School Day Sight-Seeing

It's not uncommon that our school is short on subs. On such days, we receive a morning email with some absurd predicament. "We have 17 teachers out and 6 subs in the building. Please let the office know if you can cover Mods 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, and/or 8."

I replied early this morning with a donation of one of my planning periods. Before I knew it, I received an emergency call to cover one more class. Both were World Languages, French and Spanish, and I felt as if I were observing another culture. 

The first lesson brought me back to my own classroom experience where learning began with a textbook page and a loose-leaf sheet of paper. The kids, some of whom were my own, were down with the routine. Directions were on the board and they rolled with occasional questions to their neighbors. Next, I took a Spanish class that was mainly 7th graders, a bonus because some will surely be in my class next year. And again, the self-sufficiency of these kids with rote exercises was a sight to behold. 

All of this is to say my planning periods and beyond are spent developing dynamic lessons. Bells and whistles. Three ring circuses. Then I watch my students in action in these classes and I wonder, should I take a trip to textbook land? Truth is, I probably won't, but I still enjoyed the view.

Triumphs and Fails

This is a structure I've borrowed from a parenting podcast that I often listen to, "Mom and Dad are Fighting." The original contributors began every episode with an anecdote that fell into either category. Dan Kois typically shared a triumph. Alison Benedikt, not Dan's wife by the way, had a more self-deprecating approach and shared a lot of fails in her time.

Triumphs of the Day

I...

• conferred with each reader in my ATSS group this morning.
• made it to a morning meeting and class on time, prepared for both.
• returned papers to every student today with comments and suggestions.
• challenged students to vary their word choice and gave them time to do so.
• distributed prizes to a school-wide writing contest and interviewed each winner about his/her inspiration.
• met with a librarian about tomorrow's lesson and organized book choices for the unit theme.
• selected six finalists to move on in this year's oratorical contest and posted the news online.
• emailed parents about an upcoming unit and a writing opportunity.
• ran three miles with my dog and gave her a quick play break at the dog park in between.
• made vegetarian dinner for my boys, read stories to the youngest.
• put laundry away (full disclosure: my husband finished and folded it all last night, godblesshim).
• made a Google survey for my team about an upcoming event before I opened Teacher Town.

Fails of the Day

I...

• pushed my snooze button about six times.
• worshiped my cup of coffee like I would God, which I understand is a sin.
• finished planning my remediation lesson about 45 seconds before the kids walked in the door.
• didn't make time to eat breakfast or lunch, so I shoved a granola bar in my mouth between my two classes to keep from passing out.
• realized I forgot to grade that one students' essay while I was passing out papers because I shoved it to the bottom of the stack because it needed so much work, but he was the kid who needed the revision tips the most and had to wait ten minutes while other students asked me one hundred questions before I could get his marked up paper back. Plus, I don't even think that's the first time that's happened over the years, just not with the same kid.
• didn't actually put all of the folded laundry away--just the layers that were almost falling out of the basket.
• threw stuff in the recycling bin without rinsing it.
• let my youngest watch two shows instead of one on Netflix while I made dinner.
• failed to select just one moment of my day, but relied on a list format to unpack the whole day even if it might as well be a brainstorm.

Oddly enough, this list of triumphs alongside the fails makes me feel better about my shortcomings because, damn, life is imperfect. And damn, life is busy. Just getting by should be triumph enough for anyone, people.

Role Call: "Here."

The laundry isn't done, and I still have about ten papers to grade by tomorrow. However, I will count this slice as my success for the day. Tomorrow, I'll probably be running to keep up with the meetings and teaching. It's guaranteed, though, that I'll be keeping my eyes open for a fresher slice than this one, for which I am simply filling white space on the screen with my words.

Won't You Be My Neighbor?

Picture a lovely afternoon after the elementary school bus dropped the children off. Parents and children headed home for snack and then met outside shortly after for a game of tag, scooter rides 'round the block, and a game of catch. After my middle son returned with his walk with the dog, I set up camp on the door step with a small stack of papers to grade. Our obedient girl lay down by my feet, and my pen stood poised to mark up the essays. Then there came a tremendous "Smash!" and we all stopped in our tracks.

Our neighbor across the speech has a rocket arm, and her pitch sent her baseball right through the rear window of my car. Ouch. We all stood frozen for a moment as the shock of the moment sank in. I placed my papers down. I passed the leash to my son. Neighbor and I met in the middle to say, "Oh no." and ask, "What now?"

The glass was shattered and most of the window was scattered along the sidewalk and street below it. There was a gaping hole where black shards pointed dangerously along the perimeter. While one party called the body shop to make a morning appointment, the other took out the shop vac to suck up all the treacherous matter. Plus, so many apologies. 

"Don't worry, how will we learn if we don't make mistakes?" I asked the seventh grade softball pitcher. 

And more apologies.

"It's really okay," my husband assured her parents. "In fact, take this bottle of wine. You'll want to unwind after this."

Then a discovery.

"Leah, why do you have all 100 Airhead candy bars in the secret compartment of your trunk?"

The best neighbors are the ones with whom we can be ourselves. It was a lovely afternoon in the neighborhood. 

Trouble Creeps In

Meals with the Ortinos were magical in what felt like a perfect world. Until that night that Matteo and Tommaso got up from the table to get dessert. Bongo-bongo, a tower of cream-puffs, ice cream, and chocolate sauce was being stored in a fridge of their basement apartment. There was a commotion, panicked shouts. I didn’t need to understand their Italian words to know they found trouble. After several others jumped from the table and ran toward the clamor, Valentina and I stood, stunned. She translated, her face frozen in fear, “Intruders. Burglars are in the house.”

Laura, their mother, ran inside to call the police, leaving the two of us to wonder in a flash, Were we safe? Were the men armed? No questions would be answered until the chase came to a close and the brothers could report the details.

They had heard voices when they entered the kitchen and acted immediately. Matteo did the sensible thing: he called for help. Tommaso was fearless--some said reckless--as he ran to the upstairs floors to find office and bedroom drawers looted and jewelry boxes emptied. And one enemy dodged him in the hall, escaping down the back stairway to flee down the olive tree-dotted hill to the winding road where an accomplice waited in a running car and sped off. Valentina wept at the violation, and we were such kindred spirits at that time, I wept too.

Whether it was two or three in the house, professionals or rookies, it was never clear. Nonetheless, the invasion altered the perfect world indefinitely. And bongo-bongo will never taste the same.

Hyperbole: Exaggeration for Effect

I scare easily, as anyone who has startled me in one of my deep in thought moments knows, and I decided ages ago that I wouldn't see any more scary movies. Still, I found myself watching Get Out, a new film billed as both comedy and horror about a young black man at risk when he visits the family home of his white girlfriend. The initial moments of implicit bias, micro-agressions, are both ridiculous and chilling--a compulsory mention of Obama, an insincere compliment for Jesse Owens, a hand on the arm to admire natural strength, then "How do you feel now that Black is in fashion?"

The hostilities grow in scope, enough to make the movie a bloodbath by its conclusion. Chris is the only sympathetic character in the mix, so my grip on the armrest didn't relax until the credits rolled and I knew his future. Still, the fright I felt during the physical struggles didn't compare to the long term discomfort I feel about Chris's psychological turmoil. There may have been resolution to the former conflict--as for the latter? We all know that's a plot that continues to unfold every day.

...and what, one might ask, is scarier than that?

Four for One Special

Only one of us had a scheduled activity, but three of us plus the dog jumped into the car.  We dropped  my middle son at Phoenix to continue his work on bicycle mechanics and took advantage of a part of town that has something for everyone on a perfect spring day like this one.

Our gear: running shoes, leash, and scooter. The little one led the way on his four wheels; my furry friend and I followed at a decent pace. We spotted what looked like puppy paradise, a dog park with countless playmates and swimming privileges. Continuing round our loop, my six-year-old almost lost momentum until I asked him to teach me his favorite song. One line at a time, our singing acted like wind in our sails right to the playground where we climbed and chatted with new friends until the bike shift was over. 

One quick stop landed us smoothies and a water bowl in front of every business we passed. Something for everyone, and what a bargain indeed.

"Like the Sound of Roaches Scurrying"

The famous Mrs. Miller could belt out a tune, but it wasn't pretty. The songs were catchy--her voice wasn't. Yet, her shrill, off-key covers in the 1960s earned her a two-year following. I saw the play Mrs. Miller Does Her Thing tonight, and I'm fairly certain I wouldn't have been one of the many thousands who bought her records, but her story, on the other hand, is material I could spend time with. What was it like to be Mrs. Elva Miller with values so contrary to the generation that held the spotlight on her? How much control did she have over her public image? If she was savvy enough to be in on the joke, why didn't she realize her accountant was bleeding her dry? Was she a fake or a feminist? It is these and other questions that I will ponder after a good night's sleep. Her songs, however, will not find their place on my Spotify playlist.

Ice Maker, Not Ice Breaker

I felt obliged to attend the ice cream social. Good news: My son decided to register for the new high school next year, and this event was our chance to get a closer look at the student body all at once. However, he had no interest in the ice cream social. I understood where he was coming from--those situations can be awkward. But I'm the mom, and...

He was right. It was awkward--the standing around, the ice cream he didn't want to eat, my six-year-old pulling on my arm, my coat, my sweater. Plus, I know too many people. The Assistant Principal and I taught together my first year in the county. A bunch of current students were in my English class last year, and a bunch of rising 9th graders are in my class now. I chatted; he didn't. 

There was that moment when I wanted to push. "Go get a puzzle piece," I insisted when their informal group activity began. That is, until I saw in his eyes that he was not budging on this one. Thirty seconds later, we bailed. 

"I know you didn't like that," I said, "But I'm glad we went. Everyone looks happy with the place."

"Mmm," he acknowledged.

Then he got first pick on the dinner we picked up on the way home, and I looked ahead to a time he could go back to this new school without me.

Other Duties As Assigned

One new development in our SOL test administration leaves English teachers out of the mix when it comes to proctoring the writing test. This year, we are not permitted to monitor our own students for fear that we might coach them too much. When I first heard, I thought it was fine news. Invigilating is hard work. Reading the directions feels so phony. All the standing and pacing, ugh. Then the collecting and sorting. The pressure to protect the bin at all costs.

Instead, I was a hall monitor. 

I set a desk by the stairs and brought some papers to correct. I was given a bright red sign with a long post I was prepared to hold as students passed through the halls between classes and say, "Sssshhhh," like a pro. But before any of the fun stuff happened, I was summoned by one of the proctors. 

"Leah," he whispered from down the hall, "I need some help." It was in my own room with my own students that half of the laptops were failing to log students in with their test tickets. Not only were hands popping up everywhere, the volume in the room was not a standardized testing environment at all. Nope, it sounded like the bus had left for the amusement park and these kids were ready to par-tay. 

I smiled at them, turned the lights down, and walked toward my phone saying, "Ssssshhh," all the way. The noise level dropped as I made a call to reset some tests. I smiled again and said, "Sssshhhh," and spoke to the benefits of a calm room before students are asked to take a test. Such advice didn't feel like unfair coaching to me. Then again, should I have even been there at all?

It took resetting, rebooting, and reassigning machines for about 35 minutes before students were given the green light to begin. To maintain quiet all that time took a few reminders, but they settled in before long. Then I left for my 3-hour hall duty where, in my opinion, I had to shush the wrong students.

Teacher with a Capital T

When a teacher of nearly eighteen years has to approach her colleagues to ask, "What's your secret to getting these kids to work?" it's time to mix things up, especially when the colleagues reply, "No secrets. I'm at a loss, too."

Shouldn't it be that golden time of the year when kids know the routine as they strive to meet high expectations? Nope. Maybe it's that years of SOLs have left them giddy at the mention of a test that only assesses minimum expectations. It might also be a touch of 8th grade apathy--"High school's gonna be intense. Let's relax while we can." Or frankly, it could be that I've smiled at them too much. "What a nice teacher. She likes our jokes and stories. What's the harm in telling a few more? This essay can wait."

Well, those days are over. (Okay, temporarily suspended until further notice.)

The name cards came out this afternoon and the seating chart fell into neat rows that faced the front. You want to sit on the couch? Not without doing your work from the day before. Earbuds? Same answer. Are you telling stories again, Tim? Not without writing it down first, young man.

Sure, it was a drag not to smile as much, but each and every student got time from me today. One by one, I spoke to individuals about concrete examples that bring ideas to life, "making the magic happen" with sensory details, and assorted errors that are best taught to the ones who make them. 

All I need to say about the Teaching that went down: Nancie would be proud. 

Cancel the Uber

My mom flew back into town today, and because the timing of her return was just between after-school pickup and dinner time, I texted an offer this morning to pick up at the airport.

"What inspired you to offer a ride? Did Dad call you?" she asked after climbing into the car. Aw, she suspected I needed prompting to extend my hand, but it wasn't that at all. 

She's been traveling a lot this winter, both to be with my grandmother up north or my dad down south. I haven't been orphaned, mind you. We've fit in some mother-daughter time, mostly long phone calls when I'm walking the dog. But this morning, I realized it had been about two weeks since my mom and I were face to face. This means that I had gone almost fourteen days without my one-member fan club who treats me like I should be Gwyneth Paltrow's next feature on Goop and doesn't mind talking endlessly about my children. A lot is going on, too. My 95-year-old grandmother has cancer. My sister is pregnant and moving with her family to Germany in the summer. We all love each other a lot. Loss and distance are in our near future, so now is not the time to take our proximity for granted.

Plus, I think she hates cabs. Why wouldn't I give her a lift?

Gallery Walk

My family and I headed out for my choice of birthday fun on the National Mall yesterday.  We were h almost to the National Gallery, not that my six-year-old was aware of our plan. Yet he exclaimed, "That building is a work of art!" as we walked past the Museum of the American Indian Museum. He's right--the facade looks like sand art crafted by the wind with ripples and ridges one might see in the Arizona desert.

Next, we let the beauty of sculpture and painting wash over us in the East Building. It's been a long time since I've put paint on canvas, so I was totally enamored with the power abstract artists wielded with either broad strokes of color or gray-scale,  a-symmetry or perfect balance, chunky textures or simple lines.

Our last stop was an iMax movie at the Natural History Museum, a change of pace, or so I thought at first. Of course, I was proven wrong. We watched footage that displayed beauty in all corners of the country, including the Redwood Forest, Arches, and Glacier Bay that boasted blasts of color, bold shapes, and complex textures.

As a result of this one outing, I set some new life goals: see the world, create more, and appreciate the works of art that are already here, just waiting to be noticed.

Morning Constitutional

Most of my days feels rushed. I set up a series of lessons that includes timed segments to meet set objectives. Particularly pre-Writing SOL, I'm checking boxes on a pre-defined list with an inflexible due date. Despite the stress you may detect in those words, I think we're okay. Not great, but I do get this knowing look from the students that the clock is ticking. More so for students who have to work for their scores, which is interesting. Suddenly, my advice on how to crack the code of this standardized test is pertinent information. This is in my regular English classes, and for my reluctant English students, I'll take their eye contact and pencil to the paper any time anyhow.

Meanwhile, I'm in my fourth rotation of ATSS, an intervention period with fewer than ten students each round. They're my kiddos, so they know me from class, and one of my goals is to coach them on how to show their classmates up when they get back to the larger class. You know the kids--they think, maybe I know the answer, but if I say the wrong thing I'll look dumb, so I'm better off saying nothing at all. Unless they're already sure of the skill or content from the morning session. Are they showing more likelihood of passing the SOL test? Super. More important than that--they're experiencing what it's like to get things right. 

And the best part of this program is that it's the most laid back of any lesson I teach all day. We are couch and beanbagchair lounging with clipboards. Crisscross apple sauce on the rug with an occasional white board. There is some rubbing of eyes at 7:50 in the morning, but there is a "let's ease ourselves into this school day" feeling that I can handle when the rest of my day will pick up the pace. We pass the snacks around. We read some Langston Hughes, some news, or even watch a Pixar short now and then. All of it, mind you is fuel for later. And I'm happy as can be to help at the filling station.

Lucky Seven, Say Yes

The phone conference I had about a week ago couldn't have been better if I scripted it myself. I jotted everything the program director described on my loose-leaf paper, including details about project-based learning and the wide array of elective options. When we talked it over at home, it seemed like a perfect fit for my 9th grader. The list for benefits continued to lengthen, too, as we added smaller classes, "more staffing than they need," college credit for duel enrollment courses, less paperwork and more individualized instruction to our list of pros. I could go on, but the only conclusion we could draw was that this is a pretty cool opportunity in our very own public school system. 

We took a tour today because the next thing we needed was to get the overall "vibe" of the school. The common area is pretty nice. The professional grade equipment in every CTE class is impressive. The environment has this calm, chill feel that can't be beat when you're about to start a day of learning. Darn it, we forgot to check out the bathrooms. So now what? 

The director has since emailed a follow-up to ask if we had any more questions and a "we'd love to have him at our school" comment too. He'd be the seventh of 10 slots they've opened up for his rising 10th grade class.

"Give me a minute," he's asked. I'm proud of him for acknowledging that this is the biggest decision he has had to make in his 15 years of life. We can respect that because he's not wrong.

Now we wait a minute. But wow, wait time is hard when you think you already know the answer.

It Beats Rush Hour

There are times when my commute to or from work feels like a magical moment of my day. I walk to the end of my cul-de-sac to find a short, wooded path that curves round an old stone wall. Often, I step along that wall as a kind of short cut rather than descend the hill--it makes me feel young to walk the ledge. Even with my shoulder bag, I can grab onto the adjacent chain link fence to keep myself from falling. It's on this nature walk each morning or afternoon that I catch a glimpse of the morning sky or drench my shoes in the dewy grass (the main reason I wear galoshes). I've collected fallen leaves the size of elephant ears and greeted the first sign of daffodils. Today, I thought my snowy steps would crunch up and down, up and down, adding several minutes to my journey as a winter storm has been known to do. Instead, I found a surface as smooth as any ice rink. No blades were necessary, but the flat soles of my boots allowed me to glide one step at a time in both directions. I may as well have laced my skates up and taken long, confident strides the whole way across.

One Minute Before Bedtime

After sledding trips to two different hills, snow angels on the trampoline, backyard wrestling and snowball fight with the dog, and an elaborate snow dance on the front yard for a lengthy FaceTime session with his Miami cousin (yes, on the beach), we were sure bedtime would be a simple affair. Who has energy after 8 o'clock on a day like today? But the motor on this kid runs until the very end. Story time ran long--not unusual due to many comments about The Magic School Bus and their trip through Arnold's digestive and circulatory systems. I finally left him snuggled in his bed and slipped downstairs to take care of my own business. A few emails, switched laundry, and a How was your day, really-conversation later, then I headed upstairs. Peeling down my blankets for my own peaceful slumber...surprise! A head full of sweaty, golden ringlets made me gasp out loud. Thankfully, he snored on. But I could imagine him sneaking between the covers, listening to our every move downstairs, smiling devilishly while he awaited his moment to pounce. Now, even from sound sleep, he manages to mix things up until the last second of the day. Good night, spunky one. Thanks for keeping us on our toes.

The Kids Are Alright

We live in such uncertain times that we can't even trust our own microwaves. This news from KellyAnne Conway is only further proof our government-issued iPads are the clearest cut example of surveillance that ever was. Teachers, administrators, and parents alike have long grown leery of easy as pie access to online cameras, Google records, location tracking. What information can't the iPads provide about their users? The days of personal freedoms are over. The hearts and minds of our America's youth are officially owned by the state. Sniff.

Dry your tears because the next generation has built up the perfect defense. Kids decided they don't give a $&@# about their iPads and it's $@&ing brilliant. Forgive me for misreading what I thought were the symptoms of entitled children who had little reason to think on their own because somebody would surely send them a "Remind" on their way into class. Turns out they were launching a brilliant campaign against the man all along. 

"What? Teachers expect to move the curriculum along by posting assignments on Google Classroom? Ha, they don't own us," scoffs an 8th grader who just turned his notifications off. 

"She wants me to review terms on Quizlet? Right--like I'm going to trust her definitions over mine. How ironic is that?" asks the kid as she runs her finger over a cracked screen.

Middle schoolers are fed up with being stalked by so many learning opportunities. One straight-A student reports, "I mean, they're everywhere. I can't go to bed without my teacher reminding me that reading will improve my Lexile score. Guess what I can do without an alarm going off in my backpack? I can get into bed. And read. Like I've been doing since I was six."

What's their latest resistance tactic? 

"My battery's dead."

"We had homework?

"I forgot to charge it last night."

"You posted it where?"

"My software won't update." 

"Will you tell me what my missing assignments are?"

"All thirty cords that were purchased in January for checkout in the library are missing."

Smirk. Big Brother's got nothing on them.

Print Edition

We cancelled the newspaper about a year ago. It had been stacking up on the table week after week, and frankly, some of the writers were getting on our nerves. Oh yeah, the pre-election coverage was starting to look more like reality television than news. No ideas as to how long that was going to last. We took a hiatus from the madness, pushing our subscription aside for a temporary experiment.

Since then, we've kept up enough through online news, but our list of irritations about current events via social media was growing larger than the stack of papers we stored on the kitchen table. I reconnected with the Washington Post last week, and this was our reunion weekend. You'd think the paper was an all-day buffet and we were starved; we gravitated to the table before during and after meals to sift through sections to snack and dig in for heartier fare. We didn't keep it to ourselves either--news is meant to be shared, so we read passages aloud when words and ideas were remarkable.

Ironically, there wasn't much good news this weekend. Perhaps there won't be much good news for a while. But it was the sharing and reading, the freedom we felt to open up to any old page we wanted. To read the words of women and men whose sole purpose is to spread the word. That in and of itself feels like good news enough for the time being.

Our Hour

Isn't this weekend just a race to accomplish as much as is usually possible with one fewer hour to work with? It makes total sense in theory, but I wilted in the face of competition this time around. I put my toes on the starting line, but by the time I broke into a sprint, I made a split second decision to hang out on the couch instead. And here it is nearly 11, which is actually 12, and I only have one and a half loads of laundry done, the bags I set out for Goodwill are not full yet, and I almost forgot to slice before midnight. To that, I say whatever. Because the rest of the family joined me in my lounging, all five and the pup, leaning back with our feet up. There've been times I've said, "I want that hour back." This was not one of those times.