Christian: "Look at my motorcycle belt."
John: "You should get a monster car belt!"
Miss Brave, joking around: "Do you think I should get a monster car belt?"
John: "No! Because monster cars are for boys, and you're a girl!"
Miss Brave: "But I like monster cars. Girls aren't allowed to like monster cars?"
John: "What about monster trucks? Do you like monster trucks?"
Miss Brave: "Sure, I like monster trucks."
John: "But you can't drive it. Because it's too big."
Miss Brave: "Well, can you drive a monster truck?"
John: (nods)
Miss Brave: "But who's bigger? Miss Brave or John? If I'm bigger than you and I can't drive the monster truck, how can you drive the monster truck?"
John: "When I'm eleventy old, I'll be big enough for my feet to reach the pedals."
Friday, November 16, 2007
The kind of week I had
I wanted to rip off my own head, lodge it at the kids like a bowling ball, and say, "Here. I'm finished. You won."
This afternoon I came home, stunned, and ate half a bowl of tuna fish and two rainbow cookies in front of an MTV marathon of America's Next Top Model. Then I dragged myself off the couch and went out for a fast, furious run. I ran until I was warm and until I was sure that the kids weren't going to break me. I ran as if my second graders were chasing me. In a way, they were.
This afternoon I came home, stunned, and ate half a bowl of tuna fish and two rainbow cookies in front of an MTV marathon of America's Next Top Model. Then I dragged myself off the couch and went out for a fast, furious run. I ran until I was warm and until I was sure that the kids weren't going to break me. I ran as if my second graders were chasing me. In a way, they were.
Friday, November 9, 2007
"That kid"
Kyle is one of the most challenging second graders I work with. He makes obnoxious clicking noises throughout my mini lessons, smirks when the class behavior stoplight changes from green to yellow, crawls under desks when he's asked to come to the meeting area, and spins around in chairs that he's expressly been forbidden to sit in when he should be working independently. And because Kyle functions at a low level academically and his personality switch is set permanently to "troublemaker," the only thing I've really gotten to know about him is that he likes to draw.
The other kids in Ms. J's class are always telling me, "Kyle is making me laugh," "Kyle is bothering me," "Kyle is taking my pencil," etc. Every week, I remind them that they are responsible for their own behavior, that no one is forcing them to misbehave, that the best thing they can do is to ignore the troublemaker and worry about themselves. And yet every week, the class seems to slowly disintegrate into chaos.
Last week, Kyle was absent, and it was like I had an entirely different class. The other challenging students in the class were remarkably focused. I don't think I had to issue one reprimand.
"Isn't it beautiful?" remarked Ms. J about Kyle's absence. "If I didn't have that kid in my class..."
She trailed off. Nearly every class has "that kid," that one student about whom you think, If I didn't have to deal with that kid, my class would be perfect!
Later that day, I was discussing with another teacher the remarkable transformation of Ms. J's class and the case of stubborn, defiant Kyle. Kyle wasn't responding to all the traditional behavior management techniques, I said. He doesn't to care about receiving praise. He revels in his role as the troublemaker. I don't know how to get through to him.
"Oh, Kyle," said the other teacher, remembering. "His first grade teacher had to testify against his father in court because he came to school with a belt mark across his face. He's probably been beaten up so many times he just doesn't care anymore."
That's when I vowed that I would stop thinking about Kyle as "that kid" -- that kid who is willfully and obstinately screwing up my vision of the perfect class -- and start thinking about him as a kid with potential.
This week, Kyle was back. During independent working time, I was surprised to see that he had completed the task I had asked him to do -- and what's more, he'd done it correctly. I hesitated over his desk, wondering how far I could push him, knowing that most of my past attempts at positive reinforcement had gone over like a lead balloon; as soon as Kyle realizes he's being praised, he usually chooses to do something defiant to end the moment and show who's boss.
"Kyle," I said in a low voice, "you did exactly what I asked, and you did a good job. And since I know what a good artist you are, I'm going to let you draw."
He stared back at me for a moment, like he couldn't believe it. "I can draw?" he repeated. "Can I use markers?" he asked eagerly.
I didn't let him use the markers. But I did call on him every single time he raised his hand, and I even dared to make a point of letting everyone know that I was calling on Kyle precisely because of the way he was sitting. And one of those times, what he raised his hand to tell me was that he had an art book at home.
Maybe this weekend, I can look into picking up some art supplies as a reward for Kyle. Maybe Kyle and I can strike a deal. Maybe Kyle will turn out to be "that kid" after all -- that kid who started out as my biggest antagonizer and ended up a success.
The other kids in Ms. J's class are always telling me, "Kyle is making me laugh," "Kyle is bothering me," "Kyle is taking my pencil," etc. Every week, I remind them that they are responsible for their own behavior, that no one is forcing them to misbehave, that the best thing they can do is to ignore the troublemaker and worry about themselves. And yet every week, the class seems to slowly disintegrate into chaos.
Last week, Kyle was absent, and it was like I had an entirely different class. The other challenging students in the class were remarkably focused. I don't think I had to issue one reprimand.
"Isn't it beautiful?" remarked Ms. J about Kyle's absence. "If I didn't have that kid in my class..."
She trailed off. Nearly every class has "that kid," that one student about whom you think, If I didn't have to deal with that kid, my class would be perfect!
Later that day, I was discussing with another teacher the remarkable transformation of Ms. J's class and the case of stubborn, defiant Kyle. Kyle wasn't responding to all the traditional behavior management techniques, I said. He doesn't to care about receiving praise. He revels in his role as the troublemaker. I don't know how to get through to him.
"Oh, Kyle," said the other teacher, remembering. "His first grade teacher had to testify against his father in court because he came to school with a belt mark across his face. He's probably been beaten up so many times he just doesn't care anymore."
That's when I vowed that I would stop thinking about Kyle as "that kid" -- that kid who is willfully and obstinately screwing up my vision of the perfect class -- and start thinking about him as a kid with potential.
This week, Kyle was back. During independent working time, I was surprised to see that he had completed the task I had asked him to do -- and what's more, he'd done it correctly. I hesitated over his desk, wondering how far I could push him, knowing that most of my past attempts at positive reinforcement had gone over like a lead balloon; as soon as Kyle realizes he's being praised, he usually chooses to do something defiant to end the moment and show who's boss.
"Kyle," I said in a low voice, "you did exactly what I asked, and you did a good job. And since I know what a good artist you are, I'm going to let you draw."
He stared back at me for a moment, like he couldn't believe it. "I can draw?" he repeated. "Can I use markers?" he asked eagerly.
I didn't let him use the markers. But I did call on him every single time he raised his hand, and I even dared to make a point of letting everyone know that I was calling on Kyle precisely because of the way he was sitting. And one of those times, what he raised his hand to tell me was that he had an art book at home.
Maybe this weekend, I can look into picking up some art supplies as a reward for Kyle. Maybe Kyle and I can strike a deal. Maybe Kyle will turn out to be "that kid" after all -- that kid who started out as my biggest antagonizer and ended up a success.
Thursday, November 8, 2007
Let down your hair
What happens when Miss Brave has already collected everyone's papers but the teacher isn't back yet and Miss Brave has to stall:
Miss Brave: "Are there any comments?"
Yesenia: "I liked your story."
Ronnie: "Not me."
Miss Brave: "Ronnie, that was so rude. Do I come over to you when you're writing and tell you I don't like your story?"
Ronnie: "No."
(Cue other kids jumping to Miss Brave's defense)
David: "I liked your pictures!"
Eduardo: "I liked that story!"
Phillip: "I loved your story, Miss Brave!"
(Cue kids getting totally carried away with compliments)
Avery: "I love your boots!"
Yesenia: "I like your shirt!"
Boy's Voice: "I like your hair!"
(Cue moment of silence)
Avery: "Who said that?"
Alas, no one would own up to it. But somewhere in the middle of the rug in Mrs. C's first grade, there sits a boy who secretly admires my hair.
Miss Brave: "Are there any comments?"
Yesenia: "I liked your story."
Ronnie: "Not me."
Miss Brave: "Ronnie, that was so rude. Do I come over to you when you're writing and tell you I don't like your story?"
Ronnie: "No."
(Cue other kids jumping to Miss Brave's defense)
David: "I liked your pictures!"
Eduardo: "I liked that story!"
Phillip: "I loved your story, Miss Brave!"
(Cue kids getting totally carried away with compliments)
Avery: "I love your boots!"
Yesenia: "I like your shirt!"
Boy's Voice: "I like your hair!"
(Cue moment of silence)
Avery: "Who said that?"
Alas, no one would own up to it. But somewhere in the middle of the rug in Mrs. C's first grade, there sits a boy who secretly admires my hair.
Tuesday, November 6, 2007
Are we grading on a curve?
Larissa: "Miss Brave! Look at my twisty ponytail!"
Miss Brave: "Oooh, I see! That's called a braid."
Larissa: "Yeah! And my ponytail is twisty!"
* * *
Well! Progress reports are out and it seems like the whole city is buzzing about them! Last week, I predicted that my school would get a B- or C+. Our actual grade: B.
I think that would hold more water for me if I actually understood how the grades were calculated. A friend of mine teaches at a school that's been designated "in need of improvement," and yet her school received an A -- and that's the story all over the city, from the Daily News to the New York Times. It's almost like the DOE calculations are designed to fly in the face of No Child Left Behind: The federal government wants improvement? How's this A grade for improvement?!
(Interestingly, both my elementary school and my high school received As. My junior high school got a C. At which of these schools would I say I was happiest? The junior high.)
Miss Brave: "Oooh, I see! That's called a braid."
Larissa: "Yeah! And my ponytail is twisty!"
* * *
Well! Progress reports are out and it seems like the whole city is buzzing about them! Last week, I predicted that my school would get a B- or C+. Our actual grade: B.
I think that would hold more water for me if I actually understood how the grades were calculated. A friend of mine teaches at a school that's been designated "in need of improvement," and yet her school received an A -- and that's the story all over the city, from the Daily News to the New York Times. It's almost like the DOE calculations are designed to fly in the face of No Child Left Behind: The federal government wants improvement? How's this A grade for improvement?!
(Interestingly, both my elementary school and my high school received As. My junior high school got a C. At which of these schools would I say I was happiest? The junior high.)
Saturday, November 3, 2007
A change is gonna come
Phillip: "Miss Brave, what's your last name?"
Miss Brave: "Brave is my last name."
Alejandro: "Then what's your real name?"
Miss Brave: "Well, Brave is my real last name."
Phillip: "No, what's your first name?"
Miss Brave: "That's a secret."
Phillip: "I won't tell nobody!"
* * *
Changes are in the air. My students are starting to come to school wearing gigantic puffy jackets, staggering under the weight of their oversized hoods (small childre in rain gear are the cutest, followed closely by winter accessories). Most days I watch the sun rise from the fourth floor of our school; it won't be long before I'm watching it set there too.
Changes are in the air for Darryl: When he came to kindergarten two months ago, his round chubby face was nearly always screwed into a pout, and he threw a fit if another student so much as looked at him. Now he's landed a starring role in the stories of the other kids at his table ("This is me and Darryl at the park"; "This is me and Darryl going to Toys R Us"), and he listens, beaming, as his tablemates sing his praises as a friend.
Changes are in the air for Ms. N's ESL second grade: When I met them, I instantly dismissed them as my most challenging class, full of kids who literally did not stop talking for one instant, ever, with a handful who spent their time spinning around in circles or wandering around the room without asking to leave their seats. Then I read their writing, spoke to their teacher and realized that they're smart kids who are hungry for attention. Now I've fallen in love with them despite myself and that class is one of my favorites; more than any other, they respond to positive reinforcement, and I've never seen a group of second graders get more excited about locating all the adjectives in a story we wrote together.
Changes are in the air for Ms. L's second grade: In our last meeting, I happened to turn around just in time to see Julio carefully aiming the paper airplane he had constructed out of the paper on which he should have been writing. I snatched it out of his hand before he took flight, fixed him with a deadly glare, and asked, "Is this what you think of the work you've been doing?" My voice rose until I was addressing the whole, rowdy, misbehaving, defiant, obnoxious class: "Because when you make paper airplanes out of your work, instead of asking someone else to help you figure out what to do, you're telling me that you think that what you do is just garbage. And you're wrong. Because you can do better. You are all intelligent. But you need to show that to me. Because now, it's just garbage." I crumpled up the airplane and threw it in the trash. It was my Hilary Swank in Freedom Writers, Matthew Perry in The Ron Clark Story, Michelle Pfeiffer in Dangerous Minds moment. Only later I realized: My voice wasn't quavering like it used to. They didn't scare me; they just pissed me off. Maybe that was a breakthrough.
Changes might be in the air for me, too, but it's more difficult to explain. Lately I've found myself imagining what I might do next year with my own class, or how I might fare at a school outside the NYC public school system. I still don't think I want to be a teacher forever; I still think it's highly likely that I don't want to be a teacher next year. But I know 100% that I don't want to be a writing cluster teacher next year...which still leaves open the possibility that I might be able to accept doing something else. Now that I've survived October, winter break seems just around the corner. And the cold, biting air never tasted so sweet.
Miss Brave: "Brave is my last name."
Alejandro: "Then what's your real name?"
Miss Brave: "Well, Brave is my real last name."
Phillip: "No, what's your first name?"
Miss Brave: "That's a secret."
Phillip: "I won't tell nobody!"
* * *
Changes are in the air. My students are starting to come to school wearing gigantic puffy jackets, staggering under the weight of their oversized hoods (small childre in rain gear are the cutest, followed closely by winter accessories). Most days I watch the sun rise from the fourth floor of our school; it won't be long before I'm watching it set there too.
Changes are in the air for Darryl: When he came to kindergarten two months ago, his round chubby face was nearly always screwed into a pout, and he threw a fit if another student so much as looked at him. Now he's landed a starring role in the stories of the other kids at his table ("This is me and Darryl at the park"; "This is me and Darryl going to Toys R Us"), and he listens, beaming, as his tablemates sing his praises as a friend.
Changes are in the air for Ms. N's ESL second grade: When I met them, I instantly dismissed them as my most challenging class, full of kids who literally did not stop talking for one instant, ever, with a handful who spent their time spinning around in circles or wandering around the room without asking to leave their seats. Then I read their writing, spoke to their teacher and realized that they're smart kids who are hungry for attention. Now I've fallen in love with them despite myself and that class is one of my favorites; more than any other, they respond to positive reinforcement, and I've never seen a group of second graders get more excited about locating all the adjectives in a story we wrote together.
Changes are in the air for Ms. L's second grade: In our last meeting, I happened to turn around just in time to see Julio carefully aiming the paper airplane he had constructed out of the paper on which he should have been writing. I snatched it out of his hand before he took flight, fixed him with a deadly glare, and asked, "Is this what you think of the work you've been doing?" My voice rose until I was addressing the whole, rowdy, misbehaving, defiant, obnoxious class: "Because when you make paper airplanes out of your work, instead of asking someone else to help you figure out what to do, you're telling me that you think that what you do is just garbage. And you're wrong. Because you can do better. You are all intelligent. But you need to show that to me. Because now, it's just garbage." I crumpled up the airplane and threw it in the trash. It was my Hilary Swank in Freedom Writers, Matthew Perry in The Ron Clark Story, Michelle Pfeiffer in Dangerous Minds moment. Only later I realized: My voice wasn't quavering like it used to. They didn't scare me; they just pissed me off. Maybe that was a breakthrough.
Changes might be in the air for me, too, but it's more difficult to explain. Lately I've found myself imagining what I might do next year with my own class, or how I might fare at a school outside the NYC public school system. I still don't think I want to be a teacher forever; I still think it's highly likely that I don't want to be a teacher next year. But I know 100% that I don't want to be a writing cluster teacher next year...which still leaves open the possibility that I might be able to accept doing something else. Now that I've survived October, winter break seems just around the corner. And the cold, biting air never tasted so sweet.
Friday, November 2, 2007
Just that kind of day
Mario: "Miss Brave, Alejandro said I was a girl."
Miss Brave: "Mario, you need to worry about yourself now, not what other people are saying when they should be writing instead of talking anyway."
Mario: "But Alejandro said I was a girl."
Miss Brave: "Mario, I need you to think about what you should be doing right now instead of telling me this."
Mario: "But Alejandro said I was a girl."
Miss Brave: "Mario, I don't want to hear any more about what other people said. You're supposed to be writing."
Mario: "But Alejandro said -- "
Miss Brave: "Mario! You're not a girl, are you?"
Mario: "...no."
Miss Brave: "Then you know that what Alejandro said was silly and that he was just saying it to bother you, so I want you to ignore it!"
(Enter Miss H.)
Mario: "Miss H! Alejandro said I was a girl!"
* * *
I think anyone who's worked in an office can agree that no good can ever come of the phrase: "Didn't you get the memo?"
I learned that lesson the hard way today when my schedule was altered due to professional development sessions, but no one told me. As a result, I didn't show up for a class I was supposed to cover, and I had to face the disapproving wrath of a lady in the office who asked me, "Didn't you get the memo?"
As a matter of fact, I rarely get the memo, because my mailbox is way on the bottom and the aides seem to forget that it's there. So there I was, using my prep period to -- get ready for it -- prep, all the while unaware that what I actually should have been doing was wrangling Miss D's first graders. Not only did I end up feeling like a jerk (even though, as I never saw that particular memo before in my life, it wasn't my fault) and end up having to switch around my afternoon classes, but I could have had a last-period prep, which would have been ever so much more awesome!
One memo I did get -- on Thursday afternoon -- informed me that I have to submit grades for my students -- not my kindergarteners, which only leaves about 300 others...by Monday.
And that's why at lunch I sent a text message to my friend that read, "This is the kind of day I'm having: Aaaauuugghhhhh!"
Miss Brave: "Mario, you need to worry about yourself now, not what other people are saying when they should be writing instead of talking anyway."
Mario: "But Alejandro said I was a girl."
Miss Brave: "Mario, I need you to think about what you should be doing right now instead of telling me this."
Mario: "But Alejandro said I was a girl."
Miss Brave: "Mario, I don't want to hear any more about what other people said. You're supposed to be writing."
Mario: "But Alejandro said -- "
Miss Brave: "Mario! You're not a girl, are you?"
Mario: "...no."
Miss Brave: "Then you know that what Alejandro said was silly and that he was just saying it to bother you, so I want you to ignore it!"
(Enter Miss H.)
Mario: "Miss H! Alejandro said I was a girl!"
* * *
I think anyone who's worked in an office can agree that no good can ever come of the phrase: "Didn't you get the memo?"
I learned that lesson the hard way today when my schedule was altered due to professional development sessions, but no one told me. As a result, I didn't show up for a class I was supposed to cover, and I had to face the disapproving wrath of a lady in the office who asked me, "Didn't you get the memo?"
As a matter of fact, I rarely get the memo, because my mailbox is way on the bottom and the aides seem to forget that it's there. So there I was, using my prep period to -- get ready for it -- prep, all the while unaware that what I actually should have been doing was wrangling Miss D's first graders. Not only did I end up feeling like a jerk (even though, as I never saw that particular memo before in my life, it wasn't my fault) and end up having to switch around my afternoon classes, but I could have had a last-period prep, which would have been ever so much more awesome!
One memo I did get -- on Thursday afternoon -- informed me that I have to submit grades for my students -- not my kindergarteners, which only leaves about 300 others...by Monday.
And that's why at lunch I sent a text message to my friend that read, "This is the kind of day I'm having: Aaaauuugghhhhh!"
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