with all the love that is due to others. (Obviously I have a strong opinion about Santa). This teacher's diplomatic reply was brought home, mistranslated: "Mrs. X says Santa isn't real," voiced in front of younger siblings. And the parents wrote mean letters, telling my friend she ruined Christmas for the whole family, that she is insensitive and doesn't care about imagination or the magic of Christmas. Yes, my colleague is so insensitive that she cried all weekend and now tears up if Santa is even mentioned.

Look, tell your kids what you want, but: If your idea of "CHRISTMAS MAGIC" overshadows greater notions of GENEROSITY, TRUTH, and HELPING OTHERS, then you need some schooling about what Christmas is all about, Charlie Brown--so take it from the best, Linus himself, and back away from big hearted souls who are trying to make this life easier for your kids and less fortunate kids:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5GtOfLlOT84

Macy's Believe holiday campaign benefits the Make-A-Wish Foundation^®. The nostalgic campaign was inspired by the New York Sun's famous "Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus" editorial from 1897 and includes letter-writing "Believe Stations" in Macy's stores across the country. For each letter dropped in Macy's Santa Letterbox, Macy's makes a $1 donation to the Make-A-Wish Foundation, up to $1 million. And for each letter received on National Believe Day, December 9, Macy’s will donate an extra $1 to the Foundation.

Gratitude and Remembrance

Sometimes a picture

is a far better teacher

than any lecture

I don't know who took this picture, but it is beautiful. Teachers often speak in military terms about our profession: long time teachers are "veterans", resource teachers aren't always considered "in the trenches" by regular classroom teachers, teachers swap "war stories" in the lounge, some "battle" for or against special testing of students. Unfortunately, there are teachers whose classrooms are emotional battlefields where children are casualties.

When dealing with difficult kids, resistant learners, I must remain conscious of what I fight: IGNORANCE, not a child; AN AMORAL CULTURE, not a child; APATHY, not a child.

Ephesians 6:12 puts it this way:

For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms.

Let the dedicated teachers soldier on, fighting the good fight.

It might be happening!!

This just may be the magical year...school-wide, the kids have been so good that there has been no need for Saturday School (where evil children do hard time)....almost all my students are doing all their homework...the normal distribution of grades in each class is abnormally skewed in the happy direction...and last Monday I got spontaneous and straight-up raucous applause from my Seminar class that had no idea what I meant!

All I said was, "Today will be our first Stupid M. Play-" and whoooo, boy, they just about woke the dead! A former student is doing some volunteer hours with me before she leaves to teach English in Korea, and I am so glad I had a witness. These are kids who want to be involved, jump in, learn! HUZZAH!

(I should add that to the magical year list--someone actually volunteering in a middle school classroom for nothing more than a diet Dr Pepper and the warm sense of satisfaction from helping others--)

Anyway, the only nonmagic is my study skills class. I had visions of transforming them, but really, my vision is much more literal now: come in, get to work, be productive. So far, they come in. The other two steps are next!

But I may have to call Disney: This year has the makings of a feel-good hit!

The Rodney Dangerfield of Academia

August, 2011:

She: "You went to grad school at Harvard? Which field?"

I: "The one no one respects."

She: "Education?"

Us: "Hahahahaha!" (but my laughter was bitter...)

My new friend, She, is not alone in her assessment. What is tragic about this very true story is that selecting teaching as a vocation is seen by the academic world as either proof of lack of interest in learning or of lack of intellectual capacity.

1997:

While carpooling to an Intervarsity Christian Fellowship academic conference of all the Harvard grad schools about the intersection of Christianity in the disciplines, we introduced ourselves, starting with the front seat: the driver was an astrophysicist, shotgun was a geologist, next to me was a linguist working on his eighth language, another physicist, and then me. When Astrophysicist heard my vocation, he blurted, "Why would you want to come to this event?" I was too shocked to respond. His blurting was the first time I'd faced academic snobbery. The silence grew awkward until Geologist came to the rescue, using heavy sarcasm: "Yeah, why would a teacher be interested in anything educational?" We all laughed--I could breathe again--but I was dizzy with bewilderment for a long while.

A very long while--this still bewilders me.

Harvard's motto is Veritas, Truth.

In this case, Truth hurts.

Thirsty

I spent the evening with others who love, enjoy, and respect the works and life of C. S. Lewis. The president of the C.S. Lewis Foundation, Dr. Stanley Mattson, was our guest, and as he spoke, and when he played a video of this coming summer's Oxbridge Summer Institute, I teared up.

I am an educator for many reasons, and one of them is my love of and belief in the power and beauty of words and ideas. Now, the culture we inhabit is one that is dominated by the body--its primal needs and desires, and advertisers capitalize on these themes to possess the minds, tastes, time and money of my students (of us all, really). Part of my classroom mission is to open kids' eyes to ideas beyond their 13 year old persons, and to open their hearts and minds to the great things inside themselves and in the world.

Confession: I've recently admitted to myself that I'm an intellectual. Sounds snooty (mainstream American culture regards intellectuals with suspicion at best and derision at worst), but I looked it up, and yep, I care about ideas and stuff. You can only imagine what that video dangled in front of me: a chance to hang out with other nerds who care about ideas and words and learning and love and truth.

This is from the website--just a teensy bit shortened:

"...[W]e will address the question whether, and to what extent, cultural transformation is desirable or possible. Then, more specifically, in mathematics and the natural sciences, we will explore the implications of contemporary physics and quantum theory for the Christian message of hope and meaning.

In literature, philosophy, history, and theology, we will examine the origins and significance of the crisis of vision in order to engage the mainstream culture from an understanding characterized by genuine sympathy and integrity.

Our leaders from the social and behavioral sciences and cultural studies will consider the roots of chaos and dysfunction in our families, cities, and culture, and will explore paradigms based on Christian themes that hold hope for the transformation of lives and culture.

Our colleagues in theatre, dance, music, visual art, and film will lead us in understanding the dimensions of the crisis of the loss of vision, and they will also help us palpably sense the power of transforming vision.

Finally, in worship throughout the Summer Institute, as well as through active prayer, we will own the crisis in our own lives that leads us to Christ, and celebrate the hope that springs from both acknowledging and appealing to the transcendent source of all goodness and beauty."

Oh, yes, I'm going. I am going to be around literate, thoughtful, dynamic, joyful, creative people from all over the world, from all Christian traditions, and I want to come back transformed and equipped and ready. I can't wait to meet more kindred spirits--I already met one this evening, dear Stanley Mattson.

I didn't know I was so thirsty until tonight.

Join the Jedi

He came midyear, and after his first day, all the girls were in love with him and all the guys wanted to be him. Teachers, parents, friends--Bruce Davis, Jr made us glad to know him. He wasn't the best writer, but his astute comments during class discussions made involvement in education important, cool, even. Nobody goofed off when Bruce was around; he just thought it was silly to be disrespectful.

He was voted president of the middle school's African American Club and his leadership was palpable: positivity, peace, levelheadedness, sensibility, faithfulness all characterized this gifted young man. I believe he won "Most Leadership" in our school yearbook.

He moved to Mississippi after his sophomore year, graduated from high school, was attending community college--and was fatally shot in the chest this October 15.

In looking for more information about his murder, my heart broke to read that the violence was allegedly due to a drug deal gone bad. I didn't want to believe it. It had to be his cousin's deal, not his own. But a tribute video included some pictures that told of choices that Bruce had made--choices that included a gang, if I were to believe the bandana covering his mouth, or the sign he threw as one picture was taken, or his gang moniker tattooed across his chest.

When did he join? When he still lived in San Diego? When did he get involved with drugs? And the bigger question: Why did he go in that direction?

WHY DOES THAT GANG LIFESTYLE APPEAR SO ATTRACTIVE TO OUR YOUTH?? I am heartbroken. But I am also so angry I can't see straight. My stomach is a knot. Some kids don't have a caring family, don't have a strong sense of self, don't know better, have family members with a long history of thugging. But Bruce doesn't seem to fit that pattern.

I fight it, that lifestyle, every day. It only looks like I teach history and English. I am really teaching a belief system. I teach kids to believe in hard work, in excellence, in patience, in goals, in choosing the better way. I am just one soldier; other teachers, a scout leader, a youth pastor, a coach, an uncle--we are all Jedi fighting against the dark side of the Force, against the lure of fame and fortune hawked by music videos and lifestyles of those celebrities and athletes who serve the gods of Self and Pleasure above all. We Jedi do not save them all. And we do not know our influence; when we hear such discouraging news, it's easy to feel that our fight is of no avail, especially in the face of the money machines of Madison Avenue, of the music industry, of Hollywood. But by God Almighty let us continue to fight the good fight in the hopes of saving others, of helping our children reject destruction, drugs and death.

I love you, Bruce. The real Bruce, not the fake one in the picture above, but the young man I am posting here in his graduation robes. The fact that Bruce was in community college shows that he was still a believer in education, and that the fake Bruce in the evil picture hadn't completely won the battle. I'd like to believe that had Bruce lived, he would have one day joined us and been a most powerful Jedi, or like Anakin Skywalker, come back at the end. R.I.P., Bruce Davis, Jr. You will be missed.