It slips into your life quickly and quietly, that one moment that shines, that one moment you are glad you didn't miss.
A couple of weeks ago, several of the girls who come into my classroom to eat lunch and TALK were sharing upcoming birthdays. As the chatter went on and on, one of them asked me when it would be my birthday, and I told her June 1.
"Oh, my god!" she screamed. "My birthday is June 6th! Isn't that too cool?"
Way cool, I thought, but publicly agreed with her that it was, indeed, my good fortune to share her birth month. Later, she told the entire class about our fortuitous birthday bond, and another girl added that her birthday was May 29. Again with the "oh, my god" response, and more general commentary on our coinciding bono natales. It is amazing how much conversation occurs about what seems, on the surface, to be ... nothing much.
The next day, she again mentioned our shared birthdays and we turned the talk to celebrations. As the conversation progressed, I mentioned about going to The Cheesecake Factory to celebrate my birthday, splurging on a piece of Raspberry Lemon Cheesecake, one of the greatest tastes in the world, to mark my auspicious last birthday as a teacher, as pointed out to me by the girls.
I'm not sure why all these esoteric connections have to be made, but I've learned that with kids, you don't mess with karma because what goes around comes around--and I don't want to get hit in the back of the head for failure to yield.
I decided to invite the students in the two girls' classes to join us at The Cheesecake Factory on May 30 to celebrate everyone's birthday. It was my intent to purchase a piece of cheesecake for each student who joined the original celebrants, but as is so often the case, a better offer came along and today, the celebration day, there were 3 students with me as I headed to the restaurant.
Because I no longer would be paying for 25 pieces of cheesecake, we all enjoyed a hamburger and fries, the girls too excited to actually eat, so most of the meal went into take-home boxes. They had already window-shopped at the cheesecake counter, so after another in-depth exploration of the menu options, we all ordered cheesecake.
It came with a crew and a candle, and after the group rendition of the birthday song, we blew out the candles, forked off a bite from each of the 4 cheesecakes to share, and then sat back to savor the best cheesecake in the world.
The girl who ordered the Godiva chocolate cheesecake gave up half-way through, proclaiming it not only delicious, but so rich she simply could not put another bite into her mouth. The oreo cheesecake gal made a valiant effort, but she, too, conceded defeat about half-way through. The plain cheesecake was, well, a piece of cake for the eater and disappeared while the other two were fumbling with the to-go boxes.
My cheesecake? Are you kidding me? It has been 8 MONTHS since I've had sugar! Of course I ate every single bite and scraped the plate.
The girls continued to chatter incessantly as I drove them and the carry-out boxes home. It was quiet when I was alone in the car, but I had to drive 50 miles up the hill to hand in grades before 6 pm, and I knew it was going to be close.
Thank god for the sugar surge as I kept the pedal to the metal and actually made it exactly to the minute. During the drive back home, my head began to get that old headachy feeling that means I'm going to crash from the sugar and, perhaps, regret the cheesecake, but I doubt it.
It was one moment, a perfect moment, and I am glad I was there to enjoy it.
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Circumstance and Pomp
Certain times in our lives are precious and others we desperately wish to relive to see if we can do it differently and, perhaps, better. My youth was not idyllic, my 20s were turbulent, my 30s were depressive, my 40s were filled with change, my 50s were recovery, and my 60s are a challenge.
It’s easy to talk about a dysfunctional family, but we all know that back then, back in our youth, it pretty much always seems dysfunctional because there’s a disconnect between the people we are and the people we wish we were. From the perspective of age/wisdom, I know intellectually that my parents did the best they could, but they came from abusive family life, so dysfunctional seemed like a step up. I continued the cycle of dysfunction because that was my role model, but I didn’t know it until too much time had passed to take any of it back.
When I finally stopped the train wreck that was my marriage, I left myself alone with 2 children who both needed more than I could give them, at least financially and, perhaps, emotionally. Instead of spending more quality time with them, I became a producer of income so they could make it another step up from my parenting when it was time for them to take that next step. I found ways to get both of them through college, and I’ve done my best to help them as I could since that time, but I know there are many areas where I simply could have done it differently.
A decade ago, right after turning 50, I had to flounder my way through the worst time of my life, a time of crisis managed by someone I called “friend,” but whose only goal was her own agenda. She could not achieve it with me, so she took me out. I inadvertently helped her to achieve her goal because she knew my weakness, self-doubt, and she exploited it and manipulated the situation around me until I literally went crazy: a significant cognitive break from reality from which I doubted I would ever recover.
But I did, and life went on.
I’ve consciously changed many of the people, places, and events in my life, adopting a new attitude about who I am and what I need to be myself. I have slowed down my reliance on other people’s opinion of me and focused on what I need to be that person about whom I can feel proud. It’s a work in progress, but whose life isn’t?
Saturday, I finished something for myself that has been lurking in the recesses for 4 decades: a master’s degree. I’ve always been a hard worker, but it’s very hard for me to do for myself when I feel that I should be doing for others. I wanted to have the master’s degree that never found its time slot between an ill-conceived marriage, raising 2 children through college, working 3 and 4 jobs at a time, and constantly trying to prove that I am better than my dysfunctional family. I found a way to accomplish that goal and completed the degree last December, but it's only conferred once a year, and I decided to attend the ceremony.
I thought it was simply tying up the loose ends, but when I walked into the gym and saw the crowd standing, tears began to flow. I felt unworthy—again. I felt that those people would never stand to honor me if they knew that I had completed my degree on-line. Yes, I know that I earned it, but I’ve heard so many casual condemnations of getting it “the easy way” that it had begun to affect my pride in my accomplishment. I almost cancelled the trip to the graduation because I felt like a fraud.
It was a relief to hear all graduate students praised equally: those who sat between the bricks and mortar and those of us who punched a keyboard. It was a relief to feel that my accomplishment was validated, not condemned as unworthy. It was a relief to have the proof in my hand as I exited the building. It was a relief to know that my perspective was accurate, that I had worked hard for what I achieved, and that I had as much right to walk across that stage as anyone else in the building.
Somewhere, deep inside of me, I kept feeling that it was not real, that I would not be given the diploma. Because my life has been a series of “gotchas,” I kept thinking that this, too, would be taken away by someone, somewhere, who needed to hurt me to make him/herself feel better.
But it’s mine, and I’m proud of what I accomplished. I’ve closed that window and am moving on to others that need to be closed before I tackle the next phase of my life: myself.
It’s not going to be hard or easy ahead of me, but it’s just going to be what it is. I’m accepting of the need just to take it as it comes, and rather than forcing my life to work, to allow it to be. I have a feeling of not being finished, of needing to do something, but I can’t for the life of me figure out what that “something” is—yet. When I know, I’ll know, and it’ll be done.
Meanwhile, I had a nice surprise waiting for my return to my classroom, a plaque commemorating my selection as one of the Top Ten Educators—an award for teachers, selected by teachers. I wish I had been here to accept it in person, but I was busy participating in graduation.
After I finish cleaning out my office and ridding myself of boxes of teaching materials and detritus, my plaque will proudly go on the wall next to my new diploma.
It’s easy to talk about a dysfunctional family, but we all know that back then, back in our youth, it pretty much always seems dysfunctional because there’s a disconnect between the people we are and the people we wish we were. From the perspective of age/wisdom, I know intellectually that my parents did the best they could, but they came from abusive family life, so dysfunctional seemed like a step up. I continued the cycle of dysfunction because that was my role model, but I didn’t know it until too much time had passed to take any of it back.
When I finally stopped the train wreck that was my marriage, I left myself alone with 2 children who both needed more than I could give them, at least financially and, perhaps, emotionally. Instead of spending more quality time with them, I became a producer of income so they could make it another step up from my parenting when it was time for them to take that next step. I found ways to get both of them through college, and I’ve done my best to help them as I could since that time, but I know there are many areas where I simply could have done it differently.
A decade ago, right after turning 50, I had to flounder my way through the worst time of my life, a time of crisis managed by someone I called “friend,” but whose only goal was her own agenda. She could not achieve it with me, so she took me out. I inadvertently helped her to achieve her goal because she knew my weakness, self-doubt, and she exploited it and manipulated the situation around me until I literally went crazy: a significant cognitive break from reality from which I doubted I would ever recover.
But I did, and life went on.
I’ve consciously changed many of the people, places, and events in my life, adopting a new attitude about who I am and what I need to be myself. I have slowed down my reliance on other people’s opinion of me and focused on what I need to be that person about whom I can feel proud. It’s a work in progress, but whose life isn’t?
Saturday, I finished something for myself that has been lurking in the recesses for 4 decades: a master’s degree. I’ve always been a hard worker, but it’s very hard for me to do for myself when I feel that I should be doing for others. I wanted to have the master’s degree that never found its time slot between an ill-conceived marriage, raising 2 children through college, working 3 and 4 jobs at a time, and constantly trying to prove that I am better than my dysfunctional family. I found a way to accomplish that goal and completed the degree last December, but it's only conferred once a year, and I decided to attend the ceremony.
I thought it was simply tying up the loose ends, but when I walked into the gym and saw the crowd standing, tears began to flow. I felt unworthy—again. I felt that those people would never stand to honor me if they knew that I had completed my degree on-line. Yes, I know that I earned it, but I’ve heard so many casual condemnations of getting it “the easy way” that it had begun to affect my pride in my accomplishment. I almost cancelled the trip to the graduation because I felt like a fraud.
It was a relief to hear all graduate students praised equally: those who sat between the bricks and mortar and those of us who punched a keyboard. It was a relief to feel that my accomplishment was validated, not condemned as unworthy. It was a relief to have the proof in my hand as I exited the building. It was a relief to know that my perspective was accurate, that I had worked hard for what I achieved, and that I had as much right to walk across that stage as anyone else in the building.
Somewhere, deep inside of me, I kept feeling that it was not real, that I would not be given the diploma. Because my life has been a series of “gotchas,” I kept thinking that this, too, would be taken away by someone, somewhere, who needed to hurt me to make him/herself feel better.
But it’s mine, and I’m proud of what I accomplished. I’ve closed that window and am moving on to others that need to be closed before I tackle the next phase of my life: myself.
It’s not going to be hard or easy ahead of me, but it’s just going to be what it is. I’m accepting of the need just to take it as it comes, and rather than forcing my life to work, to allow it to be. I have a feeling of not being finished, of needing to do something, but I can’t for the life of me figure out what that “something” is—yet. When I know, I’ll know, and it’ll be done.
Meanwhile, I had a nice surprise waiting for my return to my classroom, a plaque commemorating my selection as one of the Top Ten Educators—an award for teachers, selected by teachers. I wish I had been here to accept it in person, but I was busy participating in graduation.
After I finish cleaning out my office and ridding myself of boxes of teaching materials and detritus, my plaque will proudly go on the wall next to my new diploma.
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
Hard Luck Story?
The Bachelor is gorgeous, so why on Earth does one of the world's most beautiful people have to go begging on national TV to find a wife?
Doctor; navy guy; handsome; great family--loser at love?
Anyway, the only part of the 10-week series I saw was last night (I sorta watch TV while I'm grading papers) and it was obvious that he and the blonde (Bevin) had no chemistry at all. Maybe they had sex, but that's just biology, not chemistry. Everything was about her when they were together, and she summed up not being chosen as she rode off in the limo: this always happens to me!
Wah, wah, wah. Probably guys can see through the thin "great gal" veneer to the self-centered potential bitch lurking beneath the tanned surface.
But the dark-haired gal (Tessa) brought out his free spirit: his body relaxed, he smiled the most glorious, natural smile, he couldn't keep his hands off her--and she reciprocated. They just felt right, somehow. And when she gave him the collage of their time together, he jumped her and said a half dozen times: I love you, I freaking love you! It sorta gave away the ending ahead of the actual rose ceremony.
Anyhoo, he proposed; she accepted; life goes on.
Doctor; navy guy; handsome; great family--loser at love?
Anyway, the only part of the 10-week series I saw was last night (I sorta watch TV while I'm grading papers) and it was obvious that he and the blonde (Bevin) had no chemistry at all. Maybe they had sex, but that's just biology, not chemistry. Everything was about her when they were together, and she summed up not being chosen as she rode off in the limo: this always happens to me!
Wah, wah, wah. Probably guys can see through the thin "great gal" veneer to the self-centered potential bitch lurking beneath the tanned surface.
But the dark-haired gal (Tessa) brought out his free spirit: his body relaxed, he smiled the most glorious, natural smile, he couldn't keep his hands off her--and she reciprocated. They just felt right, somehow. And when she gave him the collage of their time together, he jumped her and said a half dozen times: I love you, I freaking love you! It sorta gave away the ending ahead of the actual rose ceremony.
Anyhoo, he proposed; she accepted; life goes on.
Counting My Votes
Last night's Dancing with the Stars was incredible: who can believe that 'stars' can perform the way they do?
Lalia is not my favorite competitor, and she lived up to my expectations last night: when faced with doing a different dance, she fell flat, and this time the judges agreed. However, Joey "Fat One," as his partner called him before she knew his name is "Fatone," and Apolo Ono were spectacular.
Interestingly enough, the one judge ripped Joey for "performing," rather than dancing, but his "performance" was excellent in both turns on the dance floor. Ditto Apolo Ono: there is no "can you top this" to his freestyle!
Who's going to win? Who knows. But I did use my 5 votes on 2 different phones so I could vote a total of 10 times, 5 for Joey Fatone and 5 for Apolo Ono. Yeah, zero votes for Ali's daughter as I'm convinced that's her only claim to being one of the Final Three.
I'm up for tonight, and I think Ono's going to take it if he performs anywhere near to what he and his partner did last night in tonight's final competition. But I also thought that Mario was last year's winner, so don't put any $$ on my prognostication.
Lalia is not my favorite competitor, and she lived up to my expectations last night: when faced with doing a different dance, she fell flat, and this time the judges agreed. However, Joey "Fat One," as his partner called him before she knew his name is "Fatone," and Apolo Ono were spectacular.
Interestingly enough, the one judge ripped Joey for "performing," rather than dancing, but his "performance" was excellent in both turns on the dance floor. Ditto Apolo Ono: there is no "can you top this" to his freestyle!
Who's going to win? Who knows. But I did use my 5 votes on 2 different phones so I could vote a total of 10 times, 5 for Joey Fatone and 5 for Apolo Ono. Yeah, zero votes for Ali's daughter as I'm convinced that's her only claim to being one of the Final Three.
I'm up for tonight, and I think Ono's going to take it if he performs anywhere near to what he and his partner did last night in tonight's final competition. But I also thought that Mario was last year's winner, so don't put any $$ on my prognostication.
Sunday, May 20, 2007
Party Time
Let's start with a confession: it was not a nice thing to do, but it felt good.
The family next door is having another one of their on-going family parties. Lots of people; lots of kids; small front yard.
It's inevitable that the kids come into my front yard, which I've put up with now for about 3 years. However, now the fun is escalating, so they stand on my bench and jump off: can you say "head wound"? And they play hide & seek at the side of my house, hiding behind my truck! And then they stand on the big rock and jump off: broken arm/leg in the offing. And they ride their bikes into my driveway and back into the street without bothering to look for oncoming traffic.
They are having fun at my expense, and I don't want to be on the receiving end of a lawsuit when one of them is injured or killed while on my property.
I've asked nicely, but it does no good because there is no boundary between our properties, just their grass growing into my grass, and only 3 of my hedge bushes left to mark the dividing line. When someone broke into their home, I came home one day and found my previous hedge ripped out: the neighbors diagonally across the street are related, and they are going to keep an eye on the house next-door, but couldn't see through my hedge. I'm sure from their standpoint it was logical, but from my point of view, it was illegal!
However, I figure it's wise to choose my battles, and that wasn't one I wanted to wage.
I planted the current hedge, 7 plants in all, to replace what the neighbor tore out, but I only have 3 left. They were all thriving, but I suspect "someone" cut off the water to them and, perhaps, did something else to make sure they would die. I did figure out about the sprinkler head in my system that they turned to water their grass at my expense, but it was too late to save my plants and/or the surrounding grass.
Today, I just went into the garage and turned on the watering system. The kids started screaming and ran off toward their own property, which was my goal. They'll dry off as they run around in the nice, fresh air--in their own yard, and my lawn can always use a good watering.
The family next door is having another one of their on-going family parties. Lots of people; lots of kids; small front yard.
It's inevitable that the kids come into my front yard, which I've put up with now for about 3 years. However, now the fun is escalating, so they stand on my bench and jump off: can you say "head wound"? And they play hide & seek at the side of my house, hiding behind my truck! And then they stand on the big rock and jump off: broken arm/leg in the offing. And they ride their bikes into my driveway and back into the street without bothering to look for oncoming traffic.
They are having fun at my expense, and I don't want to be on the receiving end of a lawsuit when one of them is injured or killed while on my property.
I've asked nicely, but it does no good because there is no boundary between our properties, just their grass growing into my grass, and only 3 of my hedge bushes left to mark the dividing line. When someone broke into their home, I came home one day and found my previous hedge ripped out: the neighbors diagonally across the street are related, and they are going to keep an eye on the house next-door, but couldn't see through my hedge. I'm sure from their standpoint it was logical, but from my point of view, it was illegal!
However, I figure it's wise to choose my battles, and that wasn't one I wanted to wage.
I planted the current hedge, 7 plants in all, to replace what the neighbor tore out, but I only have 3 left. They were all thriving, but I suspect "someone" cut off the water to them and, perhaps, did something else to make sure they would die. I did figure out about the sprinkler head in my system that they turned to water their grass at my expense, but it was too late to save my plants and/or the surrounding grass.
Today, I just went into the garage and turned on the watering system. The kids started screaming and ran off toward their own property, which was my goal. They'll dry off as they run around in the nice, fresh air--in their own yard, and my lawn can always use a good watering.
Are You Kidding Me?
When my son and I got together to celebrate his birthday the end of April, we found ourselves wandering through various electronics' stores--and wandered right into some great bargains, including the HP laser printer I've been threatening to buy for about a year.
Brought it--and a spare ink cartridge--home and waited for the old HP to die, which it did today. No problem: just hook up the new printer and finish the job.
Ha.
Following the directions, I inserted the CD and began the installation process, right up to the point where I was warned NOT to attach the power cord or the USB printer cable until prompted to do so by the installation program. I emptied the packing box, tore open the packaging, searched the floor because I couldn't find the USB printer cable.
I read the box and couldn't find anything in the multiple languages about the USB printer cable, so I began rereading and finally found it: USB printer cable required (not included).
Are you kidding me? It's not in GREAT BIG LETTERS to buy a darned USB printer cable BEFORE leaving the store and, more importantly, before beginning installation?
I stopped the CD, got dressed, and drove off to find ... there are no computer stores in my community, and the local K-Mart does not stock that item. I'm not in the mood to drive 25 miles round-trip to find an open store that stocks the USB printer cable, so I'll go on a search tomorrow after work.
Meanwhile, I have tomorrow's test on a flash drive and hope that there is a working copy machine somewhere on campus so I can run the test prior to first period. Worst case scenario? I'll print out 40 copies on my classroom printer and hand staple them: waste of paper and my time, but oh, well, what's new?
Once my home printer is installed, I'm sending the letter I've already composed to HP!
Brought it--and a spare ink cartridge--home and waited for the old HP to die, which it did today. No problem: just hook up the new printer and finish the job.
Ha.
Following the directions, I inserted the CD and began the installation process, right up to the point where I was warned NOT to attach the power cord or the USB printer cable until prompted to do so by the installation program. I emptied the packing box, tore open the packaging, searched the floor because I couldn't find the USB printer cable.
I read the box and couldn't find anything in the multiple languages about the USB printer cable, so I began rereading and finally found it: USB printer cable required (not included).
Are you kidding me? It's not in GREAT BIG LETTERS to buy a darned USB printer cable BEFORE leaving the store and, more importantly, before beginning installation?
I stopped the CD, got dressed, and drove off to find ... there are no computer stores in my community, and the local K-Mart does not stock that item. I'm not in the mood to drive 25 miles round-trip to find an open store that stocks the USB printer cable, so I'll go on a search tomorrow after work.
Meanwhile, I have tomorrow's test on a flash drive and hope that there is a working copy machine somewhere on campus so I can run the test prior to first period. Worst case scenario? I'll print out 40 copies on my classroom printer and hand staple them: waste of paper and my time, but oh, well, what's new?
Once my home printer is installed, I'm sending the letter I've already composed to HP!
Friday, May 18, 2007
T-E-A-C-H-E-R
Today was a busy day, one of those days when once you get going, you can’t stop or you would collapse in a heap and be unable to drive yourself home.
One hundred forty-six students times 5 assignments is a whole lot of paperwork for one person to handle in one day—while those 146 students are in the classroom generating some of the 730 pieces of paper that then have to be read, graded, and recorded.
I walked out the door with 3 sets of short answer responses, all that remains of the deluge of paperwork. Really.
Page 1072 was due; pages 1073-74 were due; there was a quiz on the week’s lesson; anyone who has missed a quiz had to do make-up work by the end of the day; and everyone was treated to a “surprise” in-class short answer essay response based on a key quote from the story of the week.
And, yeah, I actually read and respond to every piece of paper handed in by a student: that’s what they pay me the big bucks for doing, isn’t it?
The quizzes are a cinch: alphabetize the answer sheets and staple them to prevent losing a paper; make sure everyone uses the same size paper as the key; set the key to the left, put 2-3 quizzes to the right of the key—and put the master class alpha list to the far right of the quizzes. Mark incorrect answers; total up the number correct and write it on the paper, then record it onto a master alpha list. Don’t worry about inputting the scores to the computer database until you have all of the work for that class recorded onto the master alpha list: why do the task more than once?
Homework is trickier: still involves alpha order and a staple, but … spot check 1/2 of the questions, marking through each one as you finish so if someone interrupts, you don’t have to start over. Always use scores by 5 so you can add/subtract quickly. Put the total points at the top of the page, record it onto the master list, and keep on moving on. Don’t stop until the class set is finished as you’ll shove it to the side of the desk and never get back to it! Remember: don’t input the data to the grading program until all the work for that class is on the master list.
Move onto the pile of make-up quizzes, sorting them by quiz #1, #2, #3, #4: the full unit’s worth of quizzes. Grade all #1 quizzes, alphabetizing as you total and write the number on the quiz,, staple that pile together, then do all the #2, all the #3, and all the #4 quizzes the same way. Once they are graded and stapled in alpha order, open the computer program and put the scores directly into the on-line roster. While you’re at it, input all the other scores off the master list for that class. Piece-a-cake.
Alpha the short answer response and mark the master list with a 1 to show that you’ve received it, then fasten firmly, put into a bag and take these home: it’s been a long day and your brain is fried, so give it up while you still have your sanity.
There are many skills I wish I had, but the one skill I possess that sets me apart from the crowd is task analysis: I can look at the problem/task and figure how to do it quickly, efficiently, and effectively. What I haven’t figured out in almost 30 years is how to leave my job at school.
Good news? I only have 3 weekends of doing schoolwork at home left!
One hundred forty-six students times 5 assignments is a whole lot of paperwork for one person to handle in one day—while those 146 students are in the classroom generating some of the 730 pieces of paper that then have to be read, graded, and recorded.
I walked out the door with 3 sets of short answer responses, all that remains of the deluge of paperwork. Really.
Page 1072 was due; pages 1073-74 were due; there was a quiz on the week’s lesson; anyone who has missed a quiz had to do make-up work by the end of the day; and everyone was treated to a “surprise” in-class short answer essay response based on a key quote from the story of the week.
And, yeah, I actually read and respond to every piece of paper handed in by a student: that’s what they pay me the big bucks for doing, isn’t it?
The quizzes are a cinch: alphabetize the answer sheets and staple them to prevent losing a paper; make sure everyone uses the same size paper as the key; set the key to the left, put 2-3 quizzes to the right of the key—and put the master class alpha list to the far right of the quizzes. Mark incorrect answers; total up the number correct and write it on the paper, then record it onto a master alpha list. Don’t worry about inputting the scores to the computer database until you have all of the work for that class recorded onto the master alpha list: why do the task more than once?
Homework is trickier: still involves alpha order and a staple, but … spot check 1/2 of the questions, marking through each one as you finish so if someone interrupts, you don’t have to start over. Always use scores by 5 so you can add/subtract quickly. Put the total points at the top of the page, record it onto the master list, and keep on moving on. Don’t stop until the class set is finished as you’ll shove it to the side of the desk and never get back to it! Remember: don’t input the data to the grading program until all the work for that class is on the master list.
Move onto the pile of make-up quizzes, sorting them by quiz #1, #2, #3, #4: the full unit’s worth of quizzes. Grade all #1 quizzes, alphabetizing as you total and write the number on the quiz,, staple that pile together, then do all the #2, all the #3, and all the #4 quizzes the same way. Once they are graded and stapled in alpha order, open the computer program and put the scores directly into the on-line roster. While you’re at it, input all the other scores off the master list for that class. Piece-a-cake.
Alpha the short answer response and mark the master list with a 1 to show that you’ve received it, then fasten firmly, put into a bag and take these home: it’s been a long day and your brain is fried, so give it up while you still have your sanity.
There are many skills I wish I had, but the one skill I possess that sets me apart from the crowd is task analysis: I can look at the problem/task and figure how to do it quickly, efficiently, and effectively. What I haven’t figured out in almost 30 years is how to leave my job at school.
Good news? I only have 3 weekends of doing schoolwork at home left!
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
Which Part of the Problem Don't You Get?
My pet peeve is what I have termed The Broken Teacher syndrome: regardless of the issue in education, it’s the teacher’s fault. Perhaps I would have considered a couple of more years standing at the podium had it not been shoved down my throat how totally incompetent I am in the performance of my job: just ask a parent; just ask a kid; just as an administrator; just ask the public.
Test scores, of course, determine my job performance, and low test scores indicate poor job performance. A beautiful bar graph of the “score spread” for the classes I teach confirms just how poorly I am doing my job: there are more F’s than A’s, and that, my friends, spells Broken Teacher.
Today, another collaborative day, means that teachers meet (3 times a month), so the students come in an hour later, we shorten the classes, and the loss of instructional time doesn’t seem to faze anyone except me. I think it sends a negative message to students when almost weekly throughout the school year, there is a shortened day for one reason or another: Pep assemblies, collab meetings, minimum days for in-service, non-student contact days for more in-service, we hardly need a reason to shorten the school day.
But, by god, keep on pace with that pacing guide because if I religiously adhere to the pacing guide, I am not only a “good teacher,” but the kids will meet both my high expectations (rigor, relevance, and relationships are our 3 buzz words this year) and raise the scores on standardized testing.
What? You followed the pacing guide and the students not only failed your class but their scores on standardized testing went down????? It’s obvious you are A BROKEN TEACHER.
Today, at the collab meeting, teachers were directed to forget trying to change the students: we have to fix our instructional techniques to fix the problems in our classrooms. Let’s see, that includes adding more tech (I have one, count it, one computer in my classroom that is 8 years old, an overhead projector that is at least a dozen years old, an equally aged TV set, and both a VCR and a DVD player that I purchased out of pocket) and adding more projects to the curriculum.
Sure, that works: a project, instead of say, an essay. Printing some graphics and gluing copy off the internet onto poster board, and then scribbling a border with crayons to add interest? That oughta be worth what? 100 points? Believe me, if I give the kid something to read and then test him/her on it, there ain’t no way the result is going to come anywhere near 100 points! But a project? Yeah, that’ll plump up those failing grades and make my end-of-year stats look a whole lot better.
No way! We ARE not going to talk about tardies or truancies, nor the failure of students to bring books to class, or come with paper/pencils/pen, nor the inability of any except the most dedicated student to complete homework assignments. Remember: students are only on the clock between 8 am and 3 pm, unless it’s a shortened collab day, and then it’s only from 9 am until 3 pm, unless it’s a pep assembly, and then it’s from 8 am until 2:20 pm, unless it’s a minimum day, and then it’s from 8 am until 12:15 pm, unless it’s a non-student-contact day, and then we get another in-service in how to improve student performance by improving our ability to deliver relevant, rigorous curriculum because ALL of our students are going to college!
Today was the day to hand in the enrichment project (yep, a project, which I’ve been assured students will complete, find interesting and enjoyable, and learn from doing) which was assigned one month ago, on April 16. The students had a choice of 6 different enrichment projects, ranging from writing a letter of recommendation to making a video tape (remember: our buzz word is "relevant"). Throughout the month, I’ve reminded the students about the coming due date, and last week, went over the choices several times.
A total of 105 students were offered the opportunity to add “enrichment credit” to their dismally low grades with 19 days left of the semester—not much time to leap from the 30% range into the 60% range and actually pass the class. Of the 105 potential projects, I received 6, and that includes the artist who has been painting the knight coming out of the castle, 2 letters of recommendation, a really crappy poster, and 2 superhero write-ups, one of which was downloaded from the internet and the other handwritten in pencil and filled with errors.
That’s all, folks. In my world, that means that 99/105 students just don’t give a damn. The kids don’t care if they fail a class: they’ll make it up in summer school, getting 18 weeks’ worth of credit for spending 3 weeks during the summer doing worksheets and more projects! It doesn’t matter what instructional strategies I use in the classroom because they are in charge of their success—and their failure—not I.
I am not broken, but I am frustrated, discouraged, and angry. I cannot fight a system that not only empowers kids to fail, but assures it by refusing to maintain high expectations for them regarding attendance, discipline, participation, and accountability—and reinforcing the message that “we don’t need no education” by cutting precious instructional minutes from day after day after day.
Until we are willing to look at the kids, as well as the Broken Teacher, the system is going to continue its amazingly rapid downhill slide into total chaos. I won’t be there: 18 days and counting.
Test scores, of course, determine my job performance, and low test scores indicate poor job performance. A beautiful bar graph of the “score spread” for the classes I teach confirms just how poorly I am doing my job: there are more F’s than A’s, and that, my friends, spells Broken Teacher.
Today, another collaborative day, means that teachers meet (3 times a month), so the students come in an hour later, we shorten the classes, and the loss of instructional time doesn’t seem to faze anyone except me. I think it sends a negative message to students when almost weekly throughout the school year, there is a shortened day for one reason or another: Pep assemblies, collab meetings, minimum days for in-service, non-student contact days for more in-service, we hardly need a reason to shorten the school day.
But, by god, keep on pace with that pacing guide because if I religiously adhere to the pacing guide, I am not only a “good teacher,” but the kids will meet both my high expectations (rigor, relevance, and relationships are our 3 buzz words this year) and raise the scores on standardized testing.
What? You followed the pacing guide and the students not only failed your class but their scores on standardized testing went down????? It’s obvious you are A BROKEN TEACHER.
Today, at the collab meeting, teachers were directed to forget trying to change the students: we have to fix our instructional techniques to fix the problems in our classrooms. Let’s see, that includes adding more tech (I have one, count it, one computer in my classroom that is 8 years old, an overhead projector that is at least a dozen years old, an equally aged TV set, and both a VCR and a DVD player that I purchased out of pocket) and adding more projects to the curriculum.
Sure, that works: a project, instead of say, an essay. Printing some graphics and gluing copy off the internet onto poster board, and then scribbling a border with crayons to add interest? That oughta be worth what? 100 points? Believe me, if I give the kid something to read and then test him/her on it, there ain’t no way the result is going to come anywhere near 100 points! But a project? Yeah, that’ll plump up those failing grades and make my end-of-year stats look a whole lot better.
No way! We ARE not going to talk about tardies or truancies, nor the failure of students to bring books to class, or come with paper/pencils/pen, nor the inability of any except the most dedicated student to complete homework assignments. Remember: students are only on the clock between 8 am and 3 pm, unless it’s a shortened collab day, and then it’s only from 9 am until 3 pm, unless it’s a pep assembly, and then it’s from 8 am until 2:20 pm, unless it’s a minimum day, and then it’s from 8 am until 12:15 pm, unless it’s a non-student-contact day, and then we get another in-service in how to improve student performance by improving our ability to deliver relevant, rigorous curriculum because ALL of our students are going to college!
Today was the day to hand in the enrichment project (yep, a project, which I’ve been assured students will complete, find interesting and enjoyable, and learn from doing) which was assigned one month ago, on April 16. The students had a choice of 6 different enrichment projects, ranging from writing a letter of recommendation to making a video tape (remember: our buzz word is "relevant"). Throughout the month, I’ve reminded the students about the coming due date, and last week, went over the choices several times.
A total of 105 students were offered the opportunity to add “enrichment credit” to their dismally low grades with 19 days left of the semester—not much time to leap from the 30% range into the 60% range and actually pass the class. Of the 105 potential projects, I received 6, and that includes the artist who has been painting the knight coming out of the castle, 2 letters of recommendation, a really crappy poster, and 2 superhero write-ups, one of which was downloaded from the internet and the other handwritten in pencil and filled with errors.
That’s all, folks. In my world, that means that 99/105 students just don’t give a damn. The kids don’t care if they fail a class: they’ll make it up in summer school, getting 18 weeks’ worth of credit for spending 3 weeks during the summer doing worksheets and more projects! It doesn’t matter what instructional strategies I use in the classroom because they are in charge of their success—and their failure—not I.
I am not broken, but I am frustrated, discouraged, and angry. I cannot fight a system that not only empowers kids to fail, but assures it by refusing to maintain high expectations for them regarding attendance, discipline, participation, and accountability—and reinforcing the message that “we don’t need no education” by cutting precious instructional minutes from day after day after day.
Until we are willing to look at the kids, as well as the Broken Teacher, the system is going to continue its amazingly rapid downhill slide into total chaos. I won’t be there: 18 days and counting.
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
I'm Floored
To tile or just replace the thrashed carpet with new carpet?
That is the question, and it's a tough question to answer. Part of the answer was supplied when I discovered the tile is no longer available ... so off to the other side of the store to look at carpet, carrying my tile remnant with me to assure a perfect match.
Man, are there a lot of shades of brown! It seemed so obvious to me when I placed carpet next to tile that this one matched/that one didn't match, but when it came close, then it was under the artificial light, outside in natural light, bring it home to see what it looks like in the room. I also had a panel of consultants in the classroom--all the kids who seem to know color and what matches and what doesn't.
The last in a long line of "perfect matches" to my untrained eyes was resoundingly rejected by my panel of picky teen girls. "EEEEEWWWW: that's gross" pretty much told me what they thought.
I hate shopping on my best days, and this got old in a hurry. However, I am embarrassed to have anyone enter my living room in its present condition, so have to "do something" to improve the appearance of the room or become agorophobic.
Well, come to think of it, agorophobia is probably less expensive in the long run than either more tile or replacement carpeting. Hm.
Today, I found "the" carpet. Of course, it's the most expensive carpet I've trotted home to see about how it looks in the environment, and the color, "pigeon," isn't quite as ... inviting ... as the previous "truffle," but it blends with the tile and the landscape beautifully.
I like it; I really like it. This time, I'm not going to ask anyone else what they think.
"Pigeon," for the uninformed, is a soft brown with mauve/pink undertones--just like a pigeon, I guess. You know how they look kinda brown, but there is depth of color underneath? That's my new carpeting.
It's going to be installed Saturday, 14"6" x 23' of pigeon, with new padding and they paid the taxes. Guess business is soft right now as the snowbirds have left for the summer, school is still in session, and gas prices have finally settled at a whopping $3.50 a gallon, which means most of us aren't heading to the malls with such frequency as when gas was even 25 cents a gallon less than its present price. Anyway, I seem to have been given a good deal on an excellent carpeting, nice and dense, just the way I like it under my bare tootsies.
Friday night, empty the room; Saturday night--buyer's bliss or buyer's remorse. It doesn't get much better than this.
That is the question, and it's a tough question to answer. Part of the answer was supplied when I discovered the tile is no longer available ... so off to the other side of the store to look at carpet, carrying my tile remnant with me to assure a perfect match.
Man, are there a lot of shades of brown! It seemed so obvious to me when I placed carpet next to tile that this one matched/that one didn't match, but when it came close, then it was under the artificial light, outside in natural light, bring it home to see what it looks like in the room. I also had a panel of consultants in the classroom--all the kids who seem to know color and what matches and what doesn't.
The last in a long line of "perfect matches" to my untrained eyes was resoundingly rejected by my panel of picky teen girls. "EEEEEWWWW: that's gross" pretty much told me what they thought.
I hate shopping on my best days, and this got old in a hurry. However, I am embarrassed to have anyone enter my living room in its present condition, so have to "do something" to improve the appearance of the room or become agorophobic.
Well, come to think of it, agorophobia is probably less expensive in the long run than either more tile or replacement carpeting. Hm.
Today, I found "the" carpet. Of course, it's the most expensive carpet I've trotted home to see about how it looks in the environment, and the color, "pigeon," isn't quite as ... inviting ... as the previous "truffle," but it blends with the tile and the landscape beautifully.
I like it; I really like it. This time, I'm not going to ask anyone else what they think.
"Pigeon," for the uninformed, is a soft brown with mauve/pink undertones--just like a pigeon, I guess. You know how they look kinda brown, but there is depth of color underneath? That's my new carpeting.
It's going to be installed Saturday, 14"6" x 23' of pigeon, with new padding and they paid the taxes. Guess business is soft right now as the snowbirds have left for the summer, school is still in session, and gas prices have finally settled at a whopping $3.50 a gallon, which means most of us aren't heading to the malls with such frequency as when gas was even 25 cents a gallon less than its present price. Anyway, I seem to have been given a good deal on an excellent carpeting, nice and dense, just the way I like it under my bare tootsies.
Friday night, empty the room; Saturday night--buyer's bliss or buyer's remorse. It doesn't get much better than this.
I Feel Like Dancing
Four non-professional dancers put on quite a show last night on Dancing With the Stars. Their performances were applauded by the audience and awarded by the panel of judges--with no rudeness and/or personal comments attached to the evaluation this week.
Billy Ray Cyrus stood there and took it like a man for several weeks, never stooping to the level of the nasty little personal digs thrown on him by the three judges, including an assessment that his dance was "crap." When the comments totally crossed the line and became offensive, he finally spoke up, likening his critics to "the pot calling the kettle black." That's vitriol from a country boy!
Okay, so maybe he wasn't the most talented dancer on the floor, but his efforts to do the job should have been supported; instead, the evaluation bordered on personal harassment! And while the judges pummeled Billy Ray, they have deified Lalia's dancing, and, in my opinion, she's done the same dance to different music each week.
The female boxer moves her hips, swoops the air with her beautiful, graceful arm movements, and does the same dance over and over. She consistently earns 10's for the performance. Ono rocks the house with his dance, and he's told he's too "raunchy" by the same judge who commends Lalia for sexing it up in her Latin numbers.
Go figure.
Consistently, the men have taken it up a notch with each passing week; consistently, Lalia has remained static in her performance, replicating what worked the first time her team earned a 10. It's boring, especially when compared with the dynamic performances of the competition.
Last year, Mario should have won, but he didn't. His performances didn't count, but the public voting did, and the public votes played the race card. It's happening again this year: the three white guys don't stand a chance against the A-A daughter of the world's greatest boxer, especially when the judges are picking the winner by their slanted comments and scores for her performance.
This may be my last season of Dancing With the Stars.
Billy Ray Cyrus stood there and took it like a man for several weeks, never stooping to the level of the nasty little personal digs thrown on him by the three judges, including an assessment that his dance was "crap." When the comments totally crossed the line and became offensive, he finally spoke up, likening his critics to "the pot calling the kettle black." That's vitriol from a country boy!
Okay, so maybe he wasn't the most talented dancer on the floor, but his efforts to do the job should have been supported; instead, the evaluation bordered on personal harassment! And while the judges pummeled Billy Ray, they have deified Lalia's dancing, and, in my opinion, she's done the same dance to different music each week.
The female boxer moves her hips, swoops the air with her beautiful, graceful arm movements, and does the same dance over and over. She consistently earns 10's for the performance. Ono rocks the house with his dance, and he's told he's too "raunchy" by the same judge who commends Lalia for sexing it up in her Latin numbers.
Go figure.
Consistently, the men have taken it up a notch with each passing week; consistently, Lalia has remained static in her performance, replicating what worked the first time her team earned a 10. It's boring, especially when compared with the dynamic performances of the competition.
Last year, Mario should have won, but he didn't. His performances didn't count, but the public voting did, and the public votes played the race card. It's happening again this year: the three white guys don't stand a chance against the A-A daughter of the world's greatest boxer, especially when the judges are picking the winner by their slanted comments and scores for her performance.
This may be my last season of Dancing With the Stars.
Saturday, May 12, 2007
Gimmee
I’ve complained about the couple next door, with the in-law family diagonally across the street, using my yard as their yard. The parties that flow into my front yard, complete with the “bouncy” castles and cages, dozens of family members and friends, as well as the live bands, have caused me many sleepless nights.
Now, there are other people living in the home, perhaps keeping an eye on it while the For Sale sign continues to occupy the front yard. These are guys, obviously Mexicans with limited English language skills, perhaps illegal, probably also related to the extended family, and they drink.
Once they have consumed adequate liquid courage, usually about midnight, they like to go outside and shoot hoops. There are several basketballs involved and lots of male bonding, taunts, and celebratory whoops and hollers: some rituals are the same in any culture, any language. They play for a couple of hours before either they finally go back inside to sleep it off, or I become used to the noise and go back to sleep.
My dog doesn’t know them yet, so she goes berserk, streaking from one side of the house to the other as she monitors whether they are in their front yard—or Mia’s yard, retrieving yet another ball. She barks; oh, my god, how she barks! And she comes full bore through the doggy door to let me know that there are trespassers into her world of designated personal protection, which means she is waking me up half a dozen times each night. I have to pet her head and tell her “good girl” because she is doing exactly what I need her to do: warn me of intruders.
No, I’m not going outside at midnight and reasoning with several drunken Mexicans about the noise they are making. No, I’m not going to call the police. No, I’m not going to have them make friends with my dog, who is doing her job: protecting me from possible danger. No, I’m not going to move.
The house has been for sale about six months, unable to compete with the newly-opened gated community at the end of the block, where homes are bigger, more stylish, better landscaped—and about $30k cheaper than when the project began selling its homes. I don’t see the house next door selling soon as there are too many brand-new homes with prices falling into the same arena as all the older homes to which realtors added a hundred thousand to the selling price during the recent real estate boom. Buyers are eagerly purchasing the “cheaper” new homes, while sellers sit on their inflated real estate prices and wait for a miracle.
It is all evening out, with the speculators and the home owners on the losing end of the get rich quick real estate boom. Some people made big bucks when they sold at the peak and moved on, but others, such as my neighbor, didn’t decide to buy his new home, which requires selling this home, until way too late in the upswing. He is stuck with both the new mortgage and the mortgage on the home next door, which means something has to give pretty soon—or he has a source of money that can wait out the downswing.
In another six months, it’ll either become a rental property or be abandoned, the developing trend throughout the desert, especially in the older neighborhoods. Just another example of the “gimmee” mentality in action, people who want to abandon what they have for what they want without first considering the potential consequences to the community of their fiscal irresponsibility.
Now, there are other people living in the home, perhaps keeping an eye on it while the For Sale sign continues to occupy the front yard. These are guys, obviously Mexicans with limited English language skills, perhaps illegal, probably also related to the extended family, and they drink.
Once they have consumed adequate liquid courage, usually about midnight, they like to go outside and shoot hoops. There are several basketballs involved and lots of male bonding, taunts, and celebratory whoops and hollers: some rituals are the same in any culture, any language. They play for a couple of hours before either they finally go back inside to sleep it off, or I become used to the noise and go back to sleep.
My dog doesn’t know them yet, so she goes berserk, streaking from one side of the house to the other as she monitors whether they are in their front yard—or Mia’s yard, retrieving yet another ball. She barks; oh, my god, how she barks! And she comes full bore through the doggy door to let me know that there are trespassers into her world of designated personal protection, which means she is waking me up half a dozen times each night. I have to pet her head and tell her “good girl” because she is doing exactly what I need her to do: warn me of intruders.
No, I’m not going outside at midnight and reasoning with several drunken Mexicans about the noise they are making. No, I’m not going to call the police. No, I’m not going to have them make friends with my dog, who is doing her job: protecting me from possible danger. No, I’m not going to move.
The house has been for sale about six months, unable to compete with the newly-opened gated community at the end of the block, where homes are bigger, more stylish, better landscaped—and about $30k cheaper than when the project began selling its homes. I don’t see the house next door selling soon as there are too many brand-new homes with prices falling into the same arena as all the older homes to which realtors added a hundred thousand to the selling price during the recent real estate boom. Buyers are eagerly purchasing the “cheaper” new homes, while sellers sit on their inflated real estate prices and wait for a miracle.
It is all evening out, with the speculators and the home owners on the losing end of the get rich quick real estate boom. Some people made big bucks when they sold at the peak and moved on, but others, such as my neighbor, didn’t decide to buy his new home, which requires selling this home, until way too late in the upswing. He is stuck with both the new mortgage and the mortgage on the home next door, which means something has to give pretty soon—or he has a source of money that can wait out the downswing.
In another six months, it’ll either become a rental property or be abandoned, the developing trend throughout the desert, especially in the older neighborhoods. Just another example of the “gimmee” mentality in action, people who want to abandon what they have for what they want without first considering the potential consequences to the community of their fiscal irresponsibility.
Thursday, May 10, 2007
Professional Personal Issues
We need a new category to describe the way business is conducted at my worksite: professional personal issues. This term will be used to describe those individuals who make a career of inflicting their personal issues into the workplace, as if they are an appropriate part of the professional community's landscape.
It seems that some people cannot understand the concept of leave your personal issues at home! In the most recent incident, the champion of victimology has taken her case to the classroom, engaging her students in the sensitive details, crying to win sympathy, and then gloating when enraged students go to opponent’s classroom and make accusations about her that are not founded in reality.
The person is in a position of power, emotionally fragile, and a life-long recovering alcoholic who faithfully attends meetings 2 decades after her last drink. Her job is stressful; her position is stressful; her lifestyle is stressful—so she dumps her personal issues onto the shoulders of anyone who crosses her path, the proverbially wrong person in the wrong place at the wrong time.
A professional query often generates a hysterical response geared around the concept that a question is a veiled personal attack. A personal comment is met with hostility and suspicion, as if the morning greeter has a hidden agenda. A direct question asked in a meeting is counterattacked with a protective screen of accusation that thwarts the most ardent seeker of information.
The result is a totally dysfunctional situation characterized by hostility, isolation, and total withdrawal, which leaves the person in the power position free to continue the reign of terror.
Because the site administrator is a totally reactive, rather than a proactive leader and brought this individual into his inner circle, he fights all her battles, both real and imaginary. It does not matter how wrong his sycophant is, he supports her and refuses, yes, refuses, to listen to anything negative about her! Several people have gone to him recently, as the inappropriate behaviors escalate by the end of the school year, and he has given them a tongue-lashing and sent them on their merry way with the warning not to come to him with “gossip” about his chosen one.
The most recent clash of the day has so blurred the boundaries between appropriate and inappropriate personal and professional conduct that yesterday, a student came into a teacher’s classroom and openly dissed the teacher for making the power person “cry” in front of her students!
Dr. Phil would ask, "How's that working for you?"
When situations go unchecked and people who are mentally not healthy are left to wreak their havoc with impunity, we all pay the price, and it’s a taking its toll.
There is no resolution to this kind of situation because it’s personal, not professional. As long as anyone is allowed to make their personal issues part of the workplace landscape, there is no way to handle the consequences short of firing/transferring the individuals—and dumping their personal issues on a new worksite.
21 days and counting
It seems that some people cannot understand the concept of leave your personal issues at home! In the most recent incident, the champion of victimology has taken her case to the classroom, engaging her students in the sensitive details, crying to win sympathy, and then gloating when enraged students go to opponent’s classroom and make accusations about her that are not founded in reality.
The person is in a position of power, emotionally fragile, and a life-long recovering alcoholic who faithfully attends meetings 2 decades after her last drink. Her job is stressful; her position is stressful; her lifestyle is stressful—so she dumps her personal issues onto the shoulders of anyone who crosses her path, the proverbially wrong person in the wrong place at the wrong time.
A professional query often generates a hysterical response geared around the concept that a question is a veiled personal attack. A personal comment is met with hostility and suspicion, as if the morning greeter has a hidden agenda. A direct question asked in a meeting is counterattacked with a protective screen of accusation that thwarts the most ardent seeker of information.
The result is a totally dysfunctional situation characterized by hostility, isolation, and total withdrawal, which leaves the person in the power position free to continue the reign of terror.
Because the site administrator is a totally reactive, rather than a proactive leader and brought this individual into his inner circle, he fights all her battles, both real and imaginary. It does not matter how wrong his sycophant is, he supports her and refuses, yes, refuses, to listen to anything negative about her! Several people have gone to him recently, as the inappropriate behaviors escalate by the end of the school year, and he has given them a tongue-lashing and sent them on their merry way with the warning not to come to him with “gossip” about his chosen one.
The most recent clash of the day has so blurred the boundaries between appropriate and inappropriate personal and professional conduct that yesterday, a student came into a teacher’s classroom and openly dissed the teacher for making the power person “cry” in front of her students!
Dr. Phil would ask, "How's that working for you?"
When situations go unchecked and people who are mentally not healthy are left to wreak their havoc with impunity, we all pay the price, and it’s a taking its toll.
There is no resolution to this kind of situation because it’s personal, not professional. As long as anyone is allowed to make their personal issues part of the workplace landscape, there is no way to handle the consequences short of firing/transferring the individuals—and dumping their personal issues on a new worksite.
21 days and counting
Monday, May 7, 2007
One Small Step for Mankind, One Huge Step for Me
With the last piece of paper folded and sealed into the envelope, I stepped up to the window at the post office, purchased the appropriate postage and filled in the return receipt, and handed over my retirement application for mailing to Sacramento.
If I completed the paperwork correctly, I'm offically retired on June 13, even though I put down my last day as June 15, and my contract is valid through June 30.
Whatever.
There are odd reactions to my retirement, from both colleagues and students. Fellow teachers are envious, often voicing the reality that if they could, they, too, would leave the profession. And all of them tell me exactly how long they have until they, too, retire.
I referred a colleague to a job possibility in another state, and he emailed me back: they also need you on their staff! He says the at-risk student population is right up my alley, and I should relocate and share myself with a new student population. He thinks it's criminal that I'm retiring as he says I'm the best teacher in my department. He's happily married and not gay, so he's not hitting on me ... just paying me a compliment.
Another colleague is worried that I will forget them: the old out of sight, out of mind sydrome. Perhaps, but because I don't have many friendships, they are deep friendships, and my friends will always be part of my life. Wherever I am, regardless of what I am doing.
Some of the vultures have circled, wanting to pick the bones from my files and supply stashes. One colleague proudly crowed that she gets my room and wants to come upstairs to check it out so she can see what she has to work with! Well, goody-goody for her: I may just leave staples in the wall up near the ceiling and let her stand on a chair to remove them.
The kids don't like the bareness as I strip the walls, empty the bookcases, and dismantle all my little displays of personal pictures and encouraging words. The kids keep telling me I don't have to work so hard because I'm retiring, but I remind them that I do the job all the way, every day, and I expect the same of them.
Darn.
It's bittersweet to come to the time of one's life when what you've always done is going to change, and you don't know what you're going to do. There will be some downtime as I reorient, but that's welcomed after all the years I've spent with so much to do and so little time to do it.
25 days and counting
If I completed the paperwork correctly, I'm offically retired on June 13, even though I put down my last day as June 15, and my contract is valid through June 30.
Whatever.
There are odd reactions to my retirement, from both colleagues and students. Fellow teachers are envious, often voicing the reality that if they could, they, too, would leave the profession. And all of them tell me exactly how long they have until they, too, retire.
I referred a colleague to a job possibility in another state, and he emailed me back: they also need you on their staff! He says the at-risk student population is right up my alley, and I should relocate and share myself with a new student population. He thinks it's criminal that I'm retiring as he says I'm the best teacher in my department. He's happily married and not gay, so he's not hitting on me ... just paying me a compliment.
Another colleague is worried that I will forget them: the old out of sight, out of mind sydrome. Perhaps, but because I don't have many friendships, they are deep friendships, and my friends will always be part of my life. Wherever I am, regardless of what I am doing.
Some of the vultures have circled, wanting to pick the bones from my files and supply stashes. One colleague proudly crowed that she gets my room and wants to come upstairs to check it out so she can see what she has to work with! Well, goody-goody for her: I may just leave staples in the wall up near the ceiling and let her stand on a chair to remove them.
The kids don't like the bareness as I strip the walls, empty the bookcases, and dismantle all my little displays of personal pictures and encouraging words. The kids keep telling me I don't have to work so hard because I'm retiring, but I remind them that I do the job all the way, every day, and I expect the same of them.
Darn.
It's bittersweet to come to the time of one's life when what you've always done is going to change, and you don't know what you're going to do. There will be some downtime as I reorient, but that's welcomed after all the years I've spent with so much to do and so little time to do it.
25 days and counting
Sunday, May 6, 2007
Transitions
Finally, my brain is beginning to wrap itself around the little things that have been piling up for the past several months, and the piles are starting to diminish—slowly, but surely.
Yesterday, I caught up on my financial recordkeeping: because I dislike doing it, I don’t. When I do finally tackle it, I’m often pleasantly surprised to see that my checkbook balances and I have money in savings. However, sometimes little things escape through my lassitude, and then I have to chase them down to find out where the mistake is lurking.
I cleaned off my desk and the little side table that holds books while I’m working. I probably should fold it up and put it away so it won’t pile up with papers, too.
I attached wire at the front of the house and twined the honeysuckle around it, away from the wooden structure, so the front light highlights it and looks nice. I love the smell of honeysuckle! The lawn has had its weekly mowing, and I’m going to water in the weed & feed this evening so it sits overnight and soaks into the soil. I need to buy a new weed whacker as I cannot find the replacement spool and have to keep winding the nylon filament by hand, which does not work. The cord becomes stuck as I use the trimmer, so it stops working quite often during the trimming function.
All of my papers are graded and recorded, and the records are updated and current. Yeah. I’m winding down the number of papers I’m assigning, grading, and recording, so it’s taking less time. I have also begun the process of cleaning out the classroom for the end of the year, this time giving away those things that I don’t want to bring back home. It looks bare, but there is a lot to accomplish and not many days in which to do what needs to be done. The castle won’t come down until the end, which gives some personality to the room. And I’ll keep both the ‘fridge and the microwave in my room until the last day: when it’s in triple digits, I need H2O.
The shelves are going to come off the walls of the home office, and I’m replacing them with cupboards and shelves, hoping to have a place for everything and everything in its place, which will free up floor space for my crafts. Many colleagues have contacted me and want my resource books. I’ve been collecting relevant material for the past couple dozen years, but I haven’t decided about those. If I do pass them on, it will cut down the number of shelves and cupboards I need by half!
The to-do list remains bulky: install a storm door, outdoor lights, and a new slider; refinish the kitchen cabinets (no way will I spend thousands to replace them!); do something about the living room carpet, perhaps replace it with tile; get new living room blinds, and fix the light above the washer in the garage.
And, of course, there is still the MAJOR ITEM on the list: empty the boxes from the 1999 move and decide what to keep and what not to keep. I cannot believe that I’ve let that job sit there for so long, but somewhere in my mind, I refused to believe I would stay here after all.
There is a place for me, but I’m not sure where it is, and there is something I still have to do, but I don’t know what it is. Until I have those answers, it’s easier to leave the boxes where they are.
Yesterday, I caught up on my financial recordkeeping: because I dislike doing it, I don’t. When I do finally tackle it, I’m often pleasantly surprised to see that my checkbook balances and I have money in savings. However, sometimes little things escape through my lassitude, and then I have to chase them down to find out where the mistake is lurking.
I cleaned off my desk and the little side table that holds books while I’m working. I probably should fold it up and put it away so it won’t pile up with papers, too.
I attached wire at the front of the house and twined the honeysuckle around it, away from the wooden structure, so the front light highlights it and looks nice. I love the smell of honeysuckle! The lawn has had its weekly mowing, and I’m going to water in the weed & feed this evening so it sits overnight and soaks into the soil. I need to buy a new weed whacker as I cannot find the replacement spool and have to keep winding the nylon filament by hand, which does not work. The cord becomes stuck as I use the trimmer, so it stops working quite often during the trimming function.
All of my papers are graded and recorded, and the records are updated and current. Yeah. I’m winding down the number of papers I’m assigning, grading, and recording, so it’s taking less time. I have also begun the process of cleaning out the classroom for the end of the year, this time giving away those things that I don’t want to bring back home. It looks bare, but there is a lot to accomplish and not many days in which to do what needs to be done. The castle won’t come down until the end, which gives some personality to the room. And I’ll keep both the ‘fridge and the microwave in my room until the last day: when it’s in triple digits, I need H2O.
The shelves are going to come off the walls of the home office, and I’m replacing them with cupboards and shelves, hoping to have a place for everything and everything in its place, which will free up floor space for my crafts. Many colleagues have contacted me and want my resource books. I’ve been collecting relevant material for the past couple dozen years, but I haven’t decided about those. If I do pass them on, it will cut down the number of shelves and cupboards I need by half!
The to-do list remains bulky: install a storm door, outdoor lights, and a new slider; refinish the kitchen cabinets (no way will I spend thousands to replace them!); do something about the living room carpet, perhaps replace it with tile; get new living room blinds, and fix the light above the washer in the garage.
And, of course, there is still the MAJOR ITEM on the list: empty the boxes from the 1999 move and decide what to keep and what not to keep. I cannot believe that I’ve let that job sit there for so long, but somewhere in my mind, I refused to believe I would stay here after all.
There is a place for me, but I’m not sure where it is, and there is something I still have to do, but I don’t know what it is. Until I have those answers, it’s easier to leave the boxes where they are.
Thursday, May 3, 2007
High-Pitched Whine
There’s a burn-out that comes at the end of each school year, but it seems to be more deeply entrenched this year. I’m forcing myself to suit up and show up, and there is a feeling inside that if I have to grade one more paper, I’ll explode in a consuming rage.
Teaching has always been more than my job, more than my occupation: it’s been my passion. I love working with a classroom filled with students, sharing both expertise and wisdom with them and then watching as the eyes light up and understanding occurs. It’s powerful and important. However, those moments are fewer and fewer as more and more time is spent in classroom management, the repetitious detritus of daily routine that wears away the surface like a finely-grained sandpaper, often so subtly that it’s hardly noticeable.
How many times and in how many ways can students be directed to sit down, shut up, open the book, get out the paper and the pencil, turn around, face the front and pretend to be present both physically and mentally? How many times and in how many ways can students be directed to put their last name, first name—and the assignment—on a paper BEFORE handing it in? How many times and in how many ways can students be directed to READ the passage BEFORE coming to class because we are going to DISCUSS it, not read it?
I do the same repetitious tasks daily, not once, not twice, not three times—but each and every class period many times over. Directions I give to the class must be repeated several times because there are those students to whom I was obviously not speaking: they are the ones who need individual attention or they turn their attention deficit into major classroom disruption. I cannot count how many times I have to repeat “What page are we on?” because students zone out. No, they cannot read the page numbers on the board and/or they cannot understand that the pages numbers written on the board are actually what we are doing in class TODAY, not just some arbitrary numbers I pulled out of a hat.
Return to your seat. Open your book. Turn around. Stop talking. Put your IPod, cell phone, MP-3 player or whatever electronic device you have AWAY! It simply never ends, and I try to teach in spite of the conditions, not because of them.
Added to that is the constant flow of tardy students, each of whom has to interrupt whatever is in progress to ask, “Are we doing anything?” When I shush them because we are in the middle of the lesson that began when they were still outside, visiting with their posse, I’m accused of being pissy and not doing my job. When I lock them out, they stand and pound on the door, laughing and calling out profanities because they want in—without any books or other school supplies, which means they are coming in only because all their friends have finally gone to their classes. Yesterday, I called Security and let them deal with the situation.
My requirement is full sentence responses that begin with the question turned into a statement that is then completed with information from the literature. It’s been the same direction since the year began and many, many examples have been given to show how to do this, but it’s news to the students each time they hand in an assignment. The student who wrote, “he’s dead,” informed me (correctly) that it is a sentence, but didn’t grasp the concept of connecting it to a stem so it’s a sentence about what? He told me I should read the questions before I grade his homework so I know what I’m doing!
Today, one student had the gall to tell me that her father is going to talk to me because I’m not putting a specific grade on the weekly progress report! He’s pissed because he wants to know what her grade is at any given moment in his life. However, he’s not willing to sign on to the on-line grade data base—because that would answer his question without a confrontation with me wherein he reinforces that my job depends on pleasing his every whim. I do progress reports once a week, and when I have a stack, I often merely indicate pass/fail, rather than take the time to look up about 75 students to find a specific grade for the week. Guess that’s not good enough for this daddy; after all, his daughter is special, talented, really smart, and it’s bad teaching that is keeping her grade in the C range.
The boy with 13% wants to know if he works “really hard” for the next 28 days, will he still pass the class? He’s failing at least 2 other classes, but he can only fail 1 class—or he falls behind on credits. I asked him how many times we’ve had this conversation since last September, and he told me that we haven’t talked about it today, and it’s really important! Once again, I show him that he has ZERO points in the grade database, which means that he has NEVER completed an assignment, so there is NOTHING he can do to pass the class in the remaining 28 days. After showing me that he does have random points here and there, he told me that I don’t have to be so mean!
Added to the daily stress is the constant disruption from the on-going construction: pounding, booming, whining, thumping construction noises that keep everyone on edge. I still haven’t figured out why construction projects aren’t done in off-hours when they occur right outside the classroom doors …
It’s like being dragged under by quicksand: I know not to fight it, as it only makes the sinking sensation worse, but I’m still going under, so I desperately want to extricate myself before the sand smothers me.
Teaching has always been more than my job, more than my occupation: it’s been my passion. I love working with a classroom filled with students, sharing both expertise and wisdom with them and then watching as the eyes light up and understanding occurs. It’s powerful and important. However, those moments are fewer and fewer as more and more time is spent in classroom management, the repetitious detritus of daily routine that wears away the surface like a finely-grained sandpaper, often so subtly that it’s hardly noticeable.
How many times and in how many ways can students be directed to sit down, shut up, open the book, get out the paper and the pencil, turn around, face the front and pretend to be present both physically and mentally? How many times and in how many ways can students be directed to put their last name, first name—and the assignment—on a paper BEFORE handing it in? How many times and in how many ways can students be directed to READ the passage BEFORE coming to class because we are going to DISCUSS it, not read it?
I do the same repetitious tasks daily, not once, not twice, not three times—but each and every class period many times over. Directions I give to the class must be repeated several times because there are those students to whom I was obviously not speaking: they are the ones who need individual attention or they turn their attention deficit into major classroom disruption. I cannot count how many times I have to repeat “What page are we on?” because students zone out. No, they cannot read the page numbers on the board and/or they cannot understand that the pages numbers written on the board are actually what we are doing in class TODAY, not just some arbitrary numbers I pulled out of a hat.
Return to your seat. Open your book. Turn around. Stop talking. Put your IPod, cell phone, MP-3 player or whatever electronic device you have AWAY! It simply never ends, and I try to teach in spite of the conditions, not because of them.
Added to that is the constant flow of tardy students, each of whom has to interrupt whatever is in progress to ask, “Are we doing anything?” When I shush them because we are in the middle of the lesson that began when they were still outside, visiting with their posse, I’m accused of being pissy and not doing my job. When I lock them out, they stand and pound on the door, laughing and calling out profanities because they want in—without any books or other school supplies, which means they are coming in only because all their friends have finally gone to their classes. Yesterday, I called Security and let them deal with the situation.
My requirement is full sentence responses that begin with the question turned into a statement that is then completed with information from the literature. It’s been the same direction since the year began and many, many examples have been given to show how to do this, but it’s news to the students each time they hand in an assignment. The student who wrote, “he’s dead,” informed me (correctly) that it is a sentence, but didn’t grasp the concept of connecting it to a stem so it’s a sentence about what? He told me I should read the questions before I grade his homework so I know what I’m doing!
Today, one student had the gall to tell me that her father is going to talk to me because I’m not putting a specific grade on the weekly progress report! He’s pissed because he wants to know what her grade is at any given moment in his life. However, he’s not willing to sign on to the on-line grade data base—because that would answer his question without a confrontation with me wherein he reinforces that my job depends on pleasing his every whim. I do progress reports once a week, and when I have a stack, I often merely indicate pass/fail, rather than take the time to look up about 75 students to find a specific grade for the week. Guess that’s not good enough for this daddy; after all, his daughter is special, talented, really smart, and it’s bad teaching that is keeping her grade in the C range.
The boy with 13% wants to know if he works “really hard” for the next 28 days, will he still pass the class? He’s failing at least 2 other classes, but he can only fail 1 class—or he falls behind on credits. I asked him how many times we’ve had this conversation since last September, and he told me that we haven’t talked about it today, and it’s really important! Once again, I show him that he has ZERO points in the grade database, which means that he has NEVER completed an assignment, so there is NOTHING he can do to pass the class in the remaining 28 days. After showing me that he does have random points here and there, he told me that I don’t have to be so mean!
Added to the daily stress is the constant disruption from the on-going construction: pounding, booming, whining, thumping construction noises that keep everyone on edge. I still haven’t figured out why construction projects aren’t done in off-hours when they occur right outside the classroom doors …
It’s like being dragged under by quicksand: I know not to fight it, as it only makes the sinking sensation worse, but I’m still going under, so I desperately want to extricate myself before the sand smothers me.
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