Bear with me as I retell this story. It may make sense or it may not–likely not.
I am a big advocate for making time to just write in my classroom. Many times I’ll provide a prompt, a quote, or a picture. Other times, I’ll just let them write about anything on their mind.
This particular day, I let them write about anything–and they ran with that idea.
One student, Aristotle (not really Aristotle), was a very quiet student. He did not speak often, but when he did he had something to say. His writing on the other hand was very loud. He would constantly write about larger than life questions. One day he handed in his journal writing. As I read it I found myself questioning life, and you may too.
“Why is the ocean blue? Who decided on that color?”
“Was someone just walking one day and saw a cow and thought to themselves hmmmm…… I should try milking that?”
I don’t know, Aristotle. I don’t know. Fast forward to the Academy awards–yes, I said the Academy awards. My school is an academy, so hence– the Academy awards. Every teacher has to pick one student from each class to receive an award. Needless to say, it was hard. I had so many amazing students that I couldn’t just pick one.
The final decision came to who would not be recognized, but needed to be. I had many students in the running who would receive awards from other classes, so they didn’t need an award from me.
Finally, I decided. It was meant for Aristotle. Shockingly enough, I named the award “The Aristotle” award. Done.
Not done. I quickly found out that there was a speech involved. Cool. No big deal. I can talk in front of the staff, the principal, all the students, parents, the world–no big deal…
It was a blur.
I remember putting on my tiara( a different story for another time).
Seeing the stage
And walking back.
It was over.
I did it.
Once I got over the nausea, Aristotle found me. The look in his eyes was perfect. He told me that he knew he was getting an award, but didn’t know from who. He was very thankful that someone recognized him. The fact that he came to find my afterwards was everything. He wanted to thank me in person, and tell me that I was his favorite teacher. As he walked away, I thought to myself that is one great kid. Even my principal complimented my pick stating “that’s a good one.”
I told Aristotle that I thought about naming the award “Who decided to milk the cow” award, but some parents may not get it.
Fuseli, Henry. The Nightmare. 1781. Oil on Canvas. Detroit Institute of Arts, Detroit.
So we’ve read Act I of The Crucible.
And…Lights, Camera, ACTION!
“Wait so Abigail was only 13 in real life?”
“Yep! And the affair with John Proctor did not really happen.”
“So where did that come from?”
“Arthur Miller…You know he’s got to make it more interesting. Everyone loves sex and death!”
And…Lights, Camera, ACTION!
I am the narrator/stage director while we are reading The Crucible.
Me: “Mercy Lewis, both afraid of him and strangely titillated…”
My CT: Do you guys know what titillated means?
I laugh. She writes “horny” on the board.
The students laugh.
My CT: So she’s basically afraid of him and turned on at the same time.
At this point, I’m glad my CT is explaining this particular part!
And…Lights, Camera, ACTION!
(Students reading a sultry scene between John Proctor and Abigail)
Proctor: Abby, you’ll put it out of mind. I’ll not be comin for you more.
….
Abigail: I know how you clutched my back behind your house and sweated like a stallion whenever I come near!
*Cue whooping and hollering from my most outspoken student. He’s a hoot.
The class erupts in laughter. I’m doubled over laughing and my CT is laughing.
I say, “Ok, Ok…” as I try to get the class to come back together.
Then to the student playing Abigail, I say, “Do you think you can get through the rest of that, Abigail? Uhh…you don’t need to read that line again…”
She reads it again.
And…Lights, Camera, ACTION!
On page 39 of Act I of The Crucible, we continue to pique student interest by explaining a line from Reverend Hale where he states: “Here are all your familiar spirits–your incubi and succubi…” (Miller).
My CT asks students: Has anyone heard of incubi and succubi?
I go to write them on the board.
My CT: Basically, they are spirits that come at night and have sex with people who are sleeping. One is a female coming to a male and vice-versa. Do you remember which was which? She asks me. (We had looked them up online in first period).
Me: Oh, yeah the incubi was a male coming to a female and the succubi is a female going to a male.
My CT brought up an oil painting on the projector screen to help students visualize the spirits that come to people at night. It is a really creepy painting by Henry Fuseli. (Pictured above).
And…Lights, Camera, ACTION!
It is day two of watching the movie. It’s nice to see how much students are getting into it. My students seem to have comments throughout about everything, especially when it comes to snitching. We are at the part where Mary Warren is taken to court by John Proctor to confess that the other girls were lying.
One girl says loudly, “She’s a snitch!”
It is then revealed to Judge Danforth that Mr. Parris saw the girls dancing naked in the forest, and of course my most outspoken student states: “There be witches, snitches, butt-naked women, and other s***!”
I literally couldn’t stop laughing for a whole minute.
And…Lights, Camera, ACTION!
On the first day of reading The Crucible, I was walking around the class while students were working on the study questions for Act I. One of my students, Abraham, is a very quiet student who I wrote about for my Teaching Inquiry. From the beginning of the year, he didn’t see the point of English class and seemed uninterested. As I stood behind him and looked over his shoulder I realized he was way ahead of where we were at as a class. We were only at about page 12 and he was on page 40! I couldn’t believe it.
By the end of the week, we had finished Act I and Abraham had finished the whole.darn.thing. I walked over to him as he was reading the last few pages.
Me: “You finished it?! So you really liked it?”
Abraham nodded and smiled. “Yeah.”
Maybe it was the sex in it. Maybe it was the death. Maybe it was just good literature.
Miller, Arthur. The Crucible. Penguin Books, 1953.
It’s another difficult Monday morning. Ms. Ham rolls out of bed determined to make the best out of the day. As she picks out her outfit for the day, she goes through her daily internal morning monologue.
“Ugh is this shirt too tight? Maybe I should just go with a dress….wait is this dress too short? Wow, I really look like I could be an eleventh-grade student. Ugh okay, I’ll just go with the ever so safe black on black combo. Oh, wait! Let me wear my new—and outrageously trendy—snakeskin shoes!!”
Ms. Ham skips out the door confident that her outfit is not only professional but fashion forward. As the day goes on, she gets endless compliments from her students. Almost every block one would come in with the typical,
“Oh okay, Ms. Ham okay! Snakeskin shoes, we see you!!”
As the day slithered on, Ms. Ham began to feel not one, but two blood piercing blisters begin to form. As she walked through each class ensuring her students were on task and working through the joys of the Medieval time period, she began to fully understand why her eighth-grade literature teacher wore those God-awful Crocs every day.
*Fast forward to 3:30 PM*
The day was finally over, but was it? Looming over Ms. Ham’s blood piercing blisters was the thought of having to walk across campus to her Monday night class later that evening. Ms. Ham had devised a fool-proof plan. As she sat—now barefoot—at her desk, she decided she was going to run home, change her shoes, grab her Monday afternoon cup of coffee, and head to class. She had allotted the perfect amount of time to complete her laundry list of tasks.
The stage was set. Ms. Ham was more than ready. As she began to pack her things up for the day, she went to grab her phone out of her desk drawer. Now I know what you’re thinking, Ms. Ham knew better. Her phone should have been in her bag or car. What was she thinking putting her phone in her desk drawer?! Karma had it coming for Ms. Ham. As she goes to open her drawer, she realizes it is in fact stuck. Immediately she goes into panic mode. This was not a part of her plan! She ran across the hall to find a hammer from a veteran teacher. As she worked tirelessly to try and hammer the drawer open, she began to attract a crowd. Before she knew it, she had the department head in her room trying to get the pesky drawer open. Ms. Ham and department head worked tirelessly for over forty minutes—that Ms. Ham did not have to spare—until they finally called it quits.
Feeling embarrassed, frustrated, and downright overwhelmed, Ms. Ham endlessly thanked the department head for her help. Ms. Ham had accepted the huge L she was about to take and began to head out for class. Right as she closed the door, she realized she had over ten alarms pre-set to wake her up the next morning. The thought of walking into the classroom to over ten blood piercing alarms screaming and mocking Ms. Ham made her want to never return to school again.
With this new epiphany, Ms. Ham decided to put one last stitch of effort into opening the drawer. Ms. Ham limped around the multi-building campus for over ten minutes in search of the head custodian—Gavin. Ms. Ham was more than aware of just how busy Gavin was and just how difficult it was going to be to find him. Was Gavin even real or a school fairy? As she limped through the silent halls, she could hear her blisters laughing at how incredibly naïve Ms. Ham was for thinking she would be able to find Gavin. As she felt a blister rip open and almost fell over in tears, she saw him—her custodial savior.
Now I know what you might be thinking, I bet Gavin couldn’t even open the desk drawer. You’re wrong. Gavin opened the drawer in less than two minutes. TWO MINUTES. Ms. Ham had hammered at the drawer for over forty minutes for Gavin to open it in two.
Now feeling thankful, stressed, worn out, overwhelmed, and extremely pressed for time; Ms. Ham ran blisters and all to her car. On the way to her car, she created plan Z. She now only had thirty minutes to get to class. She decided the afternoon coffee would be the one to get the boot. If everything went to plan, she could get to her house, change her shoes, and get to class right on time. She threw her things in the back seat with a new sense of determination, cranked her car on, and immediately heard “Bing!” That small little “Bing” sent Ms. Ham over the edge. She immediately cried out, “YOU HAVE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME!!”
You guessed it, Ms. Ham’s gas light had turned on. She decided the plan would not be altered and if she ran out of gas then it was simply fate. Now sweating in forty-degree weather, she sped home tears, blisters, and all.
With a new pair of shoes, phase one of plan Z was done. Now, to get to class on time and hopefully not run out of gas. Ms. Ham jumped back in her car, wiped her tears, and sped off. She pulled into the parking deck on two wheels and ran to class for the first time ever. As she ran, she received many stares and laughs, but that was not going to be the thing to stop her.
It was 4:59 PM and the only thing standing in the way of Ms. Ham and class was a very steep set of stairs. As she sprinted up the stairs, she gave a quick shout out to the stair stepper at the gym for making this unexpected afternoon workout possible.
Finally, drenched in literal blister blood, sweat, and tears, Ms. Ham made it only to realize she did not want to be the trendy teacher anymore. In a very brief moment, before class began, Ms. Ham decided she was going to be the croc wearing teacher from now on.
As a small, young-looking female, I have to work harder to be taken seriously. People look at me as though I have no presence or influence or power. So, I always have to make sure my bark is bigger than I am. I’m a fast talker, and I try to spout facts or funny stories, so people will feel my presence. Usually, it works; usually, I don’t have to resort to using anything but my bark. But, this past week, my bite was also put to the test.
So far, this teaching experience has been smooth sailing. My students have respected me, and I haven’t had to worry, really, about disciplining them. That’s up to Mrs. B., the teacher whose bite and bark are of equal power. She’s not been afraid to crack down on them when they need to be wrangled in. Sure, I’ve done the occasional yelling: “GUYS. I AM AT THE FRONT. YOUR EYES SHOULD BE ON ME. YOUR MOUTHS SHOULD BE CLOSED.” However, I haven’t had to do more than that. In my classes, my bark has come in handy. My mouth has been loud, my stories have been (appropriately) funny, and my facts have been dead-on. And, usually, my students respect that I do my best with what little (height-wise) I have.
There have been multiple times this semester that Mrs. B. is out of the classroom, leaving the teaching to me, with the help of a substitute. And, when this happens, the students have behaved magnificently. It’s given me the ability to brag, quite proudly, about how my students are mature, respectful adolescents. I guess, though, that my luck ran out because, last Friday, my third period was HORRIBLE.
Class began, and the students came in, as usual, asking where Mrs. B. was. “She’s not here today, guys, but do not forget that there is still a teacher in the room, and that teacher is me” is the standard line I give them. And, after saying that, I narrow my eyes, point my finger around the room, and say, “I will write all of you hooligans up, so don’t test me. You better check yo’ self before you wreck yo’ self,” which always has them laughing. I’ve been proud of this spiel because it’s the perfect mix of serious and likable.
I tried to get my third period started. It was fairly simple; we would read The Glass Castle (I would read aloud because this is my REP class, and there is absolutely no way they will read on their own), while M, J, and S would read silently in the hall. Those three were on schedule with the on-level classes, and they didn’t need as much supervision. This is how Mrs. B and I had been running the class over the last few weeks. This day was different; my kids were unprepared, even more so than usual, and could not get themselves together. H came into the class, saying, “welcome to H’s classroom!” I knew this was a joke, though H is actually one of the students who causes me, and Mrs. B, grief. I played along, saying “this is my house, H, and you’re living in it!” He laughed. I told them the day’s plans, which were exactly the same as the plans the day before, and the day before that, and the day before that.
At first, they seemed like they could handle it. M, J, and S went into the hall; I sat at the front, book open, ready to read. I could’t get J and R to open their books, which was mildly irritating. After emptily threatening them with lunch detention, they got the hint. D and H were my bigger fish to fry, anyway. One of the biggest issues with H is that he is ALWAYS on his phone, no matter what. He’s been written up at least, what seems like, a hundred times. The problem with D is that he is best friends with H, and they feed off each other, riling one another up. When H is gone, D has some of the best grades in the class. He’s smart, but he’s way too easily distracted. I’ve separated them, but they always manage to end up next to one another. I blink, and H is sitting next to D. This happened on Friday, but I was okay with it.
Over the past few days, D and H had been listening, reading along, not using phones, not trying to move around. I was proud of them, and the rest of the class, because they were really doing the work. I had some leftover cookies that I gave them, but those cookies came with a warning: they needed to be on their best behavior. They agreed; they lied. H moved up to the front, next to D. I told him to put his phone away, and, instead, he pulled his charger out and plugged it into the wall. He looked at me and said, “you know, you really need to put some more authority behind your voice because I just can’t take you seriously.” This is just H’s behavior, irritating, but standard. I ignored his statement and told him to put the phone away. He did, at first.
As I was reading, I heard him pick up his entire desk and move it toward the wall, plugging in his phone again. I stopped and looked at him, waiting until he moved back. He kept repeating this same action, as if the outcome would be different (which is crazy, ba-dum-tss). I was starting to get more and more agitated. Then, D asked me if he could use the restroom. I signed his pass, thinking nothing of it, and kept reading. After 10 minutes, or so, H said, “you know, D is still gone, but I’m pretty sure it’s number 2.” I got up, opened the door, and looked outside. D was sitting on the floor, playing on his phone. He never even used the restroom. This was it. I brought everyone into the classroom, including M, J, and S because they were responsible for not telling me about D. I was about to flip my lid, and they knew it.
I went on about how “if they wanted authority, they’d have it.” I told them how I’d been so respectful to them, joking and accepting their jokes, working with them on academic schedule to fit their needs. They were being disrespectful to me. After this, I wrote D a referral. Long story short (sort of), they became much more respectful. They answered my questions, listened to my explanations, and proved to me that they were doing their jobs. I realized that I can’t just be nice at all times. Sure, I love to joke with them and make them feel like they’re respected and important, but I am the teacher. It is my responsibility to take care of them, make sure they’re educated to the fullest degree, and care about their needs.
In the end, we need to remember that we have big barks, but our bites match, just the same. And, while we won’t use them all the time, sometimes a little nip reminds the student that we are here with a purpose. I am more confident, now, because of this.
Anyone that has ever taught a 9th grade class knows that having a normal day is almost next to impossible.
I had the lovely task of videoing my 9th grade focus class for edTPA. As my fellow teachers may know, preparing to video for edTPA takes some time. You have to make sure the camera is fully charged, and the angle is just right so the annoying kid (who also forgot to turn in the video permission slip form) is not in the view. It doesn’t matter how many times you video yourself teaching, having a camera “Big Brother” your every move is quite nerve-racking.
Everything was set. The kids started pouring into the room, and the show was about to begin. I began explaining the first activity to class. It was just your typical Tuesday. Well it WAS a typical day until I looked up to see one of my students without her shirt on. Of course she was RIGHT in front of the camera.
“What are you doing?” streamed from my mouth before I even really had time to process what was happening in front of me.
“I got hot.” The wide-eyed girl replied.
“SO!?! You ask for water or something. You don’t take your shirt off in the middle of class.” I automatically replied.
All I could think in my head was, “Well I can’t use that clip for edTPA.”
I guess it was a typical ‘not-typical’ day as a 9th grade teacher.
It’s a Saturday night, and I’m doing what every 20-something dreams to do on a Saturday night: grading papers. I’m in my living room, alone, TV on but muted, listening to the rain outside. It’s one of those pictures I always imagined when I was younger and thought about what it would be like to be a teacher. I used to think to myself, it’d be so nice for my job to be planning lessons for all of the books I love and reading papers about them. What was I thinking? Sure, it’s exciting to start new books and share my unreciprocated love for books with my students. I really enjoy nerding out over my love for Charles Dickens and Shakespeare and Steinbeck, no matter how little my students seem to relate.
So here I am. In my living room, grading papers. One boring character analysis after another, I finally make my way through 1st period’s rough drafts. I’ve typed up feedback for each of them and spent a lot of time praising their strengths and making recommendations for the coming draft, trying to ignore the almost inevitable fact that while I spent a significant amount of time writing individually tailored feedback for each student, there will always be those few that pay no attention to the comments and turn in the same exact draft for their final. Teaching is a thankless job. I knew that going in. That’s what everyone tells you. It’s fine, I’m fine. At least I will only sleep four hours tonight and get up early tomorrow to make sure I can spend my day off grading and planning and learning all of the stuff I’m teaching tomorrow so I can pretend to know what I’m talking about.
So back to the living room. I feel so good about myself for having finished the papers in my set time frame. I’ve incentivized myself with the allowance to eat a gummy bear after each paper, so I grab a gummy bear and kick my feet back. I revel in my accomplishments for a moment and then try and work myself up for the next stack. One paper at a time.
I open my bag and grab for my 3rd period folder. I feel my laptop charging cord, a couple of lose pens, a granola bar…where’s my folder? I grab the bag off the floor and set it in my lap, all but shoving my face in the bag to find the papers. They aren’t there. I’d been out of town all weekend and suddenly a terrible thought came to mind: did I leave my students’ rough drafts in my hotel room?
Cue a rise in blood pressure and heart pounding. What do I even say to my students? How do I begin to explain?
“What did you do this weekend Ms. Z?”
“Well, guys, I went out of town and left all of your rough drafts in your hotel room. Don’t worry though, you’ll just have to re-do them and I’ll give you feedback on the redos.”
Nope, that’s not acceptable. I may have to drive 2 hours back to the hotel, but if that’s what it takes then that’s what I’ll have to do.
“What did you do this weekend Ms. Z?”
“I drove for 4 hours round trip trying to fetch your rough drafts that I lost, so I didn’t actually get to grading them. I know your final draft is due soon, and I know I promised to give you feedback, but you’ll just have to wait for it.”
Nope. I don’t like that either. Can I forge 27 rough drafts? Will they even notice it’s not their own writing. The answer to that question is probably too painful to come to terms with right now.
Dissatisfied with all of my options, I retrace my steps over the past few days. I know I searched that hotel room upside down making sure I didn’t leave anything behind. There’s no way I overlooked an entire stack of papers. Maybe they’re in Selina’s car. I rode home with her, and maybe they fell out of my box.
I call Selina in a panic, asking if she can check her car.
“Hey, are you home?”
“Yeah, what’s up?”
“I can’t find my 3rd period papers anywhere and I’m hoping they’re in your car and not in our hotel room from this weekend. Can you go check?”
“Yeah, but do you need them now? I just sat down.”
“Yes, Selina. I’m freaking out. Get off the couch and check!”
“Aight I’ll call you back in a second.”
Minutes later she calls back with the only answer I wanted to hear: “I found them.”
So after an hour of panic and frenzy, I realized I’d made a problem out of nothing. That’s something I think I’ve started doing a lot in my early teaching career. I think that everything needs to be perfect and every deadline should be met with perfection each and every time. Everything I do is for the students and if I mess up or give feedback a day late, I’ve failed them and now they won’t graduate and it’s all my fault. But these problems aren’t my fault, and oftentimes they’re not even real problems; I’ve made them up in my head because I’ve forgotten, once again, flexibility is key. Everything will all work out, even if it’s not how it was originally intended to. Everything was actually fine, for the time being I had a small break that evening, not having access to the papers. I didn’t have the papers I needed to grade and I couldn’t get them until tomorrow, so I resolved to let myself relax. Sorry, kids. You’ll get your papers back as soon as possible. You won’t start writing your final drafts until the night before they’re due anyways. You’ll be fine.
And so will I, I think to myself as I reach for a handful of gummy bears, kick my feet back, and un-mute the television.
Joe and I were in a serious relationship for a number of years. When we met, I had no intention of getting involved. I honestly thought that Joe was overrated. I’d heard all of the rumors. People either loved him or hated him. I’ll be honest, he had a reputation. Once people spent enough time with him, they were hooked. I knew I’d be stronger than the masses. Joe wasn’t going to break me. As I tried to avoid him, he somehow found every single way to show up. I’d run into him in the mornings and as I ran errands–literally everywhere.
Anytime I saw him, I’d avoid contact. I used every excuse in the book. It’s not you, it’s me…I’m just not ready for something like this…You’re not my type…and my personal favorite…I’m just not that into you. Nothing worked, so I found myself caving.
I kept it casual at first because I didn’t want feelings to get too strong. We saw each other once a week at the most. That only lasted so long. I soon got so attached that I felt I needed him to even function. If I wasn’t with Joe, I was thinking about Joe.
Our relationship soon turned into a rollercoaster of emotions. One minute we loved each other, and then the next minute we were fighting. One of his exes reached out to me–she said “run while you can.” I started having my doubts. He seemed so great. Joe could make you feel like you were capable of anything as long as he remained by your side.
The days Joe wasn’t around were hard and long. I couldn’t take it. There were days when I would stay in bed because I couldn’t function without him.
My friends sat me down one day and told me that this relationship needed to stop. They let me know that life was not meant to be lived being this dependent on someone as terrible as Joe. I was in denial. I let them know Joe and I were fine because I truly believed we were. My friends decided to challenge me to something because I just wasn’t understanding what they were saying.
In January of 2018, I was challenged to give up caffeine. Yes…Joe is a cup of coffee.
Queue the groaning, eye-roll, and sighs.
I had never truly been hooked on caffeine until student teaching began back in August. I used to be the person you wanted to punch in the face in the morning. You know what I’m talking about. The person who sings with the birds, cooks an elaborate breakfast, exercises, and usually reads for fun…all before 7:00am. I’ve never been the person that needs coffee in order to wake up. But between edTPA and early morning commutes, I found myself needing that extra pick-me-up.
And as my caffeine-less mind reflects upon teaching and coffee and everything good in the world, I think I’ve found a connection. Too much of anything isn’t great, and the excess of whatever that thing is can turn into a bad habit. Five cups of coffee a day isn’t the best habit to have (before you say anything, I know five cups is a lot). I’d argue that five worksheets in one class period is also a terrible habit.
Teaching routines and practices are a lot like a bad caffeine addiction. It starts out harmless, and it honestly feels good. Then that new thing becomes the new normal. The tough reality of habits is the fact that they are hard to break. The breaking of a bad habit takes work, takes time, and usually involves a bit of pain and discomfort along the way. As I watch veteran teachers doing their thing, I’ve found myself making comments like “I’ll never do that” and “they don’t need to teach.” As I continue to discover my teacher identity, I’m realizing that making those comments may be the most dangerous thing to do. As Justin Bieber says, “never say never.”
Again…queue the eye-roll and internal groaning.
I told myself I wouldn’t drink coffee, but when I started drinking coffee, my life felt like it was getting easier. If I promise to not do x, y, or z while teaching, I may very well end up doing those things because they make my life feel easier.
Just like I had to have a tough (and humorous) conversation about my caffeine addiction, I think we (as educators) need to have similar conversations about our teaching practices. We need to ask ourselves what we are dependent on. We need to evaluate what is healthy and what needs to go. We need to be okay with change, even when it hurts.
Do I still drink coffee? I’d be lying if I said no. I may or may not be drinking a GRANDE from Starbucks at the moment. The difference now is that I’m not dependent on caffeine. Studies show that coffee is actually good for you. Just like a little coffee is okay, I do believe that a worksheet, workday, independent work, and any other questionable teaching practice every now and then is okay too. The moment when a worksheet day becomes our new normal as teachers is when we probably (really) need to have that tough conversation.
So, how do you move on from teaching practices when they just aren’t working? How do you get rid of those bad habits and inaccurate beliefs about students and learning?
Community.
I most definitely did a WebMD search on how to get rid of a caffeine addiction, but I don’t believe teaching habits are broken by weaning off of worksheets or quitting things cold-turkey. I believe lasting change and transformation for educators happens within professional communities.
It’s organizations like NCTE and GCTE. It’s professional development days. It’s those teaching friends you make in the hallways of your school. It’s this cohort. These communities are the ones that allow us to break those bad habits. Why? They demand accountability. They offer new perspectives. They hold friendships. They inspire creativity. They keep education alive. They call you out when you can’t see what’s wrong.
But most importantly…they believe in the same thing–that education still changes lives.
It seems that flu season has turned my classroom into a hospital waiting room.
Picture a square, cinder-block room with encouraging posters hung on the wall in an attempt to dispel the boring lack of paint and old furniture and to perhaps insulate the room with enough color to ward off the cold. But for the student teacher, I mean nurse, whose desk is next to the window and too far from the heater, the cold creeps in anyway.
Outside that window, a beautiful courtyard designed to provide comfort for the institution’s inhabitants sits still, lonely, save the occasional passerby on their way to another corner of cinderblock. The sun hides behind a cloud, spilling a fuzzy white halo over the opposite wing of the building.
Back inside, only half of the fluorescent lights are turned on, another attempt to make the room more inviting, causing confusion for the inhabitants’ eyes: they squint in the middle of the room and widen as they gaze off into a dark corner to collect their thoughts, only to squint again when they return to the lit screen in front of them.
The room’s inhabitants are in a peculiar state of collaboration; little in common that they know of, they become companions in this place as they wait to see their loved ones and proceed with their lives at the end of the day. And the nurse at the desk by the window watches, wondering how she will transform that day of waiting into something memorable for them. You see, she has been put in charge of the waiting room. Her job is to take care of the waiters, to provide what they need, which means something different for each one.
Some of her waiters are simply bored; they know that they will leave that day, “graduate” if you will, and go on to whatever they feel like doing. They need to be challenged. Others know that their lives are about to change forever because they are here for something important. They need to be celebrated, encouraged. Still others, usually those who sit in the back with headphones in their ears, pretending to drown out their surroundings, are broken with doubt and uncertainty. They forget or refuse to take care of themselves, so the nurse has to constantly remind them to eat, drink water, and know that they can do this. She has been at this job for a little while now and has begun to feel comfortable, capable. She knows how to see what her waiters need and help them get it.
Enter flu season, slithering through the cold window to remind her that she still has so much to learn.
Now, in addition to the nurse’s usual responsibilities, she has to keep her waiters safe from sickness, constantly wiping down tables and passing out hand sanitizer. The waiters are dropping like flies, and each day the nurse sends another one home because they need rest and because they are endangering those around them. The hospital, where people are supposed to be healed, is now a breeding ground for the ick. And on top of keeping her waiters healthy and taken care of, the nurse has to protect herself, which has begun to inhibit the way she usually cares for them. Suddenly the young man who needed compassion and encouragement (and who feels the need to stand too close when he talks) is a threat because he had the flu last week.
For the sake of not overdoing the metaphor, let’s transition back into my classroom.
In addition to the usual chaos, my days now include the following duties:
Sanitize everything.
Lecture students about hygiene and insist that they STOP TOUCHING EACH OTHER
Talley the day’s casualties
Sanitize again
Reteach yesterday’s material to recovering wards while dodging their poorly-covered coughs
Write passes to the nurse
Realize they coughed on the pencil I just used and sanitize again
Figure out how to condense today’s work into a makeup packet that students can teach themselves.
Grade make-up assignments for half of my class.
Sanitize again.
I’m doing my best to stay healthy. I’m writing the lesson plans, staying hydrated, taking airborne. But inevitably, I will miss something. Some germ, some problem, some intruder will get through my freshly-wiped wall. I decided not to get the flu shot, and that may come to haunt me. But I can’t cover every possibility.
So instead, I am prepared to embrace whatever germs break through and congratulate them on a job well done. There is a bottle of robitussin in my bathroom closet and a bottle of red wine on top of my refrigerator to remind me that, come hell or high fever, I will make it work.
I created this lesson plan with the knowledge that what the students said would be impactful and hurt to retell out loud. It may not be easy for them, but I knew it was a discussion worth having to understand the novel and the connection to their own lives. What I did not expect however, was a revelation that would change the way I see one particular student for the rest of my student teaching experience. The lesson was apart of 6 mini lessons I was giving over the course of 2 days. I had decided to introduce the novel Animal Farm in an interactive way; building learning stations in the media center. The students got to get out of the four walls of our classroom, and be in charge of their own learning. What could be better than that? At one particular station, the students and I were having a discussion about bystanders, victims, perpetrators, and helpers.
“Which one are you?” I asked them. “What would you do if you saw someone get bullied at school or in your neighborhood? Have you ever been a victim of bullying or harassment?”
“Well, I’m not sure. I think I might just ignore it. I wouldn’t want the bully to start harassing me.” Most of them answered in this fashion. I tallied and I mostly had bystanders in my classes, a few victims, about 2 perpetrators, and a small handful of fearless helpers.
The stations started out uneventful. Class after class there were no tears shed, shocking revelations, or life-altering moments, and I’d be remiss to say I wasn’t a little disappointed. But it wasn’t until day 2, with the last class of the day, that things changed in the back corner of the media center. Only two students were in the group with me. Katherine, a quiet Mexican girl, who at this point was still looking at the floor when she spoke in class (but I later found out was a powerful poet). And Ben, an African-American boy with colored dreads, a love for making music, and a passion for books. It was the end of the day on a Friday, so we were all dejected and the thought of home was the only thing that seemed to sustain us. We sprawled out on the comfy purple bean bag chairs with our papers spread out before us, but just out of our reach.
“Have either of you ever been in a situation where you had to make a difficult decision? A life altering choice?” I asked, stifling a yawn.
“Yeah, of course. I feel like I make a life altering choice everyday,” Ben answered.
“What do you mean?” I prodded. I expected the unimaginative response that included making the choice to wake up in the morning and come to school.
“Well, right now I’m not doing so well in school. I failed a lot of classes in 9th grade, so I’m trying to catch up. I have more classes than other students and sometimes I just think it’s not worth it. My brothers and a lot of people I know are in gangs. But I don’t want to join. I want to do something else with my life besides that, but I feel like it might be too late for me.”
He looks me straight in the eye when he makes this revelation, almost daring me to agree. My mind is racing at this point. No other students in the last two days revealed information this personal, this raw. I was at a loss for words, but I knew I needed to say something, anything encouraging. I decided using my connection to the story would be the best path to take.
“It’s never too late to change things around Ben. I actually have a close friend who used to be in a gang in middle and high school. I didn’t know it at the time. It wasn’t until he got out did he reveal it to me, but he didn’t do very well in school either. He struggled a lot because he had undiagnosed ADD. At school he always felt 5 steps behind everyone, but when he was with his friends in the gang, he finally felt like he understood what was going on and what would happen next. But one day he told me he just woke up. He knew that he wanted to do more with his life than just give up, so he made big changes, and never looked back. He graduated from high school with me and he’s in the army now.”
“That’s really cool that he did that,” Ben replies. He sits up on the bean bag and tucks his hand under his chin to prop up his head on his knee. “I just don’t know though,” he says, sounding stressed. “We’ve been talking about the bystander effect in here and stereotypes and stuff, and I feel I get stereotyped everywhere I go just because of the way I look.”
Katherine suddenly chimes in with a nod, “Yeah, me too, just because I’m Mexican, “
“And I’m black…with dreads…and I may look intimidating to other people. Like cops for instance, they always find a reason to stop me and my friends when we’re together. We aren’t even doing anything, but they question us and ask where we’re going. My grandma says it’s because we’re a group of black guys. If we were white or something that probably wouldn’t happen.”
I reply, “The unfortunate thing is, that has been going on for decades in the U.S. It’s only now that so many people are realizing it happens. Back when slavery was still a huge part of the fabric of this country, even slaves couldn’t stand around together for too long or gather in large groups large if they weren’t at a religious service. It was seen as a suspicious act. Slave owners thought slaves would start spreading ideas about rebelling and escaping. Now it’s all about “stop and frisk”, ever heard of it?
Ben’s mouth twists like he’s eating something rotten and he nods his head up and down in agreement. “Yeah. It can hurt people, it hurts us because who can we be out in the world if we can’t even be ourselves? If the color of our skin is threatening then what are we supposed to do? I can’t get new skin Ms. Ross”
I look over at Ben searching for his goofy smile that’s never too far behind his seemingly serious statements, but he remains stoic. I glance at Katherine and see her eyes are already looking to meet mine. “I know,” I say quietly to them both. “Me neither.”
Suddenly, the bell rings, signaling class is over and abruptly pausing our conversation. We all get up from our bean bags slowly and the material makes shushing sounds in protest. I tell them half-heartedly to fill out question 3, but our minds are elsewhere. Ben walks slowly beside me as he leaves. I know he wants to keep talking. He towers over me. He’s got to be at least 6 feet, but I’ve never seen him look so small.
“Thank you for sharing so much with us today. I want you to know,” I stop walking and turn to look at him. “If you need to talk about anything please let me know. Anytime, okay? Ben, I can’t pretend to understand your situation, but what I do know is you can do this. You have so much more to offer the world than what some people may expect of you. I see so much of who you can be, more than you know.”
“Thanks Ms. Ross.” He gives me a half-smile, but it doesn’t fully reach his eyes. “I’ll try and remember that.”
He waves goodbye, walks out of the media center and I watch him go. He does a crazy handshake with a friend who’s waiting for him and they make their way to the cafeteria. My mind has not stopped racing, but now my heart is begging for attention too. I think about what Ben faces at home, the people he may encounter when he walks around Atlanta with his friends, his hands that are always making beats on the table in class or clasping together as he laughs at my corny jokes, what he thinks when he walks through the hallways with his beautiful skin sometimes feeling like that’s the only thing that people see. And I think about other students like him who are labeled by society and their peers. My students who are unique, quirky, brilliant, gorgeous; who sit in front of me everyday feeling like a “person who fits the description.”
My collaborating teacher suddenly walks up to me and shakes me out of my mental montage, “So that went well! This group is so small, I think that’s why we finally got a break.” She laughs and waits for my agreement.
“Not everyone unfortunately…” I turn to her, my lips lopsided, eyes still scanning the bustle of students through the media center windows. “Some of them will never get a break.”
“Worry and wake the ones you love.” Tuesday, February 6th, 3:22pm
Her phone buzzed. Megan usually switched her phone off of the Do Not Disturb setting during her fourth period planning. After a long day of teaching it was nice to see the odd text during downtime. Unlocking her phone, Megan checked to see what her little sister had sent.
<Can I call you?> Ansley always asked before calling, which bugged Megan. She didn’t know how many times she’d told Ansley just to call and if she could answer, she would.
<In ten minutes when school gets out> she texted her little sister.
Megan continued trying to design materials for her unit on The Canterbury Tales. It was slow going, and she was frustrated. Shortly before the bell rang, she packed her stuff to leave, keeping her phone in hand. She called her sister back as soon as she was able to leave the school.
“What’s up? You wanted to call?”
“Yeah. Yeah. Uh, so, y’know the growths on my thyroid? The biopsy results are back from Johns Hopkins. They think it might be cancer. They aren’t sure, but they think it might be. They want to cut out that half of my thyroid.”
“Is this the way a toy feels when its batteries run dry?” Wednesday, February 7th, 2:10pm
“They’re supposed to start The Canterbury Tales tomorrow — that’s what I’ve got planned, anyways — and I don’t want to start it. I can’t focus on anything but my sister. I feel like this is a stupid question, but how do I teach when I’m this… off?” Megan sat waiting for her CT to respond. The classes had gone well enough that day, but she had felt awful and distracted all day and she knew that her teaching had suffered; one student had asked Megan if she was okay three different times.
“You just have to do it. When I was co-teaching, I had a co-teacher tell me it was my job to entertain the kids, which I hated. But in some ways, she was right. A lot of teaching is just acting. You have to act like you’re okay. You have to be an actress, especially when things aren’t going right. Most of our students see crying as a sign of weakness, so you’ve gotta keep your shit together.”
“I submit no excuse if this is what I have to do.” Thursday, February 8th, 11:35am
Megan dragged the box of old books and newspapers for blackout poetry into the center of the classroom. She had chosen to delay introducing The Canterbury Tales. Her official reasoning was that it would be bad to introduce it and then not be there the next day to work with the text and start reading the prologue. Unofficially, she was still freaked out about her sister, who had had an appointment with the doctor that morning, and she could not focus. Her phone was on vibrate; she wasn’t willing to put it on Do Not Disturb.
She had talked with her CT and decided to spend the day on blackout poetry aligning with the themes that her class had found in Beowulf and Grendel. The next day, they would be doing an anticipation guide for The Canterbury Tales. Megan kept telling herself that if she could just get through this week, she’d be okay. She wouldn’t even have to be there Friday — she was going to a teaching conference! Everything would settle down and she could finally focus on her teaching again. She planned to film for EdTPA next week and take the GACE, so she needed to get her life together quickly.
The class went well. Her students loved the premise of blackout poetry and worked hard on it. Then, they wrote rationales explaining their choices. But Megan still felt bad, like she had cheated them out of “real” instruction.
“Does anybody remember back when you were very young? Did you ever think that you would be this blessed?” Friday, February 9th, 9:22am
Megan was happy to be on her way to the teaching conference. She had car troubles early in the morning, but it hardly bothered her. She was out of school for the day, she had successfully navigated teaching while totally uninvested, and her sister’s doctor’s appointment had gone well. Ansley would need surgery, yes, and they still weren’t sure about if the tumors were or weren’t cancerous, but there was a plan in place and everything was going to be okay. Megan drove with her windows down, singing along to the radio. She needed to make materials for The Canterbury Tales and that was really bugging her, but she was content to just put that off until Sunday. Megan just wanted to be able to relax for a weekend.
“I am the watch you always wear, but you forget to wind.” Saturday, February 10th, 10:17am
“Are you going to go to another session?” asked Gina. She and Megan both had finished presenting that morning and they were sitting in the lobby of the hotel.
“No, I’m not. My boyfriend is from Athens, so I’m going to spend the day with him and his family,” Megan paused, “Hopefully we go out tonight. It’s been a really long week. My sister might have cancer and I’m not sure how well I’m coping with that. I feel like it’s messing with my teaching, and that makes me feel so guilty.” Gina nodded, listening quietly. “I’m not sure how I don’t bring that stuff into the classroom.”
“I’m sure you’re doing a good job. And your sister is going to be okay. We’ll all get through EdTPA and GACE this week and it’s gonna be fine.”
“Thanks. Yeah, I really hope so.” Megan looked at her phone. Two text messages: one from her boyfriend asking her to come over, one from her mother asking if Megan could please give her a call. Megan told her boyfriend she was on her way. She said goodbye to Gina and left for her boyfriend’s house. She forgot to respond to her mom.
“A phone call I’d rather not receive.” Saturday, February 10th, 2:31pm
<Could you please call me?> Megan’s mom had texted her again. She and her boyfriend were driving through Athens; he was showing her where he’d grown up.
“Do you mind if I call my mom real quick? She keeps texting me.” Noah wouldn’t mind, Megan was sure of it, but she still wanted to ask. She always worried about using her phone on dates, even if this was a very casual date (if a date at all).
“Oh, sure, yeah. Go ahead. I’m gonna start driving towards my high school. This is the scenic route, so it’ll take longer.” Megan dialled her mom’s number. She answered on the first ring.
“Hi honey! How was your presentation?”
“It went really well, I think. I was pleased with it and people came to see it, so that was good. Noah and I are just exploring Athens now. What’s up?”
“Megan, your daddy and I need to talk to you about something.” Immediately, Megan felt defensive. What lecture was she about to receive?
“Okay. What’s up?”
“We need to talk to you… we need to talk to you face to face. Can you come home?”
“From Athens? Like, to Alpharetta?”
“Yes.” Megan stopped feeling defensive and started feeling scared.
“Mom, what’s going on that you need me to drive an hour and a half to hear it?”
“We just need to talk to you face to face.”
“Is Ansley okay? Is Ansley dead? What’s wrong?” Megan’s voice started cracking; Noah kept driving.
“She’s fine. Everything’s fine. You just need to come home. We need to talk to you.”
“Did Dad lose his job?”
“No, Megan. Everything is fine. Just come home.” Megan felt like she was going to be sick. She didn’t want to go home. She wanted everything to be fine. This was supposed to be her relaxing weekend. Now something was very, very wrong and her mom wouldn’t just say what it was.
“Noah, pull over.” Noah pulled into the parking lot of a playground. Megan got out of the car and started pacing in the wet grass.
“I didn’t realize you were with him right now.” Megan’s mom sounded embarrassed.
“I didn’t think it would need to be a private phone call. I didn’t think anything was wrong. You need to tell me what’s wrong.” Megan had started crying and she was having trouble breathing. She took medication for anxiety, but hadn’t packed any. She had been so sure that this would be a good weekend.
“Nothing’s wrong. It’s okay. I don’t want you driving like this. You need to calm down. Your dad and I are going to come to Athens.”
“How am I supposed to calm down?! You say everything is fine, but something is not-fine enough that you wanted me to drive home and now you’re coming here to talk to me about it. You need to tell me what’s wrong!” Megan could hear her mom whispering to her dad on the other side of the phone.
“We’re going to leave for Athens in a few minutes. I’ll let you know when we’re close and we’ll figure out where to meet.”
“You know that as soon as I get off the phone with you, I’m going to call Ansley and ask her what’s going on.” Megan’s mom paused and exhaled.
“I think she’s working. I’ll see you in an hour and a half.”
“Okay, bye.”
Megan walked back over to the car. She wanted to punch one of the trees nearby. She wanted to scream. Something was wrong, something was wrong. She opened the car door and sat down, trying to think of options for what could possibly be happening. Noah looked at her expectantly, waiting for Megan to tell him what was going on.
“I think my mom has breast cancer and she won’t tell me.” Megan hadn’t known she knew until she spoke. But it made perfect sense. Her maternal grandmother had breast cancer twice, her mom’s sister had it once — both of them got it before they were fifty. Her family had always talked about how her mom would probably get it some day. Her mom had spent the past summer looking into preventative mastectomies. “I’m going to call my sister.”
To Megan’s surprise, Ansley answered her phone.
“Hey, what’s up?”
“You’re not at work?”
“No, I’m at lunch with Sophie. What’s up?”
“Mom called me and she said she needed to talk to me and so I asked her to talk to me and she just kept saying to come home so I got upset and she said that she and dad were gonna come to Athens because we have to talk face-to-face. I told her I was gonna call you and she said you’d be working, but you’re not, so, Ansley, does Mom have breast cancer? Yes or no.”
Ansley hesitated before responding. “I think you need to talk to Mom.”
“You wouldn’t say that if I wasn’t right.”
“She wanted to tell you in person. She wanted you to have the weekend to process it, but she didn’t want to mess with your presentation. She wants you to come home so you can have some time to digest it all before you have to go teach on Monday.”
“Fuck teaching.” Scared and angry, Megan said goodbye to her sister and explained the situation to Noah, who had sat patiently, waiting. He stroked her hair and went to get toilet paper from the park bathroom so that Megan could blow her nose. She was crying hard and she called her mother back.
“Nobody plans to be half a world away at times like these — so I sat alone and waited out the night.” Sunday, February 11th, 11:45am
Megan was about halfway home from Athens. She had decided to stay and try to salvage what was left of her weekend. When she had called her mom back Saturday, they had agreed that was best. And truthfully, Megan had been scared of the the time alone on the drive home.
She didn’t know what to do. She was driving back to her parents’ to go talk to her mom about cancer. Megan felt very alone and overwhelmed. After she finished talking to her mom, she would have a lot to do. She had planned to film EdTPA that week. She needed her supervisor to observe her that week. She was scheduled to take the GACE that week. She still hadn’t made her materials for The Canterbury Tales.
But Chaucer didn’t seem that important at the moment.
Brand New’s “Guernica” played through her car stereo on repeat.
As a small, young-looking female, I have to work harder to be taken seriously. People look at me as though I have no presence or influence or power. So, I always have to make sure my bark is bigger than I am. I’m a fast talker, and I try to spout facts or funny stories, so people will feel my presence. Usually, it works; usually, I don’t have to resort to using anything but my bark. But, this past week, my bite was also put to the test.
Teaching as Storytelling 