Today was a library day, one of those rare days when, becuase the kids were in the library looking for books to check out, I had the opportunity to interact with the children in an informal fashion. So the kids were working on writing sentences while others were cruising the stacks or searching the computers for books they might want to read.
In my second period class, Devlin really wanted to read some books about Zombies. So we went to the computer, and he showed me how the search function worked, and then I helped him figure out how to do a subject and keywords search for Zombies. The entire 4J library systems contains zero books about zombies. A search for the “undead” (which Devlin reminded me wasn’t really about zombies) yielded similar results. So instead he looked up a book about guns, and found a history of the colt rifle. There were almost 20 books about guns in the library system, but zero books about zombies.
In fourth period, Halie asked me what my favorite food was. I was in the middle of talking to another student, and she kept interrupting me, so I ignored her until I finished my conversation with the other student, and then I turned to her abruptly and said: “Student brains”. And she said: “No, seriously.”
And I said: “Well, when I can’t eat student brains, I like enchiladas.”
From across the table, Asha said with a mischievous grin: “You must be a zombie.”
And I said to her, smiling slightly: “If you tell anyone, I will eat your brain.”
And then she said: “And then I’ll be a zombie.” She paused, I think for effect: “And we could turn the whole school into a zombies like us.”
“Yes,” I smiled. “Yes, we could.”
Later...Graham came up to me and said that Asha had told her I was a zombie. And I said to Graham: “I can neither confirm nor deny that.” Asha, overhearing, smiled at me on her way out of the the library.
Thursday, October 27, 2011
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Technology In The Classroom
One of the things I love most about working with middle school kids is that you never know what you're going to get. For example, I asked my sixth graders today to save a document they had created during class onto the desktop, and I saw 18 pairs of kids pointing at their screens and moving the cursor, and then a few intrepid hands went up, and it became very clear that many of these kids didn't know how to save a document. And so I modeled the saving of the document up on the over head projector, and I showed them where the "documents" folder was, and I even gave them a prompt for the titling of their document. I wrote "yourname" and "POS", which they all understood meant "parts of speech."
Now guess how many of them titled their documents: yournamePOS.
If you guessed somewhere around 50% you would be correct. So I scurried around the room helping the kids rename their documents using their names (a few of them chuckled at this; a few of them accused me of misleading them, becuase, after all, I had written "yourname" not each of their individual names). Sometimes their concreteness catches up to me in hilarious ways; I suppose it was just nice that I was in a good mood and so was able to find it funny. Even Laura laughed a little at this--the first time I've seen her laugh in quite a while.
This is a generation that is frequently labeled: technological and computer-based. And though, as a group, they seemed exceedingly interested in the technology, I must say they don't strike me as terribly adept at using it.
Or perhaps they're just not terribly adept at using it in a classroom context. I did notice that almost without exception they could (and did) change the desktop background image (and a few of them lamented that there weren't any cool pictures, just the stock nature scenes and abstracts that come loaded on the Macbooks). And most of them figured out how to change the fonts and colors and bubble shapes in Inspiration, the brainstorming software we were using today.
Here's a picture of what we made in class.
In other news, during fifth period (our chaotic group) Laura called in a sub-reinforcement. So there were three adults in the room. For the first part of class (the silent reading part), Stephie ran around giving out Lion Loot to the kids who were reading quietly (and she said sort of snarkily to me: "we should be rewarding the children who are doing what they are supposed to"), Laura ran around shooshing children, and I saw at my desk, reading quietly from the book we were all reading from. And in that moment there were three different attitudes towards classroom (positive rewards, negative consequences, modelling) management all running around (or sitting in) the room. I think it was a pretty confusing thing for the students to experience.
It was good to be back in the room with the kids. I haven't been around as much in the last two weeks, mostly because I was traveling and because I was sick.
Now guess how many of them titled their documents: yournamePOS.
If you guessed somewhere around 50% you would be correct. So I scurried around the room helping the kids rename their documents using their names (a few of them chuckled at this; a few of them accused me of misleading them, becuase, after all, I had written "yourname" not each of their individual names). Sometimes their concreteness catches up to me in hilarious ways; I suppose it was just nice that I was in a good mood and so was able to find it funny. Even Laura laughed a little at this--the first time I've seen her laugh in quite a while.
This is a generation that is frequently labeled: technological and computer-based. And though, as a group, they seemed exceedingly interested in the technology, I must say they don't strike me as terribly adept at using it.
Or perhaps they're just not terribly adept at using it in a classroom context. I did notice that almost without exception they could (and did) change the desktop background image (and a few of them lamented that there weren't any cool pictures, just the stock nature scenes and abstracts that come loaded on the Macbooks). And most of them figured out how to change the fonts and colors and bubble shapes in Inspiration, the brainstorming software we were using today.
Here's a picture of what we made in class.
In other news, during fifth period (our chaotic group) Laura called in a sub-reinforcement. So there were three adults in the room. For the first part of class (the silent reading part), Stephie ran around giving out Lion Loot to the kids who were reading quietly (and she said sort of snarkily to me: "we should be rewarding the children who are doing what they are supposed to"), Laura ran around shooshing children, and I saw at my desk, reading quietly from the book we were all reading from. And in that moment there were three different attitudes towards classroom (positive rewards, negative consequences, modelling) management all running around (or sitting in) the room. I think it was a pretty confusing thing for the students to experience.
It was good to be back in the room with the kids. I haven't been around as much in the last two weeks, mostly because I was traveling and because I was sick.
Friday, October 21, 2011
A Rough Return
It feels like I've been away a long time. As of this morning, I hadn't walked the Edison halls for over a week. Last week I was back East on business, then came down with some nasty bug, which has left me if not incapacitated than very sluggish this week. I stay home on Tuesday; I went in to Edison this morning with a vicious head cold and a sense of dread.
It wasn't until the middle of third period that I figured out what I was really dreading, and it wasn't the kids. I enjoy the kids. I adore the kids. They are funny and interesting and do the darndest things. What I was dreading was school, the whole schooliness of it, the drudgery and the humiliation, the endless lists of instructions, the adults yelling at the kids for not paying attention to things they don't care about--that I don't even care about. All the petty badgering and the hostility. It's grating, this schooling business, particularly so when I would rather have been curled up with a cup of tea and kleenex. The light was too bright and the floors were too polished and everything was just a little bit sanitized, hospitalesque.
Hospitals are like the worst places on earth to be sick. Maybe schools are worse. I don't know.
I don't have that much to say about what I saw at school today. I was feeling disconnected from the place, from the kids, from Laura. I left after lunch, my head ringing, my sinuses dammed.
In my absence a whole bunch of computers showed up, and so, gentle reader, you can look forward to hearing more about how we use these computers (I hope) to help the kids feel more engaged in the classroom, because if they are feeling anything like I'm feeling, then we need to inject a little energy--a little life--into this place.
It wasn't until the middle of third period that I figured out what I was really dreading, and it wasn't the kids. I enjoy the kids. I adore the kids. They are funny and interesting and do the darndest things. What I was dreading was school, the whole schooliness of it, the drudgery and the humiliation, the endless lists of instructions, the adults yelling at the kids for not paying attention to things they don't care about--that I don't even care about. All the petty badgering and the hostility. It's grating, this schooling business, particularly so when I would rather have been curled up with a cup of tea and kleenex. The light was too bright and the floors were too polished and everything was just a little bit sanitized, hospitalesque.
Hospitals are like the worst places on earth to be sick. Maybe schools are worse. I don't know.
I don't have that much to say about what I saw at school today. I was feeling disconnected from the place, from the kids, from Laura. I left after lunch, my head ringing, my sinuses dammed.
In my absence a whole bunch of computers showed up, and so, gentle reader, you can look forward to hearing more about how we use these computers (I hope) to help the kids feel more engaged in the classroom, because if they are feeling anything like I'm feeling, then we need to inject a little energy--a little life--into this place.
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
White and Brown People
I have been spending two hours a week "observing" an English Language Learner (ELL) class, led by Rosario Veracruz. I put "observing" in quotation marks because there are two children in the class (Miguel and Benton), so I can't really "observe" (since I bring the student:teacher ratio up to one:one, and I teach both Miguel and Benton in Language Arts). In addition to getting a teaching license in Language Arts, this degree will give me an ESOL endorsement; part of that means seeing ELL teaching in action.
A few words about our students: both of Miguel's parents are Mexican; he was born in Salem, OR and has been living in Eugene for four years. He is a fluent speaker of Spanish and his conversational English is very good. I have seen very little writing from him in our language arts class because he tends to avoid doing writing, preferring instead to chat with his friends. He is charming and sociable; he also hates school and is constantly "in trouble."
Benton was born in the Marshall Islands; I haven't been able to get a straight answer from him about when he came to the US--either he doesn't know or he doesn't want to say. He is fluent in Marshallese and speaks English passably. The vocabulary of school seems foreign and strange to him and he has significant trouble with English syntax. He is cheerful, smiles constantly, asks lots of questions and likes to socialize.
On Friday, Miguel was suspended, so he missed all of Friday and most of yesterday. The out of school suspension rattled him pretty deeply--in part because of the way that his parents responded to it: they threatened shipping him off to military school or sending him back to Mexico to work. He came in this morning with a profound need to talk about his schooling life. Instead of taking the spelling quiz he was supposed to take on Friday, he and Rosario talked for almost 30 minutes about life, school, being Latino in an all white school, his attitudes towards school, work, life, relationships.
I worked with Benton, writing sentences about "school" vocabulary. I ask my gentle reader to consider the challenges of explaining the word "comprehension" to a seventh grade boy whose English is a little rusty. Benton kept saying: "I don't get it. I don't get it."
A little light bulb went on over my head: "Comprehension is when you "get" something."
That's a trick I learned from Rosario, to try to uncover the language they do know to help them understand language they don't know.
I must confess, the one-on-one work I did with Benton today was probably the most enjoyable teaching experience I have had yet at Edison.
Behind me, in the cavernous classroom which would hold 38 math students 2nd period, Rosario and Miguel talked about life, about being Latino, the pressures and expectations and fears and hopes. I hadn't heard Miguel speak as much or as passionately about anything in the six weeks I had seen him in school. I could tell that Rosario was concerned about him; she switched from language teacher to life coach. And I could tell that she had gotten something through to Miguel. He interacted with her differently than he interacted with any other adult I had seen.
After class, Rosario thanked me profusely for working with Benton while she talked to Miguel. And then she proceeded to bend my ear about how hard it was for Latino children at the school. She talked about Miguel told her that his brother was in a gang and that his father didn't want him to speak to his brother. I asked her: "Is that the kind of thing that the guidance counselor should know?"
She paused, as if calculating whether or not to trust me. She continued: "The guidance counselor is a little white lady. If she tries to intervene with Miguel, she will probably just drive him away from her--and, if she tells him that I went to her, from me as well. She doesn't know what he is going through; I do." I could tell she wanted to say more--much more--about her experience teaching at Edison. I got the sense that she was lonely, that she didn't have the opportunity to talk about her experience working in this mostly white school.
I was late to my second period class; Rosario and I were standing in the commons outside of my classroom. Laura had started in already, and she looked out into the commons, caught my eye and gave me a look like: "what the hell are you doing out there?" So I had to take my leave of Rosario, though I didn't want to. I sensed that both of us could have stood there for hours, talking about Miguel, Rosario, Benton, Gil.
A few words about our students: both of Miguel's parents are Mexican; he was born in Salem, OR and has been living in Eugene for four years. He is a fluent speaker of Spanish and his conversational English is very good. I have seen very little writing from him in our language arts class because he tends to avoid doing writing, preferring instead to chat with his friends. He is charming and sociable; he also hates school and is constantly "in trouble."
Benton was born in the Marshall Islands; I haven't been able to get a straight answer from him about when he came to the US--either he doesn't know or he doesn't want to say. He is fluent in Marshallese and speaks English passably. The vocabulary of school seems foreign and strange to him and he has significant trouble with English syntax. He is cheerful, smiles constantly, asks lots of questions and likes to socialize.
On Friday, Miguel was suspended, so he missed all of Friday and most of yesterday. The out of school suspension rattled him pretty deeply--in part because of the way that his parents responded to it: they threatened shipping him off to military school or sending him back to Mexico to work. He came in this morning with a profound need to talk about his schooling life. Instead of taking the spelling quiz he was supposed to take on Friday, he and Rosario talked for almost 30 minutes about life, school, being Latino in an all white school, his attitudes towards school, work, life, relationships.
I worked with Benton, writing sentences about "school" vocabulary. I ask my gentle reader to consider the challenges of explaining the word "comprehension" to a seventh grade boy whose English is a little rusty. Benton kept saying: "I don't get it. I don't get it."
A little light bulb went on over my head: "Comprehension is when you "get" something."
That's a trick I learned from Rosario, to try to uncover the language they do know to help them understand language they don't know.
I must confess, the one-on-one work I did with Benton today was probably the most enjoyable teaching experience I have had yet at Edison.
Behind me, in the cavernous classroom which would hold 38 math students 2nd period, Rosario and Miguel talked about life, about being Latino, the pressures and expectations and fears and hopes. I hadn't heard Miguel speak as much or as passionately about anything in the six weeks I had seen him in school. I could tell that Rosario was concerned about him; she switched from language teacher to life coach. And I could tell that she had gotten something through to Miguel. He interacted with her differently than he interacted with any other adult I had seen.
After class, Rosario thanked me profusely for working with Benton while she talked to Miguel. And then she proceeded to bend my ear about how hard it was for Latino children at the school. She talked about Miguel told her that his brother was in a gang and that his father didn't want him to speak to his brother. I asked her: "Is that the kind of thing that the guidance counselor should know?"
She paused, as if calculating whether or not to trust me. She continued: "The guidance counselor is a little white lady. If she tries to intervene with Miguel, she will probably just drive him away from her--and, if she tells him that I went to her, from me as well. She doesn't know what he is going through; I do." I could tell she wanted to say more--much more--about her experience teaching at Edison. I got the sense that she was lonely, that she didn't have the opportunity to talk about her experience working in this mostly white school.
I was late to my second period class; Rosario and I were standing in the commons outside of my classroom. Laura had started in already, and she looked out into the commons, caught my eye and gave me a look like: "what the hell are you doing out there?" So I had to take my leave of Rosario, though I didn't want to. I sensed that both of us could have stood there for hours, talking about Miguel, Rosario, Benton, Gil.
Saturday, October 8, 2011
Unstructured Time, A Mercy
Friday was a half day to allow teachers some time to get grading done before "deficiencies" are sent home. "Deficiencies" are notices sent home to the parents of children who are failing. Most of the students who are currently failing our class are failing because they haven't handed something in.
Anyways, I don't want to talk about failure today--or why those kids aren't handing things in. I want to talk about unstructured time. Because the classes were so short on Friday, Laura had them come in, sit down and read quietly (a new routine to create some semblance of order at the beginning of class), and then take a short quiz on the parts of speech. When they were done with the quiz, they were allowed to read or quietly.
Our fourth period class finished the quiz pretty quickly (I have nothing to say right about her giving the same exact quiz to our sixth and seventh graders), so there were almost fifteen minutes of unstructured time at the end of the period. We had no plan. And for some reason Laura didn't launch into one of the many little get-to-know-you games she keeps on hand for exactly this purpose (I think mostly because she was desperately entering data into her computer about missing work that our students handed in today, the last day before dread Deficiency-Day).
And so I had time, almost 15 full minutes, to just hang out with the kids. I talked to Stephen about Ender's Game, which he had just finished; he was particularly interested in how the teachers in the book manipulated the children at the end. I asked him if he was planning to read the other books in the series, and he said, with a curious look on his face: "There are other books?"
"I think so," I said. "You should check it out."
"Can I go down to the library?" He asked. I nodded, and the child ran off in search of a book.
I spent some time talking with Maggie about Marine Biology. Maggie is obsessed with dolphins and sea turtles; her notebooks are covered with elaborate drawings of dolphins and sea-turtles. While technically "doodles", these drawings are part comic books panels and part anatomical sketches. She says she wants to be an oceanographer. I smile: "That sounds like a great idea. You could hang out with the turtles."
I spent about five minutes at a table with Erin, Guadalupe, Javier and Alejo, a group of Latino kids who love to talk about Mexico. Javier says he has "been all over Mexico". When I ask him, "where?", he says: "I don't know. I was just a kid. But my dad used to take me all over the place with him." Alejo, who hasn't said much of anything all year, chimes in: "My father took me to visit my grandparents in Guadalajara." Guadalupe, who is known simply as "Loop", boasts that if you travel anywhere in Mexico you will find her. Her friends looks a little confused, as do I, for that matter. She explains: "there's like a thousand churches and towns named after me. I'm very popular down there." She smiles, a kind of sideways, playful smile. The kids around her chuckle. The conversation goes on; for a while they forget--and I forget--that the clock is ticking, that they are almost free.
When they are gone, and I'm on my way to car, it dawns on me that I haven't had the chance to have interactions like these with the kids since class picture day. I left school knowing a few of those kids a little bit better--and they left knowing that I knew them a little bit better, and, more than that, they knew that I was interested in their lives in ways deeper than whether or not they could identify a noun in a sentence (most them can; a few of them can't).
They all have stories. We have to make the time--and, perhaps, let go of some control of time--to seek them out.
Anyways, I don't want to talk about failure today--or why those kids aren't handing things in. I want to talk about unstructured time. Because the classes were so short on Friday, Laura had them come in, sit down and read quietly (a new routine to create some semblance of order at the beginning of class), and then take a short quiz on the parts of speech. When they were done with the quiz, they were allowed to read or quietly.
Our fourth period class finished the quiz pretty quickly (I have nothing to say right about her giving the same exact quiz to our sixth and seventh graders), so there were almost fifteen minutes of unstructured time at the end of the period. We had no plan. And for some reason Laura didn't launch into one of the many little get-to-know-you games she keeps on hand for exactly this purpose (I think mostly because she was desperately entering data into her computer about missing work that our students handed in today, the last day before dread Deficiency-Day).
And so I had time, almost 15 full minutes, to just hang out with the kids. I talked to Stephen about Ender's Game, which he had just finished; he was particularly interested in how the teachers in the book manipulated the children at the end. I asked him if he was planning to read the other books in the series, and he said, with a curious look on his face: "There are other books?"
"I think so," I said. "You should check it out."
"Can I go down to the library?" He asked. I nodded, and the child ran off in search of a book.
I spent some time talking with Maggie about Marine Biology. Maggie is obsessed with dolphins and sea turtles; her notebooks are covered with elaborate drawings of dolphins and sea-turtles. While technically "doodles", these drawings are part comic books panels and part anatomical sketches. She says she wants to be an oceanographer. I smile: "That sounds like a great idea. You could hang out with the turtles."
I spent about five minutes at a table with Erin, Guadalupe, Javier and Alejo, a group of Latino kids who love to talk about Mexico. Javier says he has "been all over Mexico". When I ask him, "where?", he says: "I don't know. I was just a kid. But my dad used to take me all over the place with him." Alejo, who hasn't said much of anything all year, chimes in: "My father took me to visit my grandparents in Guadalajara." Guadalupe, who is known simply as "Loop", boasts that if you travel anywhere in Mexico you will find her. Her friends looks a little confused, as do I, for that matter. She explains: "there's like a thousand churches and towns named after me. I'm very popular down there." She smiles, a kind of sideways, playful smile. The kids around her chuckle. The conversation goes on; for a while they forget--and I forget--that the clock is ticking, that they are almost free.
When they are gone, and I'm on my way to car, it dawns on me that I haven't had the chance to have interactions like these with the kids since class picture day. I left school knowing a few of those kids a little bit better--and they left knowing that I knew them a little bit better, and, more than that, they knew that I was interested in their lives in ways deeper than whether or not they could identify a noun in a sentence (most them can; a few of them can't).
They all have stories. We have to make the time--and, perhaps, let go of some control of time--to seek them out.
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
The Substitute, The Guidance Counselor
So Laura was down at the district today, doing a technology workshop (this district doesn't have money to pay teachers, but somehow it finds funds to flood the teachers it can afford to pay with technology). And since I am not a licensed teacher in Oregon, she brought in a substitute to satisfy the legal requirement that there be a licensed teacher in the room at all times. Rochelle taught for many years at another local middle school, and seemed to enjoy our kids.
I had one distinctly interesting reaction today. During a work period, I noticed that a few kids instinctively jumped up and started asking her questions. This in and of itself wasn't surprising. But what struck me was how accepting these kids are of strangers in their classrooms--as long as those strangers are adults. I think Rochelle came off, pretty immediately, as approachable and caring--a few things that Laura doesn't exactly radiate, and there was a palpable sense of relief in the air with many of our kids. A few of them even asked if Laura was gone for good, which put both of us in a strange position. I think of them as "my kids," but, in all fairness, they are more Laura's at this point than mine. And I don't like the way they are trying to create a divide between us.
Maybe that's the wrong way to think about it. They're not creating the divide. The divide exists. They recognize it. And it became very clear today, since I was in charge, and I do a lot less yelling about what is or should be on their desks, and Rochelle mostly just moved about the room helping, guiding kids back to the task at hand. She will be working with them later this month when neither Laura nor I will be there. I think she will be just fine.
Bronson (the child in the hallway) had another rough day. When he entered the room, he and Theo got into a little scuffle; I think (though I didn't see) that Theo smacked him with a book, and then Bronson proceeded to chase him around the room, and so I stepped in. First I asked them to stop running, to have a seat. They didn't. They proceeded to fight over the book. I asked them to stop, again. It was as though I was not even there. So I stepped between them, physically put my body into the contested space, asked them to sit down again. Theo went back to his desk; Bronson did not. I asked him to step out into the hall to take a minute to settle down, nothing punitive, just to take a break. This was a strategy that he and I had discussed one-on-one before, and he had agreed that he would take a break when he needed to or when I asked him to. He didn't. I reminded him of our agreement. He started to argue. I asked him again to step out into the hall, reminding him that right now there wasn't any trouble, but that if he didn't do what I was asking him to do there would be. He continued to argue. I told him that he needed to leave the room or I would write him a referral (which apparently mean a great deal to the kids), he continued to argue, and then he left the room.
As he was leaving the room he started singing a song about how much I hate him, then he proceeded to bang his head against the class window looking into our classroom. I told him, at that point, that I was going to write him a referral.
Or, I should say, I turn to Mrs. P, the guidance counselor, who had come to class to observe Bronson (we had a meeting about him yesterday morning), and asked her if she could show me how to write referral, because this seemed like the sort of thing that warranted it. She nodded, pleasantly and affirmingly. Then she went out into the hall to help Bronson settle down.
Class continued. All things considered, it went fairly well, though Bronson spent most of his time outside of class, stewing about the referral.
Mrs. P came back at the end of class (I asked her to, since Rochelle had to leave for a surprise doctor's appointment, and I didn't want to break the law), and she and I chatted with Bronson after class.
I told him that I was going to write the referral. He was really upset about it, mostly because he had plans that afternoon, and he was going to be grounded because of the referral. He was doing that classic move, trying to make me feel guilty for ruining his plans. I reminded him that he had made a few choices that caused me to have to right the referral, so, looked at one way, he had actually ruined his own plans. I said what I needed to say, mostly that I still liked Bronson and that I wished that we could find ways for us to have more positive interactions in class, but that I wasn't inclined to be lenient with this particular incident, since we had discussed this very issue previously and had come up with some possible strategies that he didn't use in the moment. Mrs. P listened as I spoke and as Bronson responded.
Bronson finally said to me: "So you're not going to do what I'm proposing?" He had proposed that I not write the referral, contingent on his behavior the next day. I told him that I wasn't inclined to, but that I wanted Mrs. P's feedback, since she was there and had observed the whole incident.
I wish I could transcribe for you the conversation that followed: the punchline was that I should write the referral, but that she wanted to work with Bronson to help him avoid finding himself in situations like the one he was in. But listening to the conversation that she had with him was...inspiring. I have griped in these pages about this school seeming not to care about the kids--and in some large ways I stand by those gripes. But Mrs. P really cares, and not only that, she is extremely skilled--even masterful--at demonstrating that care.
Here's the moment when my jaw would have dropped, if it had been appropriate to let it. Bronson had spent most of the conversation with his head in his hands. And during the conversation she had with him she was laser focused on him. It was as though I disappeared. He was expressing frustration about always being singled out and feeling like he was never going to be able to fit in. So she put out her arms and said: "I want you to tell me where you think you fit on the scale of kids I've worked with. Over here we have the kids who are so off the wall you might put 'em in a loony bin. Over here we have the kids who are quiet and timid, like mice. Where do you think you are." He pointed, vaguely, towards the loony bin in her right hand. "Go ahead and point." He stood up and looked at her. It was the first time he had looked up. He pointed somewhere between her elbow and her wrist. She smiled. I had goosebumps, sensing what was next. She cupped her hands in the middle of her chest, a gesture of such tenderness it broke my heart: "You're right here, Bronson, right in the middle."
She want on to list a few positive things she knew about him, and invited him to come spend some time with her, to help him develop some strategies. He was resistant, but he didn't shut her out. Both of us sensed that he was done, that he'd reached his limit for the day. So she took him with her, back to her office, where he spent the rest of the class period playing with a large purple stuffed dragon.
I wrote the referral, made my first phone call home.
I had one distinctly interesting reaction today. During a work period, I noticed that a few kids instinctively jumped up and started asking her questions. This in and of itself wasn't surprising. But what struck me was how accepting these kids are of strangers in their classrooms--as long as those strangers are adults. I think Rochelle came off, pretty immediately, as approachable and caring--a few things that Laura doesn't exactly radiate, and there was a palpable sense of relief in the air with many of our kids. A few of them even asked if Laura was gone for good, which put both of us in a strange position. I think of them as "my kids," but, in all fairness, they are more Laura's at this point than mine. And I don't like the way they are trying to create a divide between us.
Maybe that's the wrong way to think about it. They're not creating the divide. The divide exists. They recognize it. And it became very clear today, since I was in charge, and I do a lot less yelling about what is or should be on their desks, and Rochelle mostly just moved about the room helping, guiding kids back to the task at hand. She will be working with them later this month when neither Laura nor I will be there. I think she will be just fine.
Bronson (the child in the hallway) had another rough day. When he entered the room, he and Theo got into a little scuffle; I think (though I didn't see) that Theo smacked him with a book, and then Bronson proceeded to chase him around the room, and so I stepped in. First I asked them to stop running, to have a seat. They didn't. They proceeded to fight over the book. I asked them to stop, again. It was as though I was not even there. So I stepped between them, physically put my body into the contested space, asked them to sit down again. Theo went back to his desk; Bronson did not. I asked him to step out into the hall to take a minute to settle down, nothing punitive, just to take a break. This was a strategy that he and I had discussed one-on-one before, and he had agreed that he would take a break when he needed to or when I asked him to. He didn't. I reminded him of our agreement. He started to argue. I asked him again to step out into the hall, reminding him that right now there wasn't any trouble, but that if he didn't do what I was asking him to do there would be. He continued to argue. I told him that he needed to leave the room or I would write him a referral (which apparently mean a great deal to the kids), he continued to argue, and then he left the room.
As he was leaving the room he started singing a song about how much I hate him, then he proceeded to bang his head against the class window looking into our classroom. I told him, at that point, that I was going to write him a referral.
Or, I should say, I turn to Mrs. P, the guidance counselor, who had come to class to observe Bronson (we had a meeting about him yesterday morning), and asked her if she could show me how to write referral, because this seemed like the sort of thing that warranted it. She nodded, pleasantly and affirmingly. Then she went out into the hall to help Bronson settle down.
Class continued. All things considered, it went fairly well, though Bronson spent most of his time outside of class, stewing about the referral.
Mrs. P came back at the end of class (I asked her to, since Rochelle had to leave for a surprise doctor's appointment, and I didn't want to break the law), and she and I chatted with Bronson after class.
I told him that I was going to write the referral. He was really upset about it, mostly because he had plans that afternoon, and he was going to be grounded because of the referral. He was doing that classic move, trying to make me feel guilty for ruining his plans. I reminded him that he had made a few choices that caused me to have to right the referral, so, looked at one way, he had actually ruined his own plans. I said what I needed to say, mostly that I still liked Bronson and that I wished that we could find ways for us to have more positive interactions in class, but that I wasn't inclined to be lenient with this particular incident, since we had discussed this very issue previously and had come up with some possible strategies that he didn't use in the moment. Mrs. P listened as I spoke and as Bronson responded.
Bronson finally said to me: "So you're not going to do what I'm proposing?" He had proposed that I not write the referral, contingent on his behavior the next day. I told him that I wasn't inclined to, but that I wanted Mrs. P's feedback, since she was there and had observed the whole incident.
I wish I could transcribe for you the conversation that followed: the punchline was that I should write the referral, but that she wanted to work with Bronson to help him avoid finding himself in situations like the one he was in. But listening to the conversation that she had with him was...inspiring. I have griped in these pages about this school seeming not to care about the kids--and in some large ways I stand by those gripes. But Mrs. P really cares, and not only that, she is extremely skilled--even masterful--at demonstrating that care.
Here's the moment when my jaw would have dropped, if it had been appropriate to let it. Bronson had spent most of the conversation with his head in his hands. And during the conversation she had with him she was laser focused on him. It was as though I disappeared. He was expressing frustration about always being singled out and feeling like he was never going to be able to fit in. So she put out her arms and said: "I want you to tell me where you think you fit on the scale of kids I've worked with. Over here we have the kids who are so off the wall you might put 'em in a loony bin. Over here we have the kids who are quiet and timid, like mice. Where do you think you are." He pointed, vaguely, towards the loony bin in her right hand. "Go ahead and point." He stood up and looked at her. It was the first time he had looked up. He pointed somewhere between her elbow and her wrist. She smiled. I had goosebumps, sensing what was next. She cupped her hands in the middle of her chest, a gesture of such tenderness it broke my heart: "You're right here, Bronson, right in the middle."
She want on to list a few positive things she knew about him, and invited him to come spend some time with her, to help him develop some strategies. He was resistant, but he didn't shut her out. Both of us sensed that he was done, that he'd reached his limit for the day. So she took him with her, back to her office, where he spent the rest of the class period playing with a large purple stuffed dragon.
I wrote the referral, made my first phone call home.
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