Actually, it was more like 120. First graders, that is. They were all in the auditorium while their teachers were at a professional development session, and I was the lucky winner of the mass prep coverage lottery!
I was told there would be two school aides in the auditorium to assist me. There weren't. I was told the television would be set up so I could show an educational video. It wasn't. I'm sure you can see where this is going: Miss Brave, all 5'1" of her, still recovering from laryngitis, stands in front of a roomful of 5- and 6-year-olds right before they go to lunch...and they all have to use the bathroom. Desperately.
Oh. My. God.
Should this experience ever happen to you, remain calm. Do not panic. Calmly raise your arms in the air and shout, "First graders, if you can hear me, clap once! If you can hear me, clap twice! If you can hear me, clap three times!" Repeat until everyone is listening, except for those kids who never, ever listen or sit still even for a moment who are hard enough to handle one-on-one, let alone in the midst of 120 other first graders.
Then panic.
Meanwhile, while I was learning a very important lesson about setting up for my own mass prep coverages beforehand, the teachers were upstairs doing their PD on how they should be organizing their assessment data. Because my office is nearby, I overheard some of what went on, and it wasn't pretty. Teachers are, to put it mildly, overwhelmed, overworked and overstressed. Teachers actually cried as they described struggling to find enough time to do everything that's expected of them while still feeling like it's never enough. Just when you get comfortable with the system, the whole thing changes. The focus of my job isn't even teaching anymore, someone said; it's collecting and organizing all this data. Someone else added: This is exactly why teachers leave the profession; I have had it and I'm done.
Stressed as I am, I can't even begin to imagine being a new teacher and being expected to maintain the amount of data that teachers at my school are expected to maintain. The mood at school these past few days has been noticeably tense and aggravated. Which is of course exactly what our students don't need: a school full of stressed out teachers.
And speaking of stressed out teachers: The only part of my job I really consistently enjoy and look forward to is the 50 minutes after school, which I spend with a small group of ESL first graders that I adore. ("Miss Brave, can I tell you something? I want to come to your house!" "I want to come to your house too! I could play with your little brother!" I don't have a little brother, but that appears to be beside the point.) So of course, I'm being transferred, to a different group of kids in a different grade.
I will miss Alex, who enjoys sneak-attack hugging me from behind. I'll miss Alejandro, whose mousse-spiked hair and serious earring bling make him 7 going on 17. I'll miss Cynthia, who bursts into tears if she doesn't see her mother immediately upon exiting the building. I'll miss Eduardo, who always has a story about his dog, and Phillip, who is eternally eager to help out. And I'll even miss Ronnie, who has a smart mouth and a bad attitude.
With the exception of a few of my kindergarten classes, which I see twice a week, they are the only kids in the building I've actually gotten to know. So I am really, really disappointed to be leaving them.
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
Monday, October 29, 2007
Second grade can stuff it
My second graders are out of control.
They're more violent than my fourth graders, ruder than my third graders, more immature than my first graders and have shorter attention spans than my kindergarteners. They tear up paper instead of writing on it. They flick pencils across the room. They tease each other, get in each other's personal space and just generally get on each other's nerves. They make obnoxious noises during mini-lessons: farting, humming, clicking, tapping.
Some of them echo what I say in a sarcastic tone of voice. Some of them flat-out refuse to do anything, choosing instead to spend their time spinning in circles or walking around the room on their knees. One of them once threw a full-out, kicking-and-screaming tantrum, fists and feet smacking against the floor.
Of my six second grade classes, I would say I'm making fair to decent headway with three of them. 50%? That's an awful lot of children left behind.
Last week, when my laryngitis was in full bloom, the teacher of my most challenging second grade told me I had to work harder at raising my voice. It's true -- I am not a yeller. I had always hoped to be the kind of teacher who understands that fear is not the same as respect, the kind of teacher who saves the yelling for really serious infractions. But also, when I raise my voice, there's something dishonest about the quality of it -- it doesn't quiver the way it used to, but it also still sounds like I'm faking it.
The truth is that my most challenging second grades have found a way to get under my skin. I can handle kids who call out, kids who bug other kids, and kids who are slow to follow directions. I have reserves of patience for kids who keep asking to use the bathroom, kids who are surreptitiously playing with toys at the meeting area and kids who stare vacantly into space instead of writing their names. But what gets to me the most is blatant, flagrant disrespect, because it means the way I typically discipline -- the calm, rational voice, the "I'm disappointed in you," the "I am so sad that you can't behave," the "I know you can do so much better" -- is completely ineffective.
My challenging second graders don't care about earning rewards. They don't care about letters going home to their parents. They don't care that I'm disappointed in them and sad that they can't behave and know they can do so much better, because they don't care about me. I'm just some lady who comes to the room for an hour a week and the more time they can waste by acting ridiculous, the better.
I won over my other second grades with fun, engaging lessons that got them really jazzed up for the first time. I acted like nouns and adjectives were the coolest thing in the world and for a brief period of time, they believed it too! But my challenging second graders were having none of it. They're already jaded, already desensitized and already too cool for grammar.
Second grade, you'll be the death of me.
They're more violent than my fourth graders, ruder than my third graders, more immature than my first graders and have shorter attention spans than my kindergarteners. They tear up paper instead of writing on it. They flick pencils across the room. They tease each other, get in each other's personal space and just generally get on each other's nerves. They make obnoxious noises during mini-lessons: farting, humming, clicking, tapping.
Some of them echo what I say in a sarcastic tone of voice. Some of them flat-out refuse to do anything, choosing instead to spend their time spinning in circles or walking around the room on their knees. One of them once threw a full-out, kicking-and-screaming tantrum, fists and feet smacking against the floor.
Of my six second grade classes, I would say I'm making fair to decent headway with three of them. 50%? That's an awful lot of children left behind.
Last week, when my laryngitis was in full bloom, the teacher of my most challenging second grade told me I had to work harder at raising my voice. It's true -- I am not a yeller. I had always hoped to be the kind of teacher who understands that fear is not the same as respect, the kind of teacher who saves the yelling for really serious infractions. But also, when I raise my voice, there's something dishonest about the quality of it -- it doesn't quiver the way it used to, but it also still sounds like I'm faking it.
The truth is that my most challenging second grades have found a way to get under my skin. I can handle kids who call out, kids who bug other kids, and kids who are slow to follow directions. I have reserves of patience for kids who keep asking to use the bathroom, kids who are surreptitiously playing with toys at the meeting area and kids who stare vacantly into space instead of writing their names. But what gets to me the most is blatant, flagrant disrespect, because it means the way I typically discipline -- the calm, rational voice, the "I'm disappointed in you," the "I am so sad that you can't behave," the "I know you can do so much better" -- is completely ineffective.
My challenging second graders don't care about earning rewards. They don't care about letters going home to their parents. They don't care that I'm disappointed in them and sad that they can't behave and know they can do so much better, because they don't care about me. I'm just some lady who comes to the room for an hour a week and the more time they can waste by acting ridiculous, the better.
I won over my other second grades with fun, engaging lessons that got them really jazzed up for the first time. I acted like nouns and adjectives were the coolest thing in the world and for a brief period of time, they believed it too! But my challenging second graders were having none of it. They're already jaded, already desensitized and already too cool for grammar.
Second grade, you'll be the death of me.
Saturday, October 27, 2007
Put your paddle where your mouth is
Yesterday I had my post-observation conference. My AP told me I have excellent classroom management skills and a "wonderful, nurturing tone" with students. I left the meeting feeling ready, for the first time ever, to face my freaky Friday afternoon classes, where I...
...made two students cry.
Holla!
In other news, did you know that there are still states where it's not only legal to "paddle" students in schools, but where they actually do it?! Witness these comments from teachers at A to Z Teacher Stuff:
"I live in Louisiana and the use of corporal punishment is legal. Today my parish decided that teachers no longer have permission to paddle a student. It must be administered by the principal or assistant principal. I say HOORAY!!! I have never paddled a student in 15 years of teaching, however this new policy has the teachers at my school in an uproar. They just know all hell is going to break out now that they can't swing a paddle."
"It is legal in my county to paddle (and some of the surrounding counties). I witnessed my first one a few weeks ago. Being from up North, I had never heard of such a thing. I've come around to it though with having several behavior problem children in which every trick in the book hasn't worked."
"8 out of 10 kids will pretty much toe the line if a paddling is a possibility."
"My question to all of you who are against paddling is what do you do when all else fails?"
:::goggle::: "When all else fails, hit your students" -- it's a motto that's almost right up there with "No child left behind."
...made two students cry.
Holla!
In other news, did you know that there are still states where it's not only legal to "paddle" students in schools, but where they actually do it?! Witness these comments from teachers at A to Z Teacher Stuff:
"I live in Louisiana and the use of corporal punishment is legal. Today my parish decided that teachers no longer have permission to paddle a student. It must be administered by the principal or assistant principal. I say HOORAY!!! I have never paddled a student in 15 years of teaching, however this new policy has the teachers at my school in an uproar. They just know all hell is going to break out now that they can't swing a paddle."
"It is legal in my county to paddle (and some of the surrounding counties). I witnessed my first one a few weeks ago. Being from up North, I had never heard of such a thing. I've come around to it though with having several behavior problem children in which every trick in the book hasn't worked."
"8 out of 10 kids will pretty much toe the line if a paddling is a possibility."
"My question to all of you who are against paddling is what do you do when all else fails?"
:::goggle::: "When all else fails, hit your students" -- it's a motto that's almost right up there with "No child left behind."
Friday, October 26, 2007
Dear Miss Brave
"Dear Miss Brave,
You are the best teacher I ever had."
And that was before I gave out the lollipops.
If for no other reason, their excessive hyperbole is why I'm glad I teach younger kiddos as opposed to older ones.
You are the best teacher I ever had."
And that was before I gave out the lollipops.
If for no other reason, their excessive hyperbole is why I'm glad I teach younger kiddos as opposed to older ones.
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Miss Brave has lost her voice
Today I lost my voice completely. I went to Dunkin' Donuts this morning (in the rain, natch) to get tea, and literally nothing came out of my mouth. I was trying to ask if they had honey, but: nada. As a result, the cashier spoke to me like I was an imbecile: "Do. You. Want. SUGAR?!" she asked, emphatically waving a sugar packet in front of my face.
So I had to improvise: Instead of doing the adjective lessons I'd planned, I showed my classes a video about Halloween (although I was careful to emphasize that not everyone celebrates Halloween and that's okay, since as one first-grader matter-of-factly informed me, it's "the devil") and asked them to write a response to it. (I actually brought along a sign: "Dear Class: Miss Brave has lost her voice! Today we will watch a video about Halloween. Then we will write: What did we learn about Halloween?" Too bad the vast majority of my students are reading below D level!)
Naturally, they produced more from this exercise than any of my carefully crafted lessons so far.
But I left school today (earlier than usual, because I'm on my way to a doctor's appointment) feeling rather downtrodden, because the metaphor here is profound and unsettling: I have, quite literally, lost my voice.
So I had to improvise: Instead of doing the adjective lessons I'd planned, I showed my classes a video about Halloween (although I was careful to emphasize that not everyone celebrates Halloween and that's okay, since as one first-grader matter-of-factly informed me, it's "the devil") and asked them to write a response to it. (I actually brought along a sign: "Dear Class: Miss Brave has lost her voice! Today we will watch a video about Halloween. Then we will write: What did we learn about Halloween?" Too bad the vast majority of my students are reading below D level!)
Naturally, they produced more from this exercise than any of my carefully crafted lessons so far.
But I left school today (earlier than usual, because I'm on my way to a doctor's appointment) feeling rather downtrodden, because the metaphor here is profound and unsettling: I have, quite literally, lost my voice.
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
I wish I knew how to quit you
Nudity, nosebleed, no voice, and news of teachers quitting -- whew! It was an eventful day.
My wasting virus of last week disintegrated into a cough and laryngitis, so I sounded like the Bride of Frankenstein today. I was with the kindergarteners all day, and they were full of questions about it. Some of them were merely curious: "Why does your voice sound different?" Others were more forward: "Why is your voice all funny?" Still others were full of helpful advice: "You got to drink water to make your voice come back!" I tried to explain that even though I sounded different, I was still Miss Brave, and that meant they still had to listen to me...you can imagine how well that went over with 27 4- and 5-year-olds.
On to nudity! Today Alejandro asked -- nay, begged -- to use the restroom. I was reluctant to let him because he tends to disappear for quite some time. But he insisted, several times, that he had to "do #2," so off he went.
The end of the period arrived, and Alejandro still hadn't returned, so his classroom teacher went off to the bathroom to bust him. But there she found him au naturel, as apparently the laws of doing #2 dictate...taking off all one's clothes?
So I was already pretty fried by the time a little voice piped up from the rug in the afternoon: "Miss Brave, I'm bleeding!" Fortunately it was only a standard-issue nosebleed, all over the hands, face and shirt of Julian (why, oh why are those school uniforms white?!). I sent him off to the restroom to get cleaned up, but while he was gone, Jake had some strange and graphic questions. "What happened to Julian? He's bleeding all over? He had a knife?" Of course, when Julian returned, he had to show off his bloody shirt to everyone at his table.
And last: Two new teachers (one with a self-contained special ed class, the other with a notoriously challenging bunch of kids) quit today.
I'm not quite sure how to react. On the one hand, every day I want to quit my job about as badly as I've ever wanted anything, and I haven't yet. I don't for a second think that makes me superior to either of those teachers, both of whom were in much more challenging situations than I am, but it does give me a tiny bit of pride that I'm sticking it out.
On the other hand, I'm a little envious that they've done what I desperately want to do but haven't. And on the other other hand...I just feel sad. I service one of those classes, and every time I've passed the teacher in the hallway, I think that the look on her face must mirror my own: It says "I'm smiling at you to be polite and friendly, but inwardly I'm falling apart." So I feel disappointed that there are other people in the building who are struggling as much as I am, but no one's talking about it for fear of -- reprecussions? Looking weak or whiny?
When I went to the DOE orientations and workshops over the summer, every single veteran teacher who spoke made sure to tell us about how back in the old days, they didn't have anything of the sort, and we were so lucky to get the introduction to the DOE that they never got. But what I know for sure is that those orientations were four hundred different kinds of worthless -- and I'm saddened by the fact that these new teachers obviously felt that they lacked the support or the motivation to continue.
Some part of me wants to be a crusader of sorts who gathers up all the new teachers (and there are a lot of us) and says, "We're all having struggles -- let's support each other!" But another part of me, like all the other new teachers, is too stressed out, too tired, too busy with my own issues.
Then, after school, I signed on to our computer and the DOE homepage came up. It informed me that there are five people who apply for every one person who gets hired to teach in a New York City public school. Oh, the irony: I worked really, really hard to get my job, and now I would hand it over to those four rejected applicants in a New York minute.
My wasting virus of last week disintegrated into a cough and laryngitis, so I sounded like the Bride of Frankenstein today. I was with the kindergarteners all day, and they were full of questions about it. Some of them were merely curious: "Why does your voice sound different?" Others were more forward: "Why is your voice all funny?" Still others were full of helpful advice: "You got to drink water to make your voice come back!" I tried to explain that even though I sounded different, I was still Miss Brave, and that meant they still had to listen to me...you can imagine how well that went over with 27 4- and 5-year-olds.
On to nudity! Today Alejandro asked -- nay, begged -- to use the restroom. I was reluctant to let him because he tends to disappear for quite some time. But he insisted, several times, that he had to "do #2," so off he went.
The end of the period arrived, and Alejandro still hadn't returned, so his classroom teacher went off to the bathroom to bust him. But there she found him au naturel, as apparently the laws of doing #2 dictate...taking off all one's clothes?
So I was already pretty fried by the time a little voice piped up from the rug in the afternoon: "Miss Brave, I'm bleeding!" Fortunately it was only a standard-issue nosebleed, all over the hands, face and shirt of Julian (why, oh why are those school uniforms white?!). I sent him off to the restroom to get cleaned up, but while he was gone, Jake had some strange and graphic questions. "What happened to Julian? He's bleeding all over? He had a knife?" Of course, when Julian returned, he had to show off his bloody shirt to everyone at his table.
And last: Two new teachers (one with a self-contained special ed class, the other with a notoriously challenging bunch of kids) quit today.
I'm not quite sure how to react. On the one hand, every day I want to quit my job about as badly as I've ever wanted anything, and I haven't yet. I don't for a second think that makes me superior to either of those teachers, both of whom were in much more challenging situations than I am, but it does give me a tiny bit of pride that I'm sticking it out.
On the other hand, I'm a little envious that they've done what I desperately want to do but haven't. And on the other other hand...I just feel sad. I service one of those classes, and every time I've passed the teacher in the hallway, I think that the look on her face must mirror my own: It says "I'm smiling at you to be polite and friendly, but inwardly I'm falling apart." So I feel disappointed that there are other people in the building who are struggling as much as I am, but no one's talking about it for fear of -- reprecussions? Looking weak or whiny?
When I went to the DOE orientations and workshops over the summer, every single veteran teacher who spoke made sure to tell us about how back in the old days, they didn't have anything of the sort, and we were so lucky to get the introduction to the DOE that they never got. But what I know for sure is that those orientations were four hundred different kinds of worthless -- and I'm saddened by the fact that these new teachers obviously felt that they lacked the support or the motivation to continue.
Some part of me wants to be a crusader of sorts who gathers up all the new teachers (and there are a lot of us) and says, "We're all having struggles -- let's support each other!" But another part of me, like all the other new teachers, is too stressed out, too tired, too busy with my own issues.
Then, after school, I signed on to our computer and the DOE homepage came up. It informed me that there are five people who apply for every one person who gets hired to teach in a New York City public school. Oh, the irony: I worked really, really hard to get my job, and now I would hand it over to those four rejected applicants in a New York minute.
Friday, October 19, 2007
Observe!
I guess now I can officially call myself a teacher: I have been Observed.
Every school is different, but at my school, Observations are a Big Deal. I know this because all the advice I've been taking from other teachers has been like a pop quiz:
Veteran Teacher: "Do you have to do ______?"
Miss Brave: "Uhhhhhhh..."
Veteran Teacher, ominously: "Find out before you get Observed!"
Now, I am nothing if not thorough. So like any good geek, I had read the section of the UFT website called "Know Your Rights." And according to UFT rights, "The principal should tell you in advance that he or she will be formally observing you on a particular day." Of course, when I tentatively mentioned this to a fellow teacher, she rolled her eyes.
"Welcome to hell," she said.
Then she warned me that the principal would not crack a smile and that her presence would probably cause me to forget everything I'd ever learned about teaching.
Welcome to hell, indeed.
If you count the terrifying memo I found in my inbox mere weeks into the school year ("FYI new teachers -- Observations begin this week") as informing me in advance, then OK, I was informed. But what actually tipped me off were the rippling waves of tension around the school hallways: "They got J. last week"; "I think she was looking for M. this morning" -- as if the APs were like a roving death squad of assassins rather than administrators out to perform observations. Probationary teachers (with less than three years' experience) get four observations; tenured teachers get two. At my K-5 school, there are six classes on each grade level, some of which are team taught, and that doesn't even include clusters, ESL and AIS teachers for reading, writing and math, most of whom are probationary. So that's a whole lotta observing going on.
By Tuesday at lunch, I couldn't take it anymore, and I called my mom, crying that I just wanted to get it over with already. So of course, not even an hour later, my assistant principal showed up at my second grade CTT class.
Immediately I started dropping things. My mouth went dry. My brain spun into overdrive. I was saved by two things: Fortunately, I happened to be doing that blessed Noun Eater lesson, which the kids freakin' love; and because that class has so many extra support staffers in the room, the kids didn't get too out of hand. Because the period before, I saw my wild first graders, and I did a lesson with them on "multi-sensory writing" that involved reaching into a "mystery bag," which turned out to be an unholy disaster of an idea and if I'd been observed during that lesson, I probably would have been fired.
But as it turned out, it went OK. Phew. Until next time, that is.
Every school is different, but at my school, Observations are a Big Deal. I know this because all the advice I've been taking from other teachers has been like a pop quiz:
Veteran Teacher: "Do you have to do ______?"
Miss Brave: "Uhhhhhhh..."
Veteran Teacher, ominously: "Find out before you get Observed!"
Now, I am nothing if not thorough. So like any good geek, I had read the section of the UFT website called "Know Your Rights." And according to UFT rights, "The principal should tell you in advance that he or she will be formally observing you on a particular day." Of course, when I tentatively mentioned this to a fellow teacher, she rolled her eyes.
"Welcome to hell," she said.
Then she warned me that the principal would not crack a smile and that her presence would probably cause me to forget everything I'd ever learned about teaching.
Welcome to hell, indeed.
If you count the terrifying memo I found in my inbox mere weeks into the school year ("FYI new teachers -- Observations begin this week") as informing me in advance, then OK, I was informed. But what actually tipped me off were the rippling waves of tension around the school hallways: "They got J. last week"; "I think she was looking for M. this morning" -- as if the APs were like a roving death squad of assassins rather than administrators out to perform observations. Probationary teachers (with less than three years' experience) get four observations; tenured teachers get two. At my K-5 school, there are six classes on each grade level, some of which are team taught, and that doesn't even include clusters, ESL and AIS teachers for reading, writing and math, most of whom are probationary. So that's a whole lotta observing going on.
By Tuesday at lunch, I couldn't take it anymore, and I called my mom, crying that I just wanted to get it over with already. So of course, not even an hour later, my assistant principal showed up at my second grade CTT class.
Immediately I started dropping things. My mouth went dry. My brain spun into overdrive. I was saved by two things: Fortunately, I happened to be doing that blessed Noun Eater lesson, which the kids freakin' love; and because that class has so many extra support staffers in the room, the kids didn't get too out of hand. Because the period before, I saw my wild first graders, and I did a lesson with them on "multi-sensory writing" that involved reaching into a "mystery bag," which turned out to be an unholy disaster of an idea and if I'd been observed during that lesson, I probably would have been fired.
But as it turned out, it went OK. Phew. Until next time, that is.
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