There is a girl in my class who is a little bit out of her mind. I’ve taught her for two years, and won't hesitate to say that she is truly nuts. She knows it, I know it, her mother knows it, and the rest of the school absolutely knows it. Her name is Alex. She is tall, pretty, and entirely erratic. The administration doesn’t reprimand or correct her for fear of her reaction, and most teachers would rather allow the outrageous things that she does slide than risk an explosive confrontation. 'Picking your battles' with her generally entails not picking any battles.
Last year she threw a full water bottle at a teacher, calling her a ‘skinny b**ch’. She mutters under her breath - long, angry rants. At her science teacher, who she really despises, she will scream repeatedly that she hates her. ‘I hate this teacher, this class is boring that’s why I hate this teacher, she so skinny, she’s a b***h, she’s just mad because her mother don’t feed her.’
For some reason, Alex likes me. This in no way makes me exempt from her tantrums. She tells me she 'hates me to my guts', she asks me to 'shut up,' she tells me to leave her alone. She breaks rules that it wouldn’t even occur to most people to break – rules I wouldn’t even think were worth breaking. She operates with complete and utter disregard for the school rules, systems, and procedures. She comes and goes from class as she pleases, she trespasses on the property of the elementary school that we share a building with, she fights with her friends and her enemies alike.
Last year, she was the cause of my worst day, which says a lot when you compare it to the many bad days that preceded it in the year. We were taking a final in the Spring. The class was unusually compliant, all sitting in silence, taking the exam seriously.
“Miss, I need help,” she said.
“What do you need, Alex?” I asked
“Sex.” She replied casually.
“Okay….how about something that I can help you with?”
She came to the front of the room and looked for a pencil in her bag. Not finding one, she stood, walked over to a small boy, and punched him in his face. The provocation for this remains unknown, but because it was SUCH a good day and everyone else was being SO good, I decided that rather than handle it in the class, as I had learned to do, I would call for security to remove her so that the students could finish the test.
As I picked up the phone, she grew enraged and began screaming at me.
“I’ll kill you, I’m gonna come to your house and kill you. I’m gonna trash your car and your boyfriend’s car and your house.” I remained calm, as these outbursts were unnerving but not entirely out of the ordinary. I told her to sit down, and she took desks and began to flip them over. She took chairs and threw them across the classroom. She took every book off of the shelves and threw them on the floor, before knoccking over the bookshelves. I called security again, and no one came. I called the principal, and the administration, and was unable to reach anyone. I went next door and got another teacher to come help, but when she came, Alex cursed at her and told her to shut up. Two other teachers came and left, trying to get her out, failing, and leaving to find security.
Alex unplugged the phone from my wall, and smashed it on the floor, taking the broken parts and hiding them around the room. She broke into my locker and began filling her pockets with my things. She flipped over the trash can onto the floor. At this point Mr. M came upstairs to my room and saw the mayhem. I stood in front of the door telling Alex to return my things to the locker before leaving the room. She pushed me out of the way and disappeared.
This was the first, and only time that I cried in school. This wasn’t really the worst thing that had happened all year, it was mainly a culmination of many many crazy, unbelievable incidents that made me feel overwhelmed and unqualified and alone. I was outraged that no one had come to help, that for 15 minutes this had been allowed to go on.
I went to her suspension hearing, and her mother’s only question to me was about how exactly her daughter had pushed me.
“You SAY my daughter pushed you…but did she shove you with her body, or did she use her hands, because there’s a big difference you know.” This question shouldn’t have surprised me. Earlier in the year a girl had cursed me out and told me she was going to slit my throat. When her mother came in, her primary concern had been whether she used the f-word, or just called me a white b****, because in the hierarchy of profanity, one is much worse than the other.
Needless to say, Alex wasn’t punished; she was suspended for 2 days. To top it off, she was placed back in my class this year. Still outrageous, she’s less destructive than she was in the past. I now teach her for 5 periods a day, and she generally shows up for no more than 2. She’s essentially illiterate, writing pages and pages of indecipherable nonsense. Some days she is highly agreeable, coming in, sitting down, taking copious notes. Other days she puts her headphones on, and curses me out if I ask her to take them off. She makes racist comments all the time, quickly laughing and apologizing, assuring me that in fact she likes white people. She cheats as though there is no rule against it, and is aghast when she continues to fail.
I dreaded having her. I complained that after the incident at the end of last year I shouldn’t have to have her. I mentioned her well-documented history of verbal and physical violence towards adults and students as a reason why she should perhaps not continue be in our school. The first month of school I avoided even going to any part of the room that she was in. But then, slowly, I overcame it. I got over how much I disliked her, and how angry I was that she was in my class. I tried to teach her.
She’s still failing and she’s still in the wrong setting. She needs a one-to-one ratio of teacher to student to keep her in check. I’m probably not making any difference in her life at all. But in some way, I’d like to think she’s taught me. By forcing me to face her every day and not get worn down or upset, she's tested and pushed me in a way that no other student has. In some small way, hopefully, the act of surviving her has helped me to grow.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Monday, March 1, 2010
Normal
People have to make themselves believe that the things that are happening to them are normal. This is a survival mechanism that allows humans, as a species, to endure; and yet it cripples us in so many ways. When something horrible happens, or is happening, how do we survive? We convince ourselves that it is normal.
We must reduce cognitive dissonance – which means we either must change what is happening or we must change what we think about what is happening. It’s amazing the tricks a mind can play on itself – the things we can convince ourselves are okay.
Women get beat up by their boyfriends or husbands, get cheated on, get disrespected. In many ways it is easier to change the way that you view that behavior than it is to change the behavior itself. And so they decide that this is normal. That this man isn’t bad, he’s reacting in a way that is understandable.
The problem is that it sticks with you – this idea of normal. You take it with you into the future, into all experiences that lie ahead of you. Once not trusting someone feels normal, you stop expecting trust. Once it feels normal to struggle, to be sad, to be lonely – you can convince yourself that anything more is extra.
I have been thinking a lot about the things that I have made myself consider normal – the things that quietly lower my expectations every day. All around me are students whose expectations are low – who believe that it is normal to not go to college, to live in poverty, to drink expired milk and to go without dinner. Talking about relationships, my students have convinced themselves that women getting beat up by their husbands, or cheated on, or left, is par for the course. They may not want marriage, because they don’t want this for themselves, but they don’t consider that there is another version of marriage.
In some ways, all of us adjust our expectations. And we must. It’s no way to go through life – always questioning why things are they way that they are, always wanting more. And yet, the people who change the world – the ones who really make a difference, are the ones who look at the way tat things are and ask why. There is an enormous strength required to ask this question – more than we give credit for. And it’s hardest when the circumstances are your own.
I can look at my students lives and ask why. Why is it that it is socially acceptable to be illiterate? Why do parents let their kids join gangs? Why are seventh graders having sex? Why, why, why? A million things that I can look at and question – but can I do the same in my own life?
It’s dangerous to accept bad things a normal. Until you ask why, you can’t fight for something better, can’t realize that you deserve something better. And yet, it’s equally as dangerous to open that Pandora’s box of want.
For me, and my friends, those I see around me, perhaps there was a time when you believed that you deserved more, and you have lowered your expectations, let go of that idea and embraced the possible. But what if, as in the case of my students, you never expected more – you’ve never even dreamed of better. How then, do you redefine normal?
We must reduce cognitive dissonance – which means we either must change what is happening or we must change what we think about what is happening. It’s amazing the tricks a mind can play on itself – the things we can convince ourselves are okay.
Women get beat up by their boyfriends or husbands, get cheated on, get disrespected. In many ways it is easier to change the way that you view that behavior than it is to change the behavior itself. And so they decide that this is normal. That this man isn’t bad, he’s reacting in a way that is understandable.
The problem is that it sticks with you – this idea of normal. You take it with you into the future, into all experiences that lie ahead of you. Once not trusting someone feels normal, you stop expecting trust. Once it feels normal to struggle, to be sad, to be lonely – you can convince yourself that anything more is extra.
I have been thinking a lot about the things that I have made myself consider normal – the things that quietly lower my expectations every day. All around me are students whose expectations are low – who believe that it is normal to not go to college, to live in poverty, to drink expired milk and to go without dinner. Talking about relationships, my students have convinced themselves that women getting beat up by their husbands, or cheated on, or left, is par for the course. They may not want marriage, because they don’t want this for themselves, but they don’t consider that there is another version of marriage.
In some ways, all of us adjust our expectations. And we must. It’s no way to go through life – always questioning why things are they way that they are, always wanting more. And yet, the people who change the world – the ones who really make a difference, are the ones who look at the way tat things are and ask why. There is an enormous strength required to ask this question – more than we give credit for. And it’s hardest when the circumstances are your own.
I can look at my students lives and ask why. Why is it that it is socially acceptable to be illiterate? Why do parents let their kids join gangs? Why are seventh graders having sex? Why, why, why? A million things that I can look at and question – but can I do the same in my own life?
It’s dangerous to accept bad things a normal. Until you ask why, you can’t fight for something better, can’t realize that you deserve something better. And yet, it’s equally as dangerous to open that Pandora’s box of want.
For me, and my friends, those I see around me, perhaps there was a time when you believed that you deserved more, and you have lowered your expectations, let go of that idea and embraced the possible. But what if, as in the case of my students, you never expected more – you’ve never even dreamed of better. How then, do you redefine normal?
Possessed
There is something alive inside of them, possessing them, fighting to take over. You can see it in them, walking into school all wound up, buzzing with an energy that isn’t their own. It is as thought they have to fight against it every day – a battle between themselves and this unknown entity. This is adolescence, and when the fight is won, a human being emerges.
They enter in 6th grade, wide eyed, ready to be influenced, still looking for affirmation and affection from their teachers. Then, slowly, they are infected – perhaps by the 7th graders – with some mysterious being that creeps inside of them and consumes their energies, their thoughts, their beings.
This morning on NPR, they talked about a study that was being done to examine why teenagers act the way that they do. Perhaps there is a biological, sociological, more empirical study of the transformations that take place. But as an adult, spending two years immersed in this middle school world, this idea is the only one that seems plausible.
As seventh grade begins, they are lost – much of them disappears, the familiar, easy childlike demeanor, the trust that they wander through life with, the curiosity and excitement. They are possessed by this other being – perhaps it is hormones, or just some other type of internal struggle, but for a year I watch as they come into class filled with a nervous energy, reluctant to sit down, easily angered, defensive about everything. They struggle to have a conversation without raising their voice, and seem to genuinely have no control over themselves.
Then, slowly, at different points for them all, they make peace. They settle into themselves, and they once again resemble people. To an outsider you may not see it, but I watch as a level of calm has begun to slowly rest on my students.
For a year or two they have disappeared, causing their parents to come in perplexed, claiming that they don’t know what has happened to their child – they can’t imagine why they are acting this way, this is nothing like the son/daughter that they raised. I used to not believe them – I thought they were trying to escape responsibility – which perhaps many of them are. But I have see 6th graders turn into seventh graders, and become lost in this struggle to figure out who they are now that their body has been warped by puberty, and their friends have shot up at various speeds, and their interests have diverged and reunited. They are lost in a mess of 2 day relationships, classes that require more work, more thinking, peers that are getting into a lot of trouble, choices that they suddenly realize are theirs – not their parents’ – to make.
And then I watch seventh graders grow into eighth graders, and very slowly realize that they are still themselves, that they are not kids anymore, and that that’s okay. They discover themselves as some sort of individual, and begin to view the choices they make as a privilege rather than a burden. It is as though they have killed that beast that lurks within them.
Surely there is much more growing up to do – there will be many more struggles, many more opportunities for self-discovery and development. But this is the first, and the hardest, and as I look around my eighth grade class, I see that some of them are emerging with a sense of self that they didn’t have before.
They enter in 6th grade, wide eyed, ready to be influenced, still looking for affirmation and affection from their teachers. Then, slowly, they are infected – perhaps by the 7th graders – with some mysterious being that creeps inside of them and consumes their energies, their thoughts, their beings.
This morning on NPR, they talked about a study that was being done to examine why teenagers act the way that they do. Perhaps there is a biological, sociological, more empirical study of the transformations that take place. But as an adult, spending two years immersed in this middle school world, this idea is the only one that seems plausible.
As seventh grade begins, they are lost – much of them disappears, the familiar, easy childlike demeanor, the trust that they wander through life with, the curiosity and excitement. They are possessed by this other being – perhaps it is hormones, or just some other type of internal struggle, but for a year I watch as they come into class filled with a nervous energy, reluctant to sit down, easily angered, defensive about everything. They struggle to have a conversation without raising their voice, and seem to genuinely have no control over themselves.
Then, slowly, at different points for them all, they make peace. They settle into themselves, and they once again resemble people. To an outsider you may not see it, but I watch as a level of calm has begun to slowly rest on my students.
For a year or two they have disappeared, causing their parents to come in perplexed, claiming that they don’t know what has happened to their child – they can’t imagine why they are acting this way, this is nothing like the son/daughter that they raised. I used to not believe them – I thought they were trying to escape responsibility – which perhaps many of them are. But I have see 6th graders turn into seventh graders, and become lost in this struggle to figure out who they are now that their body has been warped by puberty, and their friends have shot up at various speeds, and their interests have diverged and reunited. They are lost in a mess of 2 day relationships, classes that require more work, more thinking, peers that are getting into a lot of trouble, choices that they suddenly realize are theirs – not their parents’ – to make.
And then I watch seventh graders grow into eighth graders, and very slowly realize that they are still themselves, that they are not kids anymore, and that that’s okay. They discover themselves as some sort of individual, and begin to view the choices they make as a privilege rather than a burden. It is as though they have killed that beast that lurks within them.
Surely there is much more growing up to do – there will be many more struggles, many more opportunities for self-discovery and development. But this is the first, and the hardest, and as I look around my eighth grade class, I see that some of them are emerging with a sense of self that they didn’t have before.
Friday, February 5, 2010
Progress
“If someone is lazy and dumb enough to drop out of school, why should the government help them?” asks TM, an ambitious, outspoken girl in my class.
“Well…why do you think that people drop out of school?” I respond
“They just think that school is overrated – that they’re too good for it.”
“Ok….anyone else have any ideas about why people drop out of school? Think of people you know.”
Hands shoot up around the room.
“Maybe they are involved with the wrong kind of people”
“Maybe they have to take care or help out with their family.”
“They get pregnant!”
“Yes!” I reply, glad to see SOME depth in the discussion, “people don’t always have control over their circumstances. Sometimes there are things that happen with their family, or in their lives that they couldn’t help.”
“Well – if you get pregnant than that’s no reason to drop out of school. Lots of girls have babies and still don’t drop out.” TM points out
“Well how to they manage to go to school?” I ask
“They have supportive families!” TM declares, as though this is a simple thing.
“And what if they don’t? What happens if they get pregnant and they don’t have supportive families?”
“Then they shouldn’t be having sex!” she exclaims. I try not to question her logic, and point out that most of the time in our society, the people who get into this type of trouble do so because they don’t have the supervision and good examples provided by supportive families.
“No,” another girl speaks up, “they can go to school and just put their kid in the free daycare at the high school.”
“So how are they paying to support their child – paying rent and paying for food without a supportive family and if they are in school all day?”
“WIC!” seven kids scream out.
“Yea,” I say, “that’s a government program. That’s the government helping people who are poor and without options.”
We are learning about the Progressive Era. I teach them about the problems of the early 1900s, and the muckrakers who fought for reform. I tell them about Progress. We talk about what types of progress we saw in the progressive era - progress with regards to environmental regulations, Unions, child labor, political reform, and so on and so forth. But the Progress than effects their lives most is the one that they have the most trouble seeing. The most interesting points of discussion have revolved around Capitalism, and the slow steps that the United States has taken through history to provide assistance to those who are the neediest in society. The most interesting thing is how many of them are against public assistance.
My students live in the projects. MANY of their parents collect unemployment, use food stamps or WIC, and 100% of them qualify to get free, federally funded breakfast, lunch, and dinner from the school. And yet, they don’t see the logic in providing help for the poverty-striken in society. Talk about disenfranchised. These kids are told that they are middle-class!
I explain to them that it’s in the best interest for the government to help the lower-classes rise.
“In really poor communities, what are some things that are common that the government would want to prevent?”
“Crime – lots of people commit crimes. And there’s gangs and drugs more. And lots of wife beating and alcohol.”
“Okay,” I say, “And it costs a lot of money for the government to have extra police in these communities, and to build more prisons, and to have more trials and parole officers and to have to pay for unemployment. The government doesn’t want people to be really desperately poor because it hurts everyone in society.”
They seem to accept this line of reasoning.
In truth, I have always believed in government funding for social welfare programs. I have always supported the idea that not all people are brought into this world in a position of equal advantage, and because we have a society which tends to perpetuate the cycles of poverty and wealth, it is in the best interest of everyone for the government to provide assistance to those who need it.
Recently, I have found myself reconsidering my position. I have railed against the misconceptions of ‘welfare queens’ and people abusing the system. I have argued endlessly that if that does happen it is to be viewed as the exception rather than the rule. But my kids wear Jordans, and for Christmas, many of them got the new Nintendo DSi game system. They walk home with the sound of nearby gunshots ringing in their ears, and aren’t allowed to play sports or join clubs after school because it is too dangerous to be out after dark. Their parents can’t always feed them, and they talk about the lights and water going out in their building, and yet they have these material possessions that make you wonder what their priorities are.
I have dwelled on this, thinking about how my taxes pay for their things, and how I want my taxes to buy them food and to give them healthcare, but I’m not so sure I want to buy them $250 sneakers. Why is it like this? Are they taking advantage of the system?
What I’ve come to realize is two things. The first was said to me by my mom, who spoke like a mother who knows what it is to love her kids, and to want them to be happy. Roughly paraphrased, it was:
“If you make so little, that nothing is guaranteed, and the future is so uncertain that it doesn’t seem worth saving for, you don’t save. If you know that you could save your money for twenty years and still not have $100,000, and that a million things could happen to you to upset your plans, saving doesn’t feel important. And when you look at your kids, and their life is so hard, and they feel shitty because they don’t’ have the right shoes or the right clothes, you buy them what they want that will make right now better, because who the help knows what you are going to face tomorrow.”
In a more logical, less emotional interpretation, I look at the fact that the people in this community don’t know about saving. They don’t know about bank accounts, or about how much it costs to go to college. They are uneducated about the right way to save money – it is a cycle of poverty. My students have grown up in this community and they genuinely believe that they are middle class. They have seen their parents get tax returns and survive on Unemployment and welfare, and they and everyone they know has grown up feeling tough and rough and unsafe. They live day to day and don’t think of buying a house or investing in the future. No one around them does it, why would they. As a country, we give them money but don’t educate them about how to get beyond the point that they start at. With family members in jail or dying, and gangs and teen pregnancy and prostitution and desperation a very real part of the community and often, their own families, making it through the week may be as far ahead of them that they see.
I want them to learn about the way that the government deals with poverty in this country. I want them to know where they fall in society, and to grow up and be able to fight for themselves. But when they all argue against the assistance that enables their daily existence, I feel a little demoralized. I want to empower them. I want to make progress, and help them to become the type of people who can advocate for their own rights. I want them to fight for progress. But first they have to figure out what 'progress' means.
“Well…why do you think that people drop out of school?” I respond
“They just think that school is overrated – that they’re too good for it.”
“Ok….anyone else have any ideas about why people drop out of school? Think of people you know.”
Hands shoot up around the room.
“Maybe they are involved with the wrong kind of people”
“Maybe they have to take care or help out with their family.”
“They get pregnant!”
“Yes!” I reply, glad to see SOME depth in the discussion, “people don’t always have control over their circumstances. Sometimes there are things that happen with their family, or in their lives that they couldn’t help.”
“Well – if you get pregnant than that’s no reason to drop out of school. Lots of girls have babies and still don’t drop out.” TM points out
“Well how to they manage to go to school?” I ask
“They have supportive families!” TM declares, as though this is a simple thing.
“And what if they don’t? What happens if they get pregnant and they don’t have supportive families?”
“Then they shouldn’t be having sex!” she exclaims. I try not to question her logic, and point out that most of the time in our society, the people who get into this type of trouble do so because they don’t have the supervision and good examples provided by supportive families.
“No,” another girl speaks up, “they can go to school and just put their kid in the free daycare at the high school.”
“So how are they paying to support their child – paying rent and paying for food without a supportive family and if they are in school all day?”
“WIC!” seven kids scream out.
“Yea,” I say, “that’s a government program. That’s the government helping people who are poor and without options.”
We are learning about the Progressive Era. I teach them about the problems of the early 1900s, and the muckrakers who fought for reform. I tell them about Progress. We talk about what types of progress we saw in the progressive era - progress with regards to environmental regulations, Unions, child labor, political reform, and so on and so forth. But the Progress than effects their lives most is the one that they have the most trouble seeing. The most interesting points of discussion have revolved around Capitalism, and the slow steps that the United States has taken through history to provide assistance to those who are the neediest in society. The most interesting thing is how many of them are against public assistance.
My students live in the projects. MANY of their parents collect unemployment, use food stamps or WIC, and 100% of them qualify to get free, federally funded breakfast, lunch, and dinner from the school. And yet, they don’t see the logic in providing help for the poverty-striken in society. Talk about disenfranchised. These kids are told that they are middle-class!
I explain to them that it’s in the best interest for the government to help the lower-classes rise.
“In really poor communities, what are some things that are common that the government would want to prevent?”
“Crime – lots of people commit crimes. And there’s gangs and drugs more. And lots of wife beating and alcohol.”
“Okay,” I say, “And it costs a lot of money for the government to have extra police in these communities, and to build more prisons, and to have more trials and parole officers and to have to pay for unemployment. The government doesn’t want people to be really desperately poor because it hurts everyone in society.”
They seem to accept this line of reasoning.
In truth, I have always believed in government funding for social welfare programs. I have always supported the idea that not all people are brought into this world in a position of equal advantage, and because we have a society which tends to perpetuate the cycles of poverty and wealth, it is in the best interest of everyone for the government to provide assistance to those who need it.
Recently, I have found myself reconsidering my position. I have railed against the misconceptions of ‘welfare queens’ and people abusing the system. I have argued endlessly that if that does happen it is to be viewed as the exception rather than the rule. But my kids wear Jordans, and for Christmas, many of them got the new Nintendo DSi game system. They walk home with the sound of nearby gunshots ringing in their ears, and aren’t allowed to play sports or join clubs after school because it is too dangerous to be out after dark. Their parents can’t always feed them, and they talk about the lights and water going out in their building, and yet they have these material possessions that make you wonder what their priorities are.
I have dwelled on this, thinking about how my taxes pay for their things, and how I want my taxes to buy them food and to give them healthcare, but I’m not so sure I want to buy them $250 sneakers. Why is it like this? Are they taking advantage of the system?
What I’ve come to realize is two things. The first was said to me by my mom, who spoke like a mother who knows what it is to love her kids, and to want them to be happy. Roughly paraphrased, it was:
“If you make so little, that nothing is guaranteed, and the future is so uncertain that it doesn’t seem worth saving for, you don’t save. If you know that you could save your money for twenty years and still not have $100,000, and that a million things could happen to you to upset your plans, saving doesn’t feel important. And when you look at your kids, and their life is so hard, and they feel shitty because they don’t’ have the right shoes or the right clothes, you buy them what they want that will make right now better, because who the help knows what you are going to face tomorrow.”
In a more logical, less emotional interpretation, I look at the fact that the people in this community don’t know about saving. They don’t know about bank accounts, or about how much it costs to go to college. They are uneducated about the right way to save money – it is a cycle of poverty. My students have grown up in this community and they genuinely believe that they are middle class. They have seen their parents get tax returns and survive on Unemployment and welfare, and they and everyone they know has grown up feeling tough and rough and unsafe. They live day to day and don’t think of buying a house or investing in the future. No one around them does it, why would they. As a country, we give them money but don’t educate them about how to get beyond the point that they start at. With family members in jail or dying, and gangs and teen pregnancy and prostitution and desperation a very real part of the community and often, their own families, making it through the week may be as far ahead of them that they see.
I want them to learn about the way that the government deals with poverty in this country. I want them to know where they fall in society, and to grow up and be able to fight for themselves. But when they all argue against the assistance that enables their daily existence, I feel a little demoralized. I want to empower them. I want to make progress, and help them to become the type of people who can advocate for their own rights. I want them to fight for progress. But first they have to figure out what 'progress' means.
Literacy?
One of my top students - very smart, confident, ambitious, outgoing and popular, emailed me the message below. She is one of the most literate students that we have, and yet communicates with her friends and, apparently, me, using this version of English far more often than she does proper English.
Hey ms i wnted to noe if u cudd help me cus I went to ma grandmas
house and she was yelling at me cus jasha the girl i had a problem
wiff frm 6 grade told her mom im kept on bothering her.idnt even look
or tlk to her. But i noe why shes lying cus elzabeth wanted to fight
her because jasha was callin her a lesbian so since elizabteh is ma
friend she told her mom to tell ma aunt im bothering her so i cudd
tell elizabeth to stop . This gets meh so angry cus now that im not in
drama dey putting me in drama ughhh and dey think i did bother her
like omg can u please call and say that ive been out of trouble and
doing better please cus dey think im really bothering the girl and im
soo upsett
Hey ms i wnted to noe if u cudd help me cus I went to ma grandmas
house and she was yelling at me cus jasha the girl i had a problem
wiff frm 6 grade told her mom im kept on bothering her.idnt even look
or tlk to her. But i noe why shes lying cus elzabeth wanted to fight
her because jasha was callin her a lesbian so since elizabteh is ma
friend she told her mom to tell ma aunt im bothering her so i cudd
tell elizabeth to stop . This gets meh so angry cus now that im not in
drama dey putting me in drama ughhh and dey think i did bother her
like omg can u please call and say that ive been out of trouble and
doing better please cus dey think im really bothering the girl and im
soo upsett
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
LINES
For a class I am taking, I had to write an essay describing how I fit into my school – my role. I had to consider the school community, and determine my place in it. I described the people who work here – mostly older women who have been teaching for over 10 years. I talked about the bitterness and cattiness that dominate the relationships that people have in school. I described the divide between the older and younger teachers, and the resentment that people feel towards one another’s achievements.
Then I thought about why.
Teaching is unique in many ways. It is harder than almost anything I can imagine. It is physically and emotionally draining nearly every single day. This is not my first job. I have worked as a waitress which is physically draining, in retail, for a Congresswoman, and on National recruitment campaigns for a nonprofit. All of these are uniquely challenging, but there is nothing that I have encountered or heard about that is so completely draining as teaching. This job has sapped my social life dry, leaving me no energy to go out after work, and often making a simple phone call or conversation feel overwhelming.
Last year, my first year, was hard because I didn’t know what I was doing and every day was a surprise. I focused all of my energy on staying alive, not letting any kids die on my watch, and maybe forcing some knowledge into them in my spare time. I was a security guard and a babysitter who was struggling to learn what the word ‘teacher’ even meant. This year I almost never yell. My class doesn’t get out of control. I start a lesson and finish it, and every student hands in the completed work when the period is over. But it is no less draining.
Last year I taught 6 classes. They ranged from 603 to 701. 603 was lovely, and 701 was the devil incarnate. But I would get as angry in 603 as I would in 701. In 701 I would get upset and angry when I realized that no one was listening or doing their work, and that they had no interest in doing it, in listening to me, or in even acknowledging my presence. I would get angry when there were fights, when my classroom was trashed, when they threw things.
In 603 I got mad if one girl passed a note to another girl. These offenses are not equal. Logic would say that I would let the note passing slide in the silent and attentive 603. But I didn’t. My expectations adjusted depending on the class. Perhaps it is a survival mechanism – I couldn’t let the little things get to me in 701 or I would have jumped out the window every day. But in 603, those little things made me deeply disappointed.
This year, things are incomparable to last year. I am a million times better at my job, my kids are learning and working hard and showing me respect. And yet I am still emotionally drained. Now an eye roll will cut me to my core. A student who I expect to get 100% getting a 40% will make me feel like a huge failure. Kids not reading when they are supposed to makes me upset and frustrated, and whispering with a friend while I’m teaching feels like a lot of disrespect.
No matter how good you are at your job – no matter how much easier it gets, you are still spending every day pouring yourself into big groups of kids. And they aren’t empty vessels or even open bottles. They have their lids on tight and million scary things inside of them. Sometimes just the process of emptying them so that there is room for me to put English and math and social studies inside is so daunting and so exhausting that it’s hard to get to the next step. And they are people, who your emotions get wrapped up in, whose success or failure feels personal to you. Their bad decisions feel like a slap in the face, and their mistakes are inevitable and innumerable.
Teachers burn out. Despite summers. Despite spring break. Despite winter break. Despite being able to retire after 25 years. People hit a wall and they can’t keep going. I hear about it and I see it and it seemed strange at first but I am beginning to understand. Teaching is hard.
Which brings me back to the school community. If I teach for 20 more years, I will still be a teacher. I will be making more money, but my title will not change. My responsibilities will not change – at least not drastically. There is no ladder to climb, there is no corporate hierarchy. You only have superiority if you act superior. And after putting many years in, you certainly feel like you deserve some credit.
A teacher who has been here for 10 years is my equal. And yet they are 10 years better than me, 10 years more effective, 10 years more exhausted and more worn out. And so they create lines. The profession doesn’t have any formal separations, and so they create one. And it means that there is a school community that feels strained and stressed and filled with secret rules. But it’s a survival mechanism – you need to feel like you’ve earned something after putting so much into it. You feel entitled to better treatment, and a little more respect.
After 15 years in the corporate world you may have an advanced title, more money, and people who report to you. In a school, you just get the reputation of being over the hill, less energetic, and more embittered and exhausted.
Then I thought about why.
Teaching is unique in many ways. It is harder than almost anything I can imagine. It is physically and emotionally draining nearly every single day. This is not my first job. I have worked as a waitress which is physically draining, in retail, for a Congresswoman, and on National recruitment campaigns for a nonprofit. All of these are uniquely challenging, but there is nothing that I have encountered or heard about that is so completely draining as teaching. This job has sapped my social life dry, leaving me no energy to go out after work, and often making a simple phone call or conversation feel overwhelming.
Last year, my first year, was hard because I didn’t know what I was doing and every day was a surprise. I focused all of my energy on staying alive, not letting any kids die on my watch, and maybe forcing some knowledge into them in my spare time. I was a security guard and a babysitter who was struggling to learn what the word ‘teacher’ even meant. This year I almost never yell. My class doesn’t get out of control. I start a lesson and finish it, and every student hands in the completed work when the period is over. But it is no less draining.
Last year I taught 6 classes. They ranged from 603 to 701. 603 was lovely, and 701 was the devil incarnate. But I would get as angry in 603 as I would in 701. In 701 I would get upset and angry when I realized that no one was listening or doing their work, and that they had no interest in doing it, in listening to me, or in even acknowledging my presence. I would get angry when there were fights, when my classroom was trashed, when they threw things.
In 603 I got mad if one girl passed a note to another girl. These offenses are not equal. Logic would say that I would let the note passing slide in the silent and attentive 603. But I didn’t. My expectations adjusted depending on the class. Perhaps it is a survival mechanism – I couldn’t let the little things get to me in 701 or I would have jumped out the window every day. But in 603, those little things made me deeply disappointed.
This year, things are incomparable to last year. I am a million times better at my job, my kids are learning and working hard and showing me respect. And yet I am still emotionally drained. Now an eye roll will cut me to my core. A student who I expect to get 100% getting a 40% will make me feel like a huge failure. Kids not reading when they are supposed to makes me upset and frustrated, and whispering with a friend while I’m teaching feels like a lot of disrespect.
No matter how good you are at your job – no matter how much easier it gets, you are still spending every day pouring yourself into big groups of kids. And they aren’t empty vessels or even open bottles. They have their lids on tight and million scary things inside of them. Sometimes just the process of emptying them so that there is room for me to put English and math and social studies inside is so daunting and so exhausting that it’s hard to get to the next step. And they are people, who your emotions get wrapped up in, whose success or failure feels personal to you. Their bad decisions feel like a slap in the face, and their mistakes are inevitable and innumerable.
Teachers burn out. Despite summers. Despite spring break. Despite winter break. Despite being able to retire after 25 years. People hit a wall and they can’t keep going. I hear about it and I see it and it seemed strange at first but I am beginning to understand. Teaching is hard.
Which brings me back to the school community. If I teach for 20 more years, I will still be a teacher. I will be making more money, but my title will not change. My responsibilities will not change – at least not drastically. There is no ladder to climb, there is no corporate hierarchy. You only have superiority if you act superior. And after putting many years in, you certainly feel like you deserve some credit.
A teacher who has been here for 10 years is my equal. And yet they are 10 years better than me, 10 years more effective, 10 years more exhausted and more worn out. And so they create lines. The profession doesn’t have any formal separations, and so they create one. And it means that there is a school community that feels strained and stressed and filled with secret rules. But it’s a survival mechanism – you need to feel like you’ve earned something after putting so much into it. You feel entitled to better treatment, and a little more respect.
After 15 years in the corporate world you may have an advanced title, more money, and people who report to you. In a school, you just get the reputation of being over the hill, less energetic, and more embittered and exhausted.
ADHD
JM is an adorable 13 year-old boy with a huge smile and big brown doe eyes. He is Puerto Rican, with light skin and light brown hair. He is a genius, and he has ADHD. This ADHD borders on insanity. It is an all encompassing condition, that drowns out any rational thoughts he may have, and suffocates all signs of intelligence.
He has been prescribed Concerta, a pill that is designed to calm him down, balance the adrenaline coursing through his veins and possessing him with demonic strength. The standard dose is 18mg, and he is prescribed double that – 38mg. Most of the time, however, he comes to school with a dosage of none.
“What kind of mean trick is your dad playing on us?” we ask him when he arrives at school with his eyes all googly, a devilish grin playing on his lips. He picks up a pencil and throws it across the room, and then looks at us innocently.
JM gets 100% on every single thing that he learns. If he is medicated when we teach it, he learns it immediately, and retains it forever. If he is medicated everyday, he’d be the highest functioning child in the school. He’s great at football, loves the Yankees, and is starting to have girlfriends. He’s a sweet kid who is curious and interested in the world around him. At the beginning of the year I saw Mark Teixeira when I got tickets to the Letterman show. I showed him pictures and he asked to look at them 4 more times that day.
He has a brother in the 6th grade, a sister in the 7th, and he’s in the eighth. All of them are being raised by their father, a man who works near the school and spends most of his time in the school, checking up on his kids or hanging out in the PTA office. His mother died two years ago of a heroine overdose, and his uncle was killed last year. His sister gets in an increasing amount of trouble and leaves the room in tears anytime the word mom is said. With the predominance of ‘Yo Mama’ jokes, she spends a lot of time in the hall.
When he isn’t medicated, JM makes touchdowns after school and makes all of his friends laugh. He throws things across the room, talks incessantly, and threatens to poison his teachers. When asked to be quiet by my co-teacher, he went on a quiet rant.
“F*** out of here, you shop at Target. You fat B****. You go to Payless to pay less. Get a life. I was talking to Ms. K not you so go shop at Payless. You even buy your shoes at Target. Shut Up, Mind Your Business.”
Last month he was mad at me and told people he had put rat poison in my coffee. He told his dad not to buy me a Christmas present. He stole things out of my purse and he told the Assistant Principal that I was trying to sabotage him.
Then he looks at you with his big eyes and his tiny frame, and you see that he has no control over himself and can’t be held accountable.
When he takes his medication, he is a zombie, quiet and without affect. He is studious and concentrated, and absolutely silent. He doesn’t talk, he doesn’t run triumphantly around the room and out the door, he doesn’t yell “Hurricane Katrina!” when there is a gust of wind that blows the window open. He sits silent and somber at his desk, and listens and learns. But he is not here.
We curse the father for sending him to school unmedicated. He can’t learn, we can’t teach, he’s out of his mind and getting in trouble. How can a father not give his son the medicine that he is prescribed? He claims that JM hides the pill in his mouth and spits it out. We ask JM, why don’t you take your pill? You know you are hurting yourself. He says it takes away his appetite so he can’t eat, and that it makes him feel lazy all day.
“How do you feel right now? Do you feel crazy?” we ask him, after he has vaulted over desks to smack someone and then done a victory lap around the room.
“I feel normal.” He says. We tell him to take half the pill, and he comes to school toned down but still not learning.
It’s a difficult situation – to be successful he must suppress himself. And as much as we wish he did it every day, if he did we wouldn’t know him. Wouldn’t know about the incredible energy that he has, or how hard he can make people laugh, or how he glows when he gets attention. As a parent, it would be hard to give your child a pill that would make them disappear – even if it was the only way for them to learn.
He has been prescribed Concerta, a pill that is designed to calm him down, balance the adrenaline coursing through his veins and possessing him with demonic strength. The standard dose is 18mg, and he is prescribed double that – 38mg. Most of the time, however, he comes to school with a dosage of none.
“What kind of mean trick is your dad playing on us?” we ask him when he arrives at school with his eyes all googly, a devilish grin playing on his lips. He picks up a pencil and throws it across the room, and then looks at us innocently.
JM gets 100% on every single thing that he learns. If he is medicated when we teach it, he learns it immediately, and retains it forever. If he is medicated everyday, he’d be the highest functioning child in the school. He’s great at football, loves the Yankees, and is starting to have girlfriends. He’s a sweet kid who is curious and interested in the world around him. At the beginning of the year I saw Mark Teixeira when I got tickets to the Letterman show. I showed him pictures and he asked to look at them 4 more times that day.
He has a brother in the 6th grade, a sister in the 7th, and he’s in the eighth. All of them are being raised by their father, a man who works near the school and spends most of his time in the school, checking up on his kids or hanging out in the PTA office. His mother died two years ago of a heroine overdose, and his uncle was killed last year. His sister gets in an increasing amount of trouble and leaves the room in tears anytime the word mom is said. With the predominance of ‘Yo Mama’ jokes, she spends a lot of time in the hall.
When he isn’t medicated, JM makes touchdowns after school and makes all of his friends laugh. He throws things across the room, talks incessantly, and threatens to poison his teachers. When asked to be quiet by my co-teacher, he went on a quiet rant.
“F*** out of here, you shop at Target. You fat B****. You go to Payless to pay less. Get a life. I was talking to Ms. K not you so go shop at Payless. You even buy your shoes at Target. Shut Up, Mind Your Business.”
Last month he was mad at me and told people he had put rat poison in my coffee. He told his dad not to buy me a Christmas present. He stole things out of my purse and he told the Assistant Principal that I was trying to sabotage him.
Then he looks at you with his big eyes and his tiny frame, and you see that he has no control over himself and can’t be held accountable.
When he takes his medication, he is a zombie, quiet and without affect. He is studious and concentrated, and absolutely silent. He doesn’t talk, he doesn’t run triumphantly around the room and out the door, he doesn’t yell “Hurricane Katrina!” when there is a gust of wind that blows the window open. He sits silent and somber at his desk, and listens and learns. But he is not here.
We curse the father for sending him to school unmedicated. He can’t learn, we can’t teach, he’s out of his mind and getting in trouble. How can a father not give his son the medicine that he is prescribed? He claims that JM hides the pill in his mouth and spits it out. We ask JM, why don’t you take your pill? You know you are hurting yourself. He says it takes away his appetite so he can’t eat, and that it makes him feel lazy all day.
“How do you feel right now? Do you feel crazy?” we ask him, after he has vaulted over desks to smack someone and then done a victory lap around the room.
“I feel normal.” He says. We tell him to take half the pill, and he comes to school toned down but still not learning.
It’s a difficult situation – to be successful he must suppress himself. And as much as we wish he did it every day, if he did we wouldn’t know him. Wouldn’t know about the incredible energy that he has, or how hard he can make people laugh, or how he glows when he gets attention. As a parent, it would be hard to give your child a pill that would make them disappear – even if it was the only way for them to learn.
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