The weight, the rhythm

1. The weight:
I saw the movie "Precious" tonight. First of all, it was wonderful and you should see it too. One word came to my mind at the end of this movie: heavy. If you watch the trailer it's fairly clear that this word describes the movie itself. Beyond the subject matter, however, was the sense of weight I was left with at the very end. In the closing scene, we witness an incredible monologue confession from Precious' mother, who abused and allowed her to be abused throughout her childhood. The movie closes with a scene of Precious, 17 years old, HIV positive, and on her own having left her abusive mother, walking down the street with her two children ("given" as it's put in the movie, to her by her own father). I'm left asking myself, how in the world is this girl going to make it? And yet we know she will...and that she's so far better off than she was when we met her. This, believe it or not, is one of the most hopeful scenes in the movie.

I guess my real point is that seeing the contrast between her mother's hopeless defeat and Precious' incredible strength left me feeling the intense weight of the work we (as teachers) do with our students. If the situations some of our students face (and I'm not trying to generalize...some do, some don't) at home are half as bleak as Precious', no wonder it's a battle in the classroom. Why are these cycles so hard to break? Because they are deep. But throughout the movie you see Precious' sense of self worth and empowerment develop through her ability to read, write, and express herself. Most importantly, her growth enables her to create hopes and aspirations for her future. At this point, what more effective tool are we, as a society, providing to break the cycle of poverty than an empowering education? And let me tell you, as a teacher in an inner city school, that charge is f-cking (yes, it's warranted here) heavy. And mostly, right now at least, in a good way. Suffice it to say I left feeling sobered but inspired.

2. The rhythm:
Today I remembered (or re-discovered) something I already knew. And that something has to do with the concept of rhythm and flow. In the past two or three weeks I started to feel like my kids and I had lost each other's rhythm...like we were really flowing for a while at the start of the year and all of a sudden I found myself pulling in one direction with all of them pulling in another and I just couldn't figure out why. I think ultimately, it came from my different reactions to the same situations we've been dealing with in the first few months. Only now there's an element of "Hey, it's the 56th day of school. Why am I still saying this?" Let's face it, that's annoying.

(As a side note, Mom and Dad, I cannot tell you how many times I've thought of you as I have to repeat myself for the fourteenth time. I've actually used the phrase, "don't just say OK, do it!" on a number of occasions and feel a pang of guilt each time. I think I get it now.)

So anyways, today was the first full day in those two weeks where I felt like we found our groove again. But it really didn't have anything to do with them, I sort of just decided I wasn't going to get mad today. It's so interesting...I think whether I leave feeling like I had a "good day" at work actually has less to do with what individual kids did or didn't do and more to do with how I reacted to it all day long. If I got upset and frustrated and ended up yelling, it just feels like a bad day at the end. If, on the other hand, I "managed" the situation instead of just reacting to it, I could have A. completely ignoring our math lesson, I. calling people "dumb dumb" all day, and N. kicking other kids in the shins and still walk away feeling like "hey, that wasn't so bad." At least in some situations, it's only as bad as you make it (What? That doesn't sound like fun to you?)

October blues...

I don't know what it is...the weather getting colder, the fact that it's been 9 weeks with no substantial break, or maybe the impending holidays, but the last few weeks have been hard. I've heard that October is a tough month for many teachers (I didn't have a chance to experience the difference last year...they were all tough months). Kids are getting on each others' nerves, kids are getting on my nerves, and I'm pretty sure I'm rounding out the triangle (can I say that?) by getting on their nerves too. On top of it all, I feel like all of a sudden I'm lost in my plans, in the curriculum, and in the vision that seemed so clear at the start of the year. What happened to those routines and structures we set up? Why are they fading away now? Why is this starting to feel eerily "last year"-esque?

And what in the world do I do to turn it back around?

Here's hoping we can leave the October blues in October...

And in the end...

Today was A's last day. I didn't find out until 2:00 when his mom called to let us know she'd be picking him up and that he'd be enrolling in his new school on Monday. I know being with his mom is the best thing for him right now. Still, I feel a real sense of loss. It makes me sad to think of him starting all over in a new place with a new teacher and a new group of kids. But he seemed excited, and like I told him, all that really matters is that he learns and that he's happy.

We had started his behavior contract over once he returned--he needed to meet his goals for 5 days in a row to earn his shades. Today, once again, was his fourth day. So what can I say...I fudged it. We went upstairs after school, cleaned out his desk, and I presented him with his prize: a pair of rainbow shutter shades, which he proudly wore out the door.

The interesting thing about this whole experience is the realization that I could probably feel just as close and connected to any given student in my class, were I afforded the opportunity to get to know them and invest in their progress the way I did with A. I wish we had the capacity, as teachers, to invest so deeply in more of our students. They deserve it. So, onward and upward...

Speaking of titles

Quick post, I just wanted to share the titles of one of my students' recent writing pieces:

1. "We Can't Find Our Friend"
2. "I Want to be Safe"
3. "But I Love You"
4. "We All Fall Down"

Talk about evocative titles! I mean, these sound like song lyrics don't they? Seven year old minds can be so fascinating...

Two steps forward, one step back

I got some news last week that made my heart sink, and that stayed with me long after I left school.

A was not in class the Friday before last. I later found out that he might not be coming back to school with us at all. His mother is moving to another city and he may be going with her.

Now, I thought my reaction to this situation would be a little more mixed. That Friday, I experienced my class without him...and he's a significant variable in my classroom management equation. I thought I might be relieved...but as it turned out, I just couldn't stop thinking about him.

We've been working so hard to get him to a place of consistency in the classroom...we had worked out a plan just that week, where if he reached all his behavior goals for 5 days in a row (Monday through Friday), he would get to pick something from my "prize drawer". I let him take a sneak peak into the drawer and he immediately found his choice: a pair of rainbow "shutter shades"...you know the kind that don't really have lenses but just those plastic strips across? Those ones. So every time he started veering off track this week, I'd just lean over and whisper "sunglasses!" and he'd remember ("oh yeah!") and get right back on track.

At one point during a completely disastrous math lesson on Thursday, he raised his hand and when I leaned in, he asked me, "Ms. Bagdonas, how much longer until lunch?" Now, this might not seem like a big deal, but you need to understand that when you're seven, it takes a whole lot of self-awareness to a) realize that you are bored and b) think of a polite, non-disruptive way of gauging how much longer you will need to endure this boredom. Most kids' usual reaction to boredom is to decide it's playtime instead. When I told him 5 minutes, he quietly got up, took one of my classroom timers, put 5 minutes on the clock and sat back down at his desk to tough out the home stretch. Talk about self-monitoring! This was probably one of the most endearing things I've seen him do this year. Anyways, the point is we've been on a roll. He met his goals Monday through Thursday, and just needed Friday to get those shades...

In the days that followed, I came to what seemed like an unlikely realization: I didn't want him to leave. I was hoping and praying that one of my most challenging kids showed up at the front of my line on Monday. For a few reasons...first, I couldn't stand the thought of him having to start all over again somewhere else. More than almost anything else, I've come to see instability and unpredictability as some of the most difficult roadblocks to students' academic success. Kids have a really hard time focusing on place value and verbs when things at home don't feel right. Next, it kills me to think of losing all the progress we've made so far--and I think we have so much further to go. Finally, and even I was a little surprised by the force of my feelings, I just love this child so much. I want him around. I want to see him through this year and beyond. I want to be a positive presence in his life, and I want the opportunity to watch him grow.

As it's turned out, he has come back to school... A woman at my school told me that regardless of what happens, it's my job as a teacher to make sure that school is a safe and stable place. That when he is here, it's business as usual. This was a really valuable piece of advice that I'm trying hard to keep in perspective.

In any case, it was eye-opening to have that "don't know what you've got till it's gone" feeling about this student. And as my post title suggests, the best we can do is keep taking those two steps forward, despite the inevitable steps back.

Watch your discourse

At our staff meeting yesterday, we were asked to consider the following quote:

"Watch your thoughts, they become your words.
Watch your words, they become your actions.
Watch your actions, they become your habits.
Watch your habits, they become your character.
Watch your character, it becomes your destiny."

If you paid any attention during algebra class, you know that if a equals b and b equals c (and c equals d which equals e which equals f) then by the transitive property of equality, a is also equal to f. In this case, I see no way to avoid the conclusion that my thoughts will become my destiny. Terrifying, right? Where do some of those thoughts even come from? You know, the strange things that pop into your mind before you drift off to sleep or steam to the surface in the shower...But more seriously, the context in which we were asked to consider the quote was that of our expectations for and beliefs about our students.

As a psychology major, I powered through all of my Teach For America interviews hailing the critical importance of high expectations for students...citing their frighteningly predictive power on performance, sometimes referred to as the Pygmalion effect. But even though I knew how important it was to hold students to those expectations, in reflecting on last year, I think the biggest mistake I made was allowing my students' actions to dictate my expectations for their behavior, and not the other way around.

Through my school's partnership with an organization called BayCES (Bay Area Coalition for Equitable Schools), our staff has been learning and talking about the nature of discourse in education...that is, the way people discuss and approach educational challenges. They (with a capital T) define two types of discourse, I and II, which are supposed to characterize two basic mindsets. If you can't or don't want to read the link, Discourse I basically sounds to me like another version of an adult-centered deficit perspective; placing blame, pointing fingers, etc. (Students are dropping out, the problem is they're not engaged or that parents aren't involved enough). Discourse II has that social justice flavor we liberal arts college graduates are so familiar with, in which the focus is more student-centered, looking at causes instead of symptoms and always asking that fascinating/infuriating question: WHY? (Why are students leaving school? Why aren't they engaged? Why aren't parents more involved?)

As much as we say we believe in the possibilities, I have been surprised and sometimes disturbed by the implicit expectations I hear in people's reactions when I tell them where and who I teach:

"Oh, Bayview? Wow, those kids are hard."
"The parents just don't care about education."
"Well, what happens is, they send [you] all the bad kids who've been kicked out of other schools"

Bad kids? And the interesting part is that I've heard these words from people who really do care about the well-being of children. From people who are very close to me and for whom I have tremendous love and respect. When I asked where our thoughts come from, it unnerves me to think that many come from a place over which we have no control...from our beliefs and upbringing, from the media, from our peers. And often, we aren't aware of their implications, even when they become public in our words.

In a previous staff development meeting, we talked about four "equity traps" that well-intentioned teachers and administrators can often fall into despite best intentions for their students. The "traps" include a deficit view of students and their families (students and families come with racial/cultural deficits that prevent their success), racial erasure (color-blindness, asserting that race/culture don't matter: "I don't see color, I only see children"), avoidance of supervision (on the part of teachers), and false reasoning (blaming students' behaviors for their own shortcomings: "I have to yell because the kids won't listen if I don't", i.e. I am yelling because of the kids). I could go on and on about this one, but the bottom line is that it's scary to see how even well-intentioned people can fall into the trap of expressing low expectations for families/students in the attempt to work for equity.

I am not trying to write this with an air of blame or judgment, nor am I exempting myself. The last year and a half have forced me to examine very closely the actions I take, the language I use, and the thoughts or beliefs from which those actions or that language stems. This is not a comfortable process, but I am committed to it--in myself and in others. So please forgive me if I try to change your "bad" to "challenging"...and maybe that's not even the best word to use, but I think it's important to question. And semantics do matter. Words are the vehicle for our beliefs. Which begs another question...does changing our words change our beliefs? For now, I'm not sure where else to start.

I like the imagery of watching yourself invoked by this quote. When we say "watch your words" we usually mean "be careful what you say". But take it literally...actually watch yourself thinking your thoughts, hear yourself saying your words... and then consider whether you have a choice.

Tuesdays make me hopeful

...because on Tuesdays, I get to tutor A. If you've talked to me about school since August 24th, you have likely heard about A. He's the one who keeps me on my toes all day long and keeps me strategizing, reflecting, adjusting when I go home at night. In front of other students he has a reputation to protect, a tough exterior that hides his sensitive feelings, academic insecurities, and the fact that most of the time, he just misses his mom.

But when it's just me and him and a book, I get to see the brilliant kid living inside every labeled "behavior problem". During our first session, I quickly realized that although he has a great grasp of short vowel sounds, he completely missed (or wasn't paying attention to, or was climbing on a table during, or was sitting in the office instead of learning) the lessons in first grade about the "bossy e" at the end of words that makes the vowel say its own name (the long vowel sound in gate, pride, rose, etc.) I grabbed a whiteboard and some magnetic letters, and within ten minutes, he had it. Since that lesson a week ago, he sees it everywhere. When we're reading in class, when he's writing in workshop, even when I'm in the middle of teaching a lesson...it's hard to get too upset at him for calling out of turn when he's yelling out with these big eyes open wide, "IT'S THE BOSSY E!!!"

His days are still up and down. But there is nothing, I repeat, nothing, more gratifying and shivers-up-your-spine inspiring than sitting next to a child (especially a child like A, who already, at the age of 7, is a year behind in reading even after repeating first grade) and watching him literally learn to read in front of your eyes. This child has no learning disability. He is quick, he is bright. Get through all that behavior and insecurity, and here's just another kid who wants to learn, wants to be successful, and whose entire face still lights up when I tell him he can have the Blues Clues book sitting in my library. It's so hard to see sometimes, standing in front of 20 children for 8 hours a day, but in the 45 minutes A and I have together on Tuesdays, I am privileged to witness the life-changing power of learning. And nothing gives me greater hope. ("It's the bossy e!")