If you would indulge me, I'd like to take a brief dip in a pity puddle.
You'd think, the week before vacation, that I'd be in a fairly positive frame of mind, ready to coast through 5 more days of school and then punch out until Easter. The problem is, the week ahead is shaping up to be more mountain that molehill, and like most teachers this time of year, I'm feeling burnt - running on fumes, scraping the bottom of the barrel. I am the dregs of me.
Just logged a six-hour work session at Pheobe's. And while I got a lot done, there is, as ever, so much more to do... I feel torn, stretched, pulled in so many different directions - there is something of a cyclone going on inside my mind, various tasks and to-dos and don't forgets keep cycling through my brain. Items of Critical Importance keep coming and going, fading in and out of the forefront of my consciousness. I can't seem to escape from them. I am overwhelmed.
We're starting the much-anticipated and dreaded Test Prep unit tomorrow, which basically disrupts every routine I've had in place since the beginning of the year. I'm in the middle of data collection for my thesis, for which I must write a reflection paper this week, and my other grad school class has blithely assigned a group project, the most heinous type of assignment for its utter inconvenience with the added guilt that if you slack off and do the bare minimum amount of work at the last possible minute (which by the way, has been my M.O. for surviving all the grad classes so far) it affects other people who actually care about their grades. Then there is the matter of finding or making a darth vader costume for the pep rally, which is Tuesday (I'm realizing, or perhaps remembering, why most teachers don't like to take on extra assignments unnecessarily). Plus there are a thousand and one showers and birthday parties and other surprise events coming up in the next couple of months that I am intricately involved in trying to sort out while not spoiling the various surprises - who knows about what or is in charge of the planning and which life event we are celebrating when... just keeping track is a full time job.
And then there are these other things that just hang over my head like a cartoon raincloud - my horrifically overdue Americorps paper work, submitting timesheets for the two after-school programs that I both plan and teach, the filing of taxes right around the corner, "publishing" the kids' stupid newspaper, registering for graduation and the NY state licensing exams, buying new sheets and watering the plants, and trying to make my bedroom look like somewhere the Unabomber doesn't live, so my cousin will not be tempted to notify the authorities when she comes to visit me next weekend. Sleeping and eating feel incidental to all this other bullshit I have going on. And it's been a solid fortnight since I've managed to grace the gym with my presence, which might explain my debilitating lethargy today.
I feel like silly putty when you pull and pull and it gets so thin it's translucent, or maybe like one of those spin-art machines where the drop of paint splatters far and wide across the page.
When all of these engagements are pulling at my coattails, I find that I tend to "ostrich" away from some of them... there doesn't seem to be room for all of it in my head, so I kind of try to will it away - ignore it and maybe it will somehow get taken care of, perhaps a white knight will come or a reprieve will be issued, factory recall for a couple thousand agenda items.
Perhaps a more organized person would have like, a spreadsheet, a color-coded calendar of what to do when, deadlines and important dates and break-downs of what needs to happen when, an i-phone app to remind them about their well-thought out plan for the week. But what I'm also realizing is that I'm not, nor have I ever been, that organized or systematic or methodical of a person.
I'm always late, I procrastinate, I start things without finishing them, I bite off more than I can chew, I stick my iron into a lot of different fires and then run around like a chicken with my head cut off. I say yes when I should say no. I have ideas but lack follow-through. A person with more discipline and better time management skills would not even be typing this blog entry right now...
I know I have a lot to work on as a professional and as a human being. But I'm also realizing, part of me is kind of ok with it. Maybe one day I'll find a really great house husband who will cook and clean and file taxes and pay bills and pack lunches (not sure exactly what I'd bring to such a relationship, but a girl can dream)...but then again, maybe I won't. Either way, I get by. Maybe it ain't so pretty at times, but a certain level of craziness is also part of my me-ness. It makes me think of of the hilarious, whimsical series Walter the Farting Dog. Walter's greatest weakness - his potent farts - also turn out to be his greatest strength. Somehow, in bizarre and unorthodox ways, his farts always end up saving the day.
So I guess I'm kind of like Walter the Farting Dog. I might be inconsistent and distractable and punctually-challenged... but I'm also spontaneous and adaptable and creative and can think on my feet. I don't know that I could be some of those things without being the others.
And the other thing that helps me keep my chin up at times like this is the concept of "happy-ish," coined by a very brilliant soul-searcher/philosopher I know. The idea is that, okay, maybe there's a pothole or a rough patch, maybe sometimes you're sucking in exhaust on the Jersey Turnpike of life... but overall, all things considered is the trend of your life looking good? Do you like where you are and where you are going? Are you headed vaguely in the right direction? Are there little things each day that make you smile, and bigger things to look forward to on the horizon? Maybe today you feel irked or unhappy, but in general, in life, are you happyish?
And I'd have to say, despite standardized tests and group projects and taxes and data collection, the answer is definitely yes.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
Friday, March 19, 2010
escape from data-drive
One of my favorite parts of teaching is the rare opportunities to, um... *not* teach. That is, at least where "teach" is defined by our bastardized, stifling, starchy, ratings-bound version of the TC Workshop Model.
The irony of it is, the reason I wanted to be a teacher was because I love kids (and kind of am one, a large one). But as it happened, much of teaching turned out to be finding novel was to suppress their innate kidishness, to squelch their verve, straighten their kinks and quirks, extinguish their unpredictable flare-ups. I hadn't considered that part of my job description would be squishing them into dress shoes and uniforms and molding them into productive little societally-approved capitalist cogs. (Naturally I am doing my best to undermine the status quo, but these things take time. Progress is a slow but persistent whittle.)
It feels slightly profane to be systematically uprooting the very tendencies that define, in my mind, being a kid. Sitting still for long periods of time, keeping quiet when your brain lights up with an idea, keeping your hands to yourself, being orderly, slow and careful instead of wild, fast and carefree... none of these exactly fit with my (admittedly idealized) notion of childhood.
So it is refreshing when I get to do things that don't follow the prescribed architecture, when there is no script to follow or checklist of approved teaching behaviors. We took the kids on a bowling field trip yesterday, and although it had little to no educational value in my mind, it was so delightful to see them being loud and boisterous, jumping up and down, squealing and high-fiving with the triumph of a strike, and falling to the floor in the agony of a split. It felt so good not to "shush" them. It felt so good for sound and motion to be ok. And by the way, if you ever need a few chuckles, go and watch some shrimpy kids with almost no experience hurl bowling balls jubilantly, yet oh-so-ungracefully, down a greased lane toward some pins.
Today also, we celebrated the end of the biography and literary essay units. I was pleasantly surprised when the kids voted to celebrate their writing in our traditional way, simply by reading and writing compliments about each other's work... It was so gratifying to see evidence that they care about their writing (and each other's), that they're proud of it, that they've invested parts of themselves in it (as well any writer should, I just wasn't convinced it could really happen for 28 pre-pubescent balls of id).
Out of context, if you suggested to an average 10-year old, hey, how would you like to read five or six literary essays in a row? I can't imagine they would respond with much enthusiasm. But here they were, racing each other and elbowing one another out of the way to get to a particular writer's piece first, effortlessly quiet and fully engaged for at least a half hour or more. Cha-ching!
To celebrate reading, we made comic-book biographies of either our own lives or a friend's, or someone they learned about in their reading. D-- made one about me! Quite good, actually. Many of them chose autobiographies. It was so fascinating to peer into their lives through these little windows, to be privy to their defining moments thus far. Moving to India and back, immigration stories, traumatic accidents, the death of a father meaning a switch from a private Bengali performing arts school to public school... it was facinating and gratifying to have a chance to know them as something other than their reading level or math ability, to find out what has been important to them as people... I was thinking, if I could do things MY way, this is much closer to what I'd want it to be like every day.
And then there was Pretzel Club, which felt great for the same uninhibited, unconfined reasons, and because I finally feel like I'm gaining some traction with my mentee, J--. It took some time to get a groove going, to find something that really made him light up, but as it turns out, he's a budding artist. I've been scouring my bookshelves and the library and bookstores, finding graphic novels and comic books for kids. It felt so nice to just. read. with him... we read the clever and adorable Sticky Burr together this afternoon. J-- is usually the main character and I do a variety of ridiculous voices as the rest of the cast of characters. I think hearing me act a fool and have fun with the voices helps him loosen up and read with some expression, too.
It felt great to be unbound by Teaching Points, conference notes, and other TC protocol, and not have to interrupt the enjoyment of the story with strategy-talk. I boosted him along when he got stuck and, like, gave him some helpful hints and all, but I didn't have to make a big DEAL out of it, which you kind of do in an official TC-style One-on-One Reading Conference. What I was doing was helping him learn to read for pleasure and enjoyment, which is what I think he probably needs as a reader as much as decoding strategies or comprehension work. The payoff? With twenty minutes to go I asked if he wanted to stop and work on his own comic, and he chose instead to finish the book with me. Score one for the teacher.
So yeah. Best part of teaching? Seizing the opportunities to not "let data drive my instruction," and instead, hitting cruise control and following my human instincts towards what my heart already knows kids need, but "data" has not yet gotten around to proving.
The irony of it is, the reason I wanted to be a teacher was because I love kids (and kind of am one, a large one). But as it happened, much of teaching turned out to be finding novel was to suppress their innate kidishness, to squelch their verve, straighten their kinks and quirks, extinguish their unpredictable flare-ups. I hadn't considered that part of my job description would be squishing them into dress shoes and uniforms and molding them into productive little societally-approved capitalist cogs. (Naturally I am doing my best to undermine the status quo, but these things take time. Progress is a slow but persistent whittle.)
It feels slightly profane to be systematically uprooting the very tendencies that define, in my mind, being a kid. Sitting still for long periods of time, keeping quiet when your brain lights up with an idea, keeping your hands to yourself, being orderly, slow and careful instead of wild, fast and carefree... none of these exactly fit with my (admittedly idealized) notion of childhood.
So it is refreshing when I get to do things that don't follow the prescribed architecture, when there is no script to follow or checklist of approved teaching behaviors. We took the kids on a bowling field trip yesterday, and although it had little to no educational value in my mind, it was so delightful to see them being loud and boisterous, jumping up and down, squealing and high-fiving with the triumph of a strike, and falling to the floor in the agony of a split. It felt so good not to "shush" them. It felt so good for sound and motion to be ok. And by the way, if you ever need a few chuckles, go and watch some shrimpy kids with almost no experience hurl bowling balls jubilantly, yet oh-so-ungracefully, down a greased lane toward some pins.
Today also, we celebrated the end of the biography and literary essay units. I was pleasantly surprised when the kids voted to celebrate their writing in our traditional way, simply by reading and writing compliments about each other's work... It was so gratifying to see evidence that they care about their writing (and each other's), that they're proud of it, that they've invested parts of themselves in it (as well any writer should, I just wasn't convinced it could really happen for 28 pre-pubescent balls of id).
Out of context, if you suggested to an average 10-year old, hey, how would you like to read five or six literary essays in a row? I can't imagine they would respond with much enthusiasm. But here they were, racing each other and elbowing one another out of the way to get to a particular writer's piece first, effortlessly quiet and fully engaged for at least a half hour or more. Cha-ching!
To celebrate reading, we made comic-book biographies of either our own lives or a friend's, or someone they learned about in their reading. D-- made one about me! Quite good, actually. Many of them chose autobiographies. It was so fascinating to peer into their lives through these little windows, to be privy to their defining moments thus far. Moving to India and back, immigration stories, traumatic accidents, the death of a father meaning a switch from a private Bengali performing arts school to public school... it was facinating and gratifying to have a chance to know them as something other than their reading level or math ability, to find out what has been important to them as people... I was thinking, if I could do things MY way, this is much closer to what I'd want it to be like every day.
And then there was Pretzel Club, which felt great for the same uninhibited, unconfined reasons, and because I finally feel like I'm gaining some traction with my mentee, J--. It took some time to get a groove going, to find something that really made him light up, but as it turns out, he's a budding artist. I've been scouring my bookshelves and the library and bookstores, finding graphic novels and comic books for kids. It felt so nice to just. read. with him... we read the clever and adorable Sticky Burr together this afternoon. J-- is usually the main character and I do a variety of ridiculous voices as the rest of the cast of characters. I think hearing me act a fool and have fun with the voices helps him loosen up and read with some expression, too.
It felt great to be unbound by Teaching Points, conference notes, and other TC protocol, and not have to interrupt the enjoyment of the story with strategy-talk. I boosted him along when he got stuck and, like, gave him some helpful hints and all, but I didn't have to make a big DEAL out of it, which you kind of do in an official TC-style One-on-One Reading Conference. What I was doing was helping him learn to read for pleasure and enjoyment, which is what I think he probably needs as a reader as much as decoding strategies or comprehension work. The payoff? With twenty minutes to go I asked if he wanted to stop and work on his own comic, and he chose instead to finish the book with me. Score one for the teacher.
So yeah. Best part of teaching? Seizing the opportunities to not "let data drive my instruction," and instead, hitting cruise control and following my human instincts towards what my heart already knows kids need, but "data" has not yet gotten around to proving.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
love love love
One of the things that I have, that at a certain point in my life never believed I would be able to have, is a life outside of school! Even on weekdays! My school friends don't cease to amaze me with their exuberance for life and their generosity, their humor, openness and compassion. I feel like I can't get enough of them.
I woke up from a nap, here at Jafa's house, which is where I am because I just cannot say no to these people, and because my desire to be with them overcame my overwhelming desire to pass out face down and create a little puddle of drool as I nap away my bone-deep exhaustion. (Win-win situation: re-locating said drool puddle to Jafa and King's bed!)
You know that moment of clarity sometimes when you just wake up? I just had one of how much I love all of them, almost desperately - a worry of someday not having them in my life that is akin to what I think it probably feels like to be in love.
I cannot take for granted them taking care of me - making me tacos, providing me with fleece-y pants, socks, cookies and other delicious baked goods, napping space... knowing what it was like to be going it alone makes me all the more appreciative of this newfound beauty.
Yesterday Corky and I went to Manhattan to welcome Sha-naynay's new baby into the world, and then to Trader Joe's and then to Corky's house to drink wine and plot fun things for the future... today I'm spur-of-the-moment sleeping over at Jafa and King's and words elude me to describe my contentment.
*****************
The Backstory:
All this is in stark contrast to my typical afternoon as little as one year ago. More often than not, during the Dark Times, I'd stay in school impotently scratching out uncertain lesson plans, forcing myself to prepare a bare minimum of materials to get myself through the following day, wondering how everyone else had managed to leave already. I'd generally stay until after dark then drag my weary, lifeless body onto the crowded Q33 bus, sucked dry from the neediness and constant low-grade chaos of the 20 first graders under my tutelage.
The bus would bring me back to my spacious but isolated old apartment next to LaGuardia airport. I'd trudge across the exhaust-filled overpass of the Grand Central Parkway and heave myself into my empty home, sometimes having spoken to no one other than Rusty the janitor, and maybe my chain-smoking Yugoslavian neighbor if she was in her usual position on the front stoop.
I never seemed to have much in the way of groceries and my roommate was rarely around when I was. I'd drink a couple beers or more, depending on the day, and on the worst days I'd call up my Esteemed Aunt of Infinite Patience in California and cry. Often I'd fall asleep on the couch, lights burning, dishes in the sink, and wake up disoriented at 11 or 12 at night, turn off the lights and crawl into bed.
This was also the period of time when I Netflixed all six seasons of The Wire, and although I still maintain that it is the single best television show ever created by mankind, watching it then was a little intense. Perhaps it was not the wisest choice in terms of my emotional well-being to spend my off time watching a show about other people who were working unforgiving, thankless jobs and being trod down by The System, in it for the right reasons but being swiftly, brutally and mercilessly shorn of their idealism and hope for the future... but I preferred its ugly, resonant truths to other white-washed, perfume-scented untruths. I watched that and brainless comedies only. Any film with too much depth made my stomach hurt, and any movie that had small children in it, even happy ones (especially happy ones) made me weep with untoward and disproportionate devastation.
A year ago, Kima, McNulty and Omar were my embitterred companions, offering me comiseration in a world gone wrong and some measure of comfort in knowing that somewhere out there, people were worse off than me...
but my, how the cast of characters has changed.
All that darkness was before Jafa and Corky became indispensable staples of my everyday life, both in and out of school. I can't believe how tentatively I participated in Corky's birthday party last April, how unsuspecting I was of our impending connection, how drastically my sad little life was about to change for the better.
Now it seems so normal, so expected, so as-it-should-be to have Jafa stuffing enormous forkful's of King's famous quiche into my mouth everyday at lunch; to have Corky to turn to with every minute question or idea, or to put silly or mushy notes in each other's mailboxes; to have Smartboard lessons arrive on the flashdrive in my hands that I didn't have to make. No more suffering in anguish with each jagged, ruinous stroke of the marker on chart paper...
I used to feel jealous of my other colleagues who could be so relaxed and playful at lunch, rather than frantically trying to prepare the afternoon's lessons as I did. But it seems like nothing at all to be yucking it up at Henrietta's impersonations or cooing over Shanaynay's baby belly, and now, her baby pictures. My life has undergone, in the last year, an inestimably important transformation, a 180 degree turn for the better. For this I am and ever will be eternally grateful.
I woke up from a nap, here at Jafa's house, which is where I am because I just cannot say no to these people, and because my desire to be with them overcame my overwhelming desire to pass out face down and create a little puddle of drool as I nap away my bone-deep exhaustion. (Win-win situation: re-locating said drool puddle to Jafa and King's bed!)
You know that moment of clarity sometimes when you just wake up? I just had one of how much I love all of them, almost desperately - a worry of someday not having them in my life that is akin to what I think it probably feels like to be in love.
I cannot take for granted them taking care of me - making me tacos, providing me with fleece-y pants, socks, cookies and other delicious baked goods, napping space... knowing what it was like to be going it alone makes me all the more appreciative of this newfound beauty.
Yesterday Corky and I went to Manhattan to welcome Sha-naynay's new baby into the world, and then to Trader Joe's and then to Corky's house to drink wine and plot fun things for the future... today I'm spur-of-the-moment sleeping over at Jafa and King's and words elude me to describe my contentment.
*****************
The Backstory:
All this is in stark contrast to my typical afternoon as little as one year ago. More often than not, during the Dark Times, I'd stay in school impotently scratching out uncertain lesson plans, forcing myself to prepare a bare minimum of materials to get myself through the following day, wondering how everyone else had managed to leave already. I'd generally stay until after dark then drag my weary, lifeless body onto the crowded Q33 bus, sucked dry from the neediness and constant low-grade chaos of the 20 first graders under my tutelage.
The bus would bring me back to my spacious but isolated old apartment next to LaGuardia airport. I'd trudge across the exhaust-filled overpass of the Grand Central Parkway and heave myself into my empty home, sometimes having spoken to no one other than Rusty the janitor, and maybe my chain-smoking Yugoslavian neighbor if she was in her usual position on the front stoop.
I never seemed to have much in the way of groceries and my roommate was rarely around when I was. I'd drink a couple beers or more, depending on the day, and on the worst days I'd call up my Esteemed Aunt of Infinite Patience in California and cry. Often I'd fall asleep on the couch, lights burning, dishes in the sink, and wake up disoriented at 11 or 12 at night, turn off the lights and crawl into bed.
This was also the period of time when I Netflixed all six seasons of The Wire, and although I still maintain that it is the single best television show ever created by mankind, watching it then was a little intense. Perhaps it was not the wisest choice in terms of my emotional well-being to spend my off time watching a show about other people who were working unforgiving, thankless jobs and being trod down by The System, in it for the right reasons but being swiftly, brutally and mercilessly shorn of their idealism and hope for the future... but I preferred its ugly, resonant truths to other white-washed, perfume-scented untruths. I watched that and brainless comedies only. Any film with too much depth made my stomach hurt, and any movie that had small children in it, even happy ones (especially happy ones) made me weep with untoward and disproportionate devastation.
A year ago, Kima, McNulty and Omar were my embitterred companions, offering me comiseration in a world gone wrong and some measure of comfort in knowing that somewhere out there, people were worse off than me...
but my, how the cast of characters has changed.
All that darkness was before Jafa and Corky became indispensable staples of my everyday life, both in and out of school. I can't believe how tentatively I participated in Corky's birthday party last April, how unsuspecting I was of our impending connection, how drastically my sad little life was about to change for the better.
Now it seems so normal, so expected, so as-it-should-be to have Jafa stuffing enormous forkful's of King's famous quiche into my mouth everyday at lunch; to have Corky to turn to with every minute question or idea, or to put silly or mushy notes in each other's mailboxes; to have Smartboard lessons arrive on the flashdrive in my hands that I didn't have to make. No more suffering in anguish with each jagged, ruinous stroke of the marker on chart paper...
I used to feel jealous of my other colleagues who could be so relaxed and playful at lunch, rather than frantically trying to prepare the afternoon's lessons as I did. But it seems like nothing at all to be yucking it up at Henrietta's impersonations or cooing over Shanaynay's baby belly, and now, her baby pictures. My life has undergone, in the last year, an inestimably important transformation, a 180 degree turn for the better. For this I am and ever will be eternally grateful.
Monday, March 15, 2010
Parent Teacher Conferences
I'm trying to figure out why I get so intensely anxious about parent teacher conferences, what exactly led me to mechanically eat a whole bag of pretzels on the train ride home in order to blunt or replace the subtle gnawing dread in the pit of my stomach about tomorrow's day-long parental extravaganza...
I guess it's that Parent Teacher Conference is the time when I most feel the burden of their trust.
It's also the time when I feel the most like an impostor. Sure, I've learned to talk the talk and even walk the walk most of the time. When it's just me and the kids I feel fine, they know the deal... But their parents...
It's not that any parents I've encountered have ever been unkind or unwilling to listen or too demanding or accusing or confrontational or anything like that - the reality is closer to the opposite. In general they are humble and deferential and come with a great respect for Teacher, School and Education.
It is this reverence, perhaps, that is the most unsettling... I am afraid they will see through me, that they will find out as they penetrate me with their questioning eyes that I am a mere mortal, practically a child myself. I'm afraid I won't live up to their expectations, that they will realize how un-credentialed and inexperienced I am, how thinly veiled is my ignorance about the world. I am afraid they'll find out, when it comes down to it, that I don't know crap about crap.
Part of my discomfort is feeling ill-equipped to offer any meaningful answers...They look down at the strings of numbers whose meaning, even for me with my impending graduate degree, is somewhat obscure and difficult to discern. What they see is red or black ink staring back at them, 1's or 2's or 3's or 4's telling them their child is less or more, enough or not enough, and though of course any teacher tiptoes around these words, right there in black and white, they see "good" or "bad."
And then they look back up at you plaintively and ask "What should I do?? How can I help my child??"
My canned advice comes out sounding feeble and flat. Read as much as possible at home... practice the times tables... do the homework...
It doesn't feel as if I'm answering the right question. It's as if I came upon them starving in a desert and offered them a Tic Tac.
The report cards themselves are opaque and archaic (hand-written, mass-produced by the DOE for distribution among all of New York City Public Schools) and don't even align with what we're actually teaching them... how can I assign a grade for grammar when that's not even part of the curriculum? What do they mean when they say "Calculates equations with efficiency and accuracy?" Am I meant to be timing them? It sounds as if the person who designed the report card is envisioning pupils in rows plugging away at their long division, and if that's the case, perhaps that person should poke their nose inside a classroom sometime this side of 1950...The criteria for each subject seem almost random, like it was all somebody could think of at the time.
Communication is another sticking point. It takes a lot, to try and explain and justify and comfort -- some of the conferences I feel more like a therapist, trying to convince students and parents alike that low grades do not represent personal failure, but rather an opportunity for improvement. The conferences in Spanish I pretty much do myself, because there's a limited set of things the conversation will touch upon and I'm able to communicate a good 60% of what I mean to say. (Translation is available but I prefer not to wait and to have the conversation directly if I can manage it). And the ones in English, most of the parents probably understand another 60% of what I say.
I've also noticed a stark contrast with my first grade Parent Teacher Conferences. Those parents I knew better because they picked the kids up from school every day and I had to have more contact by default, since first graders only have the vaguest of understandings about most things... In first grade I felt I had more to offer, more suggestions for the parents about the process of learning to read and helping kids get number sense ... telling time, counting change, practicing sight words, learning the alphabet... these were things, concrete things, they could DO.
With many of my Big Kids, especially the ones who walk home alone, this might only be the second time I lay eyes on their parents... (Evidence of yet another institutional shortcoming of P.S. OO, with its fortress walls and uniformed guards and draconian, unwelcoming visitor policies and almost hostile treatment of parents and guests) But not only do I not know the 5th grade parents as well, I have less to say to them. The average PS OO parent can't help with math homework any longer once it gets to prime factorization and five-paragraph essays and determining symbolism. I sometimes wonder what it's like to work on writing pieces in a language your parents can't really read or understand...
But the biggest part of my dilemma about communication is not just how but what. Sure, for some kids a low grade is a much-needed kick in the pants. But that's a minority of students...
I have a big problem with the way we grade. My problem is that the grades haven't caught up with the pedagogy... As teachers we differentiate, differentiate all day long, we teach according to our students' needs, recognize students' unique learning styles and address the different modalities. We are held accountable for acknowledging that every student is different and are expected to reflect that understanding in our teaching. So where are the differentiated assessments? Why do we not differentiate our evaluations in the same way, taking into account what has been proven a zillion times over about the huma brain - mainly, that no two are alike?
How come A--, my newcomer who works her ass off every day and went up seven reading levels in four months is getting big, fat, bright red "one" in Reading... In contrast with my above-average intelligence but kinda lazy native New Yorker who went up one solitary reading level, but still gets to ease by with a comfortable "on grade level" 3.
Not to mention the paradox that, if the "on grade level" grade is based on the average performance of 10-year-olds, let's say the middle third of the lot... doesn't it make the assessment inappropriate for the other two thirds of the lot?
Knowing my poor C--, who still adds on her fingers and just can't seem to wrap her head around the times tables, though not for lack of trying, will take the same test as B--, who could probably teach the math curriculum better than I, is just frustrating. The end result in terms of teaching, unjust and distasteful as it might be, is that B-- is bored most of the time and often ignored, and C-- is floundering as I overwhelm her with "quick-fixes..." Prodded by the pressure of the ever-present Deadline, I glaze over gaps in fundamental understanding by training her to memorize steps out of context, frantically trying to fluff up her performance and mask her limited understanding by the time the big bad test arrives...
My trouble is that in my heart, I know the grades are bullshit. They're not fair and they don't reflect true learning and they don't take into account significant progress that has been made and they gloss over the fact that people learn, and demonstrate their learning, in different ways.
But to these immigrant families, the grades are not bullshit. For many of them, these grades are the reason to go to work each day cleaning houses and driving taxis and making deliveries, the reason for having left home and relatives and everything they ever knew. The report card holds the evidence that they and their children are getting closer, making progress towards that Better Life they're seeking.
I know how easily, and almost arbitrarily, I assign the grades that come to mean so much. In the raw, they don't really matter to me.
But at the same time, it would feel disloyal to the struggles and striving of the families to act as if they aren't important. The fact that I don't care about them must remain a secret because the significance of these grades goes beyond identifying a kid's strengths and weaknesses, their aptitudes or idiosyncracies. The report cards are not really about me at all... the grades represent purpose, hope, dreams, prayers... I'm not just validating the kids' work, but also the hard work and decisions and sacrifices and difficult choices of their families. In a sense, by the power vested in me by the state of New York and the dominant culture of the US of A, I'm grading them on how well they're living out their American Dreams.
In a sense, I have to continue to spout the party lines so that the families can continue to have faith in the system. I am forced to defend a system I see as so flawed and arbitrary and at times harmful and poisonous, because no parent wants their child's teacher to tell them, "This will not work. The chances are slim. There is just so much working against your child." These kids and their families, they don't really have a choice about buying into the system because it's really the only system available to them. For them, public education HAS to work; they have no other choice but to believe that it will. To tell them my true feelings would serve no purpose, would ultimately be a disservice. Instead, I tell them to work hard, keep on striving, you're almost there, you can do it if you try. Because, in a certain light, it's the only possible truth to say or hear.
Maybe I'm putting too much pressure on myself, reading too much into Parent Teacher Conferences.
But maybe not.
I guess it's that Parent Teacher Conference is the time when I most feel the burden of their trust.
It's also the time when I feel the most like an impostor. Sure, I've learned to talk the talk and even walk the walk most of the time. When it's just me and the kids I feel fine, they know the deal... But their parents...
It's not that any parents I've encountered have ever been unkind or unwilling to listen or too demanding or accusing or confrontational or anything like that - the reality is closer to the opposite. In general they are humble and deferential and come with a great respect for Teacher, School and Education.
It is this reverence, perhaps, that is the most unsettling... I am afraid they will see through me, that they will find out as they penetrate me with their questioning eyes that I am a mere mortal, practically a child myself. I'm afraid I won't live up to their expectations, that they will realize how un-credentialed and inexperienced I am, how thinly veiled is my ignorance about the world. I am afraid they'll find out, when it comes down to it, that I don't know crap about crap.
Part of my discomfort is feeling ill-equipped to offer any meaningful answers...They look down at the strings of numbers whose meaning, even for me with my impending graduate degree, is somewhat obscure and difficult to discern. What they see is red or black ink staring back at them, 1's or 2's or 3's or 4's telling them their child is less or more, enough or not enough, and though of course any teacher tiptoes around these words, right there in black and white, they see "good" or "bad."
And then they look back up at you plaintively and ask "What should I do?? How can I help my child??"
My canned advice comes out sounding feeble and flat. Read as much as possible at home... practice the times tables... do the homework...
It doesn't feel as if I'm answering the right question. It's as if I came upon them starving in a desert and offered them a Tic Tac.
The report cards themselves are opaque and archaic (hand-written, mass-produced by the DOE for distribution among all of New York City Public Schools) and don't even align with what we're actually teaching them... how can I assign a grade for grammar when that's not even part of the curriculum? What do they mean when they say "Calculates equations with efficiency and accuracy?" Am I meant to be timing them? It sounds as if the person who designed the report card is envisioning pupils in rows plugging away at their long division, and if that's the case, perhaps that person should poke their nose inside a classroom sometime this side of 1950...The criteria for each subject seem almost random, like it was all somebody could think of at the time.
Communication is another sticking point. It takes a lot, to try and explain and justify and comfort -- some of the conferences I feel more like a therapist, trying to convince students and parents alike that low grades do not represent personal failure, but rather an opportunity for improvement. The conferences in Spanish I pretty much do myself, because there's a limited set of things the conversation will touch upon and I'm able to communicate a good 60% of what I mean to say. (Translation is available but I prefer not to wait and to have the conversation directly if I can manage it). And the ones in English, most of the parents probably understand another 60% of what I say.
I've also noticed a stark contrast with my first grade Parent Teacher Conferences. Those parents I knew better because they picked the kids up from school every day and I had to have more contact by default, since first graders only have the vaguest of understandings about most things... In first grade I felt I had more to offer, more suggestions for the parents about the process of learning to read and helping kids get number sense ... telling time, counting change, practicing sight words, learning the alphabet... these were things, concrete things, they could DO.
With many of my Big Kids, especially the ones who walk home alone, this might only be the second time I lay eyes on their parents... (Evidence of yet another institutional shortcoming of P.S. OO, with its fortress walls and uniformed guards and draconian, unwelcoming visitor policies and almost hostile treatment of parents and guests) But not only do I not know the 5th grade parents as well, I have less to say to them. The average PS OO parent can't help with math homework any longer once it gets to prime factorization and five-paragraph essays and determining symbolism. I sometimes wonder what it's like to work on writing pieces in a language your parents can't really read or understand...
But the biggest part of my dilemma about communication is not just how but what. Sure, for some kids a low grade is a much-needed kick in the pants. But that's a minority of students...
I have a big problem with the way we grade. My problem is that the grades haven't caught up with the pedagogy... As teachers we differentiate, differentiate all day long, we teach according to our students' needs, recognize students' unique learning styles and address the different modalities. We are held accountable for acknowledging that every student is different and are expected to reflect that understanding in our teaching. So where are the differentiated assessments? Why do we not differentiate our evaluations in the same way, taking into account what has been proven a zillion times over about the huma brain - mainly, that no two are alike?
How come A--, my newcomer who works her ass off every day and went up seven reading levels in four months is getting big, fat, bright red "one" in Reading... In contrast with my above-average intelligence but kinda lazy native New Yorker who went up one solitary reading level, but still gets to ease by with a comfortable "on grade level" 3.
Not to mention the paradox that, if the "on grade level" grade is based on the average performance of 10-year-olds, let's say the middle third of the lot... doesn't it make the assessment inappropriate for the other two thirds of the lot?
Knowing my poor C--, who still adds on her fingers and just can't seem to wrap her head around the times tables, though not for lack of trying, will take the same test as B--, who could probably teach the math curriculum better than I, is just frustrating. The end result in terms of teaching, unjust and distasteful as it might be, is that B-- is bored most of the time and often ignored, and C-- is floundering as I overwhelm her with "quick-fixes..." Prodded by the pressure of the ever-present Deadline, I glaze over gaps in fundamental understanding by training her to memorize steps out of context, frantically trying to fluff up her performance and mask her limited understanding by the time the big bad test arrives...
My trouble is that in my heart, I know the grades are bullshit. They're not fair and they don't reflect true learning and they don't take into account significant progress that has been made and they gloss over the fact that people learn, and demonstrate their learning, in different ways.
But to these immigrant families, the grades are not bullshit. For many of them, these grades are the reason to go to work each day cleaning houses and driving taxis and making deliveries, the reason for having left home and relatives and everything they ever knew. The report card holds the evidence that they and their children are getting closer, making progress towards that Better Life they're seeking.
I know how easily, and almost arbitrarily, I assign the grades that come to mean so much. In the raw, they don't really matter to me.
But at the same time, it would feel disloyal to the struggles and striving of the families to act as if they aren't important. The fact that I don't care about them must remain a secret because the significance of these grades goes beyond identifying a kid's strengths and weaknesses, their aptitudes or idiosyncracies. The report cards are not really about me at all... the grades represent purpose, hope, dreams, prayers... I'm not just validating the kids' work, but also the hard work and decisions and sacrifices and difficult choices of their families. In a sense, by the power vested in me by the state of New York and the dominant culture of the US of A, I'm grading them on how well they're living out their American Dreams.
In a sense, I have to continue to spout the party lines so that the families can continue to have faith in the system. I am forced to defend a system I see as so flawed and arbitrary and at times harmful and poisonous, because no parent wants their child's teacher to tell them, "This will not work. The chances are slim. There is just so much working against your child." These kids and their families, they don't really have a choice about buying into the system because it's really the only system available to them. For them, public education HAS to work; they have no other choice but to believe that it will. To tell them my true feelings would serve no purpose, would ultimately be a disservice. Instead, I tell them to work hard, keep on striving, you're almost there, you can do it if you try. Because, in a certain light, it's the only possible truth to say or hear.
Maybe I'm putting too much pressure on myself, reading too much into Parent Teacher Conferences.
But maybe not.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
Prioritizing
Teaching, like living, is a never-ending series of small sacrifices. Who was it who said (quite rightly) you cannot be everything to everyone at all times? You can't even be everything to yourself a small fraction of the time, given the constraints of existing as only one entity in time and space. (A sorry state that is ever un-conducive to being and doing the multitude of things you mean to be and do all at once.)
Prioritizing means giving things up, and doing it well means knowing which things to give up at what times.
In class, it can mean letting a student's snide comment go by unaddressed for the sake of not interrupting the focus of the rest of the class.
Last winter, it meant quitting Latvian school to restore a baseline level of sanity in my life.
Yesterday, it meant ditching the mural-painting event at school I really wanted to attend for a long-awaited road trip upstate to visit M.
Friday night, it meant sacrificing staying for a second drink for the sake of going home and getting some sleep.
Thursday I stayed after class at grad school to work on my thesis, knowing it would mean dinner would have to be a sandwich scarfed on the subway ride home.
Wednesday I forewent the gym (again...) to see some good friends that I'd been missing.
Staying late and throwing myself into work last Tuesday meant the cupboards would go bare for a few more days and dirty laundry would have to continue to accumulate, artfully arranging itself topographically in higher and higher mountain ranges in and around the hamper.
Going to Inner Resilience on Monday meant another week of not cooking communal dinner for my roommates even though it's something really want to do, and not cleaning the bathroom even though it really was my turn and it really needed to be done.
And day to day, sinking a bunch of my time into keeping this blog, even though I really love doing it, has meant maybe not talking to my friends and family in person quite as much as I'd like.
And then of course there is the host of things I've had to postpone essentially until further notice because I simply can't find a way to make room for them now (unless I somehow figure out how to teleport or live without sleeping or smuggle some extra hours into the day). Things like art projects or gardening, or joining volleyball or reading the newspaper, or cooking or training for my next triathlon or spending more time in nature or babysitting my nieces and nephews or trying to have some sort of meaningful romantic life... Hard as it is to admit it or accept it, these things will just have to wait. Maybe when I graduate. Maybe in the summer. Maybe next year.
It takes a long time to get good at choosing the best choices at the right times. I guess it's a craft I might never really perfect, and I'd wager that maybe no one ever does... It's hard to learn which internal voices to listen to and which ones to ignore, which one has the right of way, and to parse out the consequences of ignoring or obeying each competing demand. Juggling a lot of balls takes concentration, and inevitably you end up dropping some of them from time to time.
Sometimes your body takes over for your brain, and your list of priorities self-shuffles despite your logical protestations. Like falling asleep before that Critically Important Task is complete, or spending an afternoon rearranging the classroom library despite the fact that it was like 18th or 19th at best on the master list of Needs to Happen and would never have been categorized as urgent. Sometimes happy hour takes precedence over grading papers, and sometimes the other way around. (and sometimes, happily, the two can be combined!)
Some of the best teaching advice I ever got was, "work smarter, not harder." But despite my full and unmitigated belief in this credo, I still find myself reverting sometimes to my old, erratic, engine-revving, spinning-tire hamster-wheel tendencies.
Sometimes it's also sad to think about things you might be missing out on, especially when you're feeling particularly lonely or under-appreciated or overburdened, or when you're forced to spend your precious time on something you'd rather not (like pointless paperwork or long-winded meetings or commuting to class or waiting in line).
But the payoff in all this constant decision-making is recognizing, in fleeting, glowing golden moments, times when you've made the right choice...
This weekend I hit pay dirt in the golden moments department. In exchange for neglecting my laundry and my empty cupboards and my woefully wayward workout regimen I received a precious gift: sitting around the floor of M's cozy cabin in the woods of New Paltz with five great friends, laughing as they free-styled a silly song about philosophers and quantum mechanics. Wine flowing, rain blowing, bongoes drumming and guitar strumming, I thought to myself, aaaah, this is the life, the one I've imagined...
Part of me wanted to phone up New York City, tell them to send my apologies to my kids and colleagues but I'm quitting my job and they'll have to finish out the year without me, as I'm moving into the forest and becoming a full-time hippie.
Ultimately (for better or worse) my feet on the ground won out over my head in the clouds, and I returned to face Mt. Laundry, daylight savings, parent teacher conferences, the treadmill and my thesis.
But in my pocket to refer to when I need it I have that keepsake moment, a golden nugget to remind me of an important truth, as souvenir of Life as it Should Be...
That moment I was not a tired teacher or a grumbling grad student or a crabby commuter or a troubled tax-payer or a negligent roommate or a deadbeat auntie or a walking zombie... briefly, rarely, indulgently, I got to be nothing more than myself.
Prioritizing means giving things up, and doing it well means knowing which things to give up at what times.
In class, it can mean letting a student's snide comment go by unaddressed for the sake of not interrupting the focus of the rest of the class.
Last winter, it meant quitting Latvian school to restore a baseline level of sanity in my life.
Yesterday, it meant ditching the mural-painting event at school I really wanted to attend for a long-awaited road trip upstate to visit M.
Friday night, it meant sacrificing staying for a second drink for the sake of going home and getting some sleep.
Thursday I stayed after class at grad school to work on my thesis, knowing it would mean dinner would have to be a sandwich scarfed on the subway ride home.
Wednesday I forewent the gym (again...) to see some good friends that I'd been missing.
Staying late and throwing myself into work last Tuesday meant the cupboards would go bare for a few more days and dirty laundry would have to continue to accumulate, artfully arranging itself topographically in higher and higher mountain ranges in and around the hamper.
Going to Inner Resilience on Monday meant another week of not cooking communal dinner for my roommates even though it's something really want to do, and not cleaning the bathroom even though it really was my turn and it really needed to be done.
And day to day, sinking a bunch of my time into keeping this blog, even though I really love doing it, has meant maybe not talking to my friends and family in person quite as much as I'd like.
And then of course there is the host of things I've had to postpone essentially until further notice because I simply can't find a way to make room for them now (unless I somehow figure out how to teleport or live without sleeping or smuggle some extra hours into the day). Things like art projects or gardening, or joining volleyball or reading the newspaper, or cooking or training for my next triathlon or spending more time in nature or babysitting my nieces and nephews or trying to have some sort of meaningful romantic life... Hard as it is to admit it or accept it, these things will just have to wait. Maybe when I graduate. Maybe in the summer. Maybe next year.
It takes a long time to get good at choosing the best choices at the right times. I guess it's a craft I might never really perfect, and I'd wager that maybe no one ever does... It's hard to learn which internal voices to listen to and which ones to ignore, which one has the right of way, and to parse out the consequences of ignoring or obeying each competing demand. Juggling a lot of balls takes concentration, and inevitably you end up dropping some of them from time to time.
Sometimes your body takes over for your brain, and your list of priorities self-shuffles despite your logical protestations. Like falling asleep before that Critically Important Task is complete, or spending an afternoon rearranging the classroom library despite the fact that it was like 18th or 19th at best on the master list of Needs to Happen and would never have been categorized as urgent. Sometimes happy hour takes precedence over grading papers, and sometimes the other way around. (and sometimes, happily, the two can be combined!)
Some of the best teaching advice I ever got was, "work smarter, not harder." But despite my full and unmitigated belief in this credo, I still find myself reverting sometimes to my old, erratic, engine-revving, spinning-tire hamster-wheel tendencies.
Sometimes it's also sad to think about things you might be missing out on, especially when you're feeling particularly lonely or under-appreciated or overburdened, or when you're forced to spend your precious time on something you'd rather not (like pointless paperwork or long-winded meetings or commuting to class or waiting in line).
But the payoff in all this constant decision-making is recognizing, in fleeting, glowing golden moments, times when you've made the right choice...
This weekend I hit pay dirt in the golden moments department. In exchange for neglecting my laundry and my empty cupboards and my woefully wayward workout regimen I received a precious gift: sitting around the floor of M's cozy cabin in the woods of New Paltz with five great friends, laughing as they free-styled a silly song about philosophers and quantum mechanics. Wine flowing, rain blowing, bongoes drumming and guitar strumming, I thought to myself, aaaah, this is the life, the one I've imagined...
Part of me wanted to phone up New York City, tell them to send my apologies to my kids and colleagues but I'm quitting my job and they'll have to finish out the year without me, as I'm moving into the forest and becoming a full-time hippie.
Ultimately (for better or worse) my feet on the ground won out over my head in the clouds, and I returned to face Mt. Laundry, daylight savings, parent teacher conferences, the treadmill and my thesis.
But in my pocket to refer to when I need it I have that keepsake moment, a golden nugget to remind me of an important truth, as souvenir of Life as it Should Be...
That moment I was not a tired teacher or a grumbling grad student or a crabby commuter or a troubled tax-payer or a negligent roommate or a deadbeat auntie or a walking zombie... briefly, rarely, indulgently, I got to be nothing more than myself.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
highlights and lowlights
Highlights:
Reading biographies to the kids! One of the things I'm loving about fifth grade (as compared to first) is the awesome books we get to read for read aloud. So far we read about Li Cuinxin (sp?), a ballet dancer in communist China, and Jose Limon, a Mexican dancer and choreographer who became world-famous. (Dancing to Freedom and Jose: Born to Dance) The kids are so smart! They totally picked out symbolism and even rocked an allegory about a frog stuck in a well in Dancing to Freedom. It's really gratifying to set them up for that and hear their conversations and watch their faces when they figure it out... heh heh. And they think they thought of it all on their own!
When we finished Jose, I said, "Ladies, don't worry, because next up I have a selection of biographies about courageous and powerful women." (Wilma Rudolph, Eleanor Roosevelt and Amelia Earhart) And the class groaned! (Mostly the boys, I guess, since they're at that boys vs. girls age.)
Naturally I was appalled and righteously indignant and told them how offended I was as a woman, launching into an only partly-sensical tirade about the centuries long fight for women's rights. Connecting it to segregation (which, I'm proud to report, is totally like a popular buzzword in the class since MLK day) seemed to make them sufficiently sheepish. And as a bonus my face turned all red (as it is wont to do when I get flustered or worked up,) and the students always enjoy that immensely.
BUT, the real payoff came the next day when the class went to choose their new book club books, and one of the groups (all boys!) chose a book about this suffragette women that I'd never even heard of myself... and J was like, Ms. D, we chose this book because of what you said yesterday!
I was totally floored... I'm still feel pleasantly surprised and mildly shocked when I find proof that they've listened to what I've said. And the book also led to a really interesting conversation about their parents' jobs the glass ceiling and present-day slavery in Bangladesh. J said of his mom, who cleans houses, "she only makes like $350 a week but she still buys me and my sister everything we want." Which I thought was quite touching.
Lowlight, to off-set all this feel-goodery, is the insane amount of diagnostic testing that I have had to subject the kids to, ostensibly to prepare them for the real thing... but my thinking is, what's the point of having them shackled to their desks in silence, in a sense performing (trained monkeys!) for others to analyze them and statistic-ize them and make them into little colored boxes on grids and data graphs and pie charts... the nice thing about my non-neophyte big-kid 5th graders is that they are actually aware of what they don't know... some of them were saying to me only yesterday, I still need help with adding fractions! I'm getting stuck on common denominator!
Which is timelier and more specific "data" than will be provided by the fancy computer program anyway. So meanwhile I've given up like five entire periods in the last two weeks when I could've been imparting actual information, in order for them to prove to the higher powers of data collection what they don't yet know (which I and they could've already told you anyway) which will then be reported back to me with lots of fancy labels and analytical break-downs, .. Aaah, the circuitous song and dance of over-sized bureacracy.
I would love to calculate the number of instructional periods that are sacrificed this way, between the predictives and practice tests, acuity tests, simulations, principal's content assessment 3 times in three different subjects... All the "data" doesn't directly help the kids - Yes, the teachers use the information gathered from these tests to plan their teaching, but there are other less intrusive, more immediate ways for us to do that.
Producing all these stats is like manufacturing currency for all the administrators and politicians to use for trading horses and counting pennies and pushing agendas. The real reason for the tests is totally external to what goes on inside the classroom. It's for principals and senators to compare and scrutinize, to fly the flag of their policies and practices high when scores go up, or bury them quickly and deeply if the scores did not pan out conveniently, when the exalted facts and figures contradict their personal and political interests.
And, in excess, all this testing robs the kids of actual real learning time that they are entitled to by law. Could someone try to find a legal argument along these lines?
But, not to be overshadowed by the lowlights, I feel like test prep is going all right so far... I tell the kids 'We're in it to win it!" and make them do cheers and chants and make stupid sound effects to keep them awake. Today my Professional Development group came in to use my classroom as a lab site, and the kids got great feedback from the teachers... it was so bizarre and kind of hilarious to see them parroting all the weird stuff I've been doing to try and get them to remember all these strategies and what not. Watching it all from the outside, as if they were in a fishbowl, was kind of strange and unnerving but mostly made me cover my mouth to keep from laughing.
Reading biographies to the kids! One of the things I'm loving about fifth grade (as compared to first) is the awesome books we get to read for read aloud. So far we read about Li Cuinxin (sp?), a ballet dancer in communist China, and Jose Limon, a Mexican dancer and choreographer who became world-famous. (Dancing to Freedom and Jose: Born to Dance) The kids are so smart! They totally picked out symbolism and even rocked an allegory about a frog stuck in a well in Dancing to Freedom. It's really gratifying to set them up for that and hear their conversations and watch their faces when they figure it out... heh heh. And they think they thought of it all on their own!
When we finished Jose, I said, "Ladies, don't worry, because next up I have a selection of biographies about courageous and powerful women." (Wilma Rudolph, Eleanor Roosevelt and Amelia Earhart) And the class groaned! (Mostly the boys, I guess, since they're at that boys vs. girls age.)
Naturally I was appalled and righteously indignant and told them how offended I was as a woman, launching into an only partly-sensical tirade about the centuries long fight for women's rights. Connecting it to segregation (which, I'm proud to report, is totally like a popular buzzword in the class since MLK day) seemed to make them sufficiently sheepish. And as a bonus my face turned all red (as it is wont to do when I get flustered or worked up,) and the students always enjoy that immensely.
BUT, the real payoff came the next day when the class went to choose their new book club books, and one of the groups (all boys!) chose a book about this suffragette women that I'd never even heard of myself... and J was like, Ms. D, we chose this book because of what you said yesterday!
I was totally floored... I'm still feel pleasantly surprised and mildly shocked when I find proof that they've listened to what I've said. And the book also led to a really interesting conversation about their parents' jobs the glass ceiling and present-day slavery in Bangladesh. J said of his mom, who cleans houses, "she only makes like $350 a week but she still buys me and my sister everything we want." Which I thought was quite touching.
Lowlight, to off-set all this feel-goodery, is the insane amount of diagnostic testing that I have had to subject the kids to, ostensibly to prepare them for the real thing... but my thinking is, what's the point of having them shackled to their desks in silence, in a sense performing (trained monkeys!) for others to analyze them and statistic-ize them and make them into little colored boxes on grids and data graphs and pie charts... the nice thing about my non-neophyte big-kid 5th graders is that they are actually aware of what they don't know... some of them were saying to me only yesterday, I still need help with adding fractions! I'm getting stuck on common denominator!
Which is timelier and more specific "data" than will be provided by the fancy computer program anyway. So meanwhile I've given up like five entire periods in the last two weeks when I could've been imparting actual information, in order for them to prove to the higher powers of data collection what they don't yet know (which I and they could've already told you anyway) which will then be reported back to me with lots of fancy labels and analytical break-downs, .. Aaah, the circuitous song and dance of over-sized bureacracy.
I would love to calculate the number of instructional periods that are sacrificed this way, between the predictives and practice tests, acuity tests, simulations, principal's content assessment 3 times in three different subjects... All the "data" doesn't directly help the kids - Yes, the teachers use the information gathered from these tests to plan their teaching, but there are other less intrusive, more immediate ways for us to do that.
Producing all these stats is like manufacturing currency for all the administrators and politicians to use for trading horses and counting pennies and pushing agendas. The real reason for the tests is totally external to what goes on inside the classroom. It's for principals and senators to compare and scrutinize, to fly the flag of their policies and practices high when scores go up, or bury them quickly and deeply if the scores did not pan out conveniently, when the exalted facts and figures contradict their personal and political interests.
And, in excess, all this testing robs the kids of actual real learning time that they are entitled to by law. Could someone try to find a legal argument along these lines?
But, not to be overshadowed by the lowlights, I feel like test prep is going all right so far... I tell the kids 'We're in it to win it!" and make them do cheers and chants and make stupid sound effects to keep them awake. Today my Professional Development group came in to use my classroom as a lab site, and the kids got great feedback from the teachers... it was so bizarre and kind of hilarious to see them parroting all the weird stuff I've been doing to try and get them to remember all these strategies and what not. Watching it all from the outside, as if they were in a fishbowl, was kind of strange and unnerving but mostly made me cover my mouth to keep from laughing.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
be vewy quiet...
Add to my job description:
entymologist/epidemiologist.
Captured a bedbug in the classroom, crawling on Sh--'s pant leg. (Then of course dealt with the fallout from the trauma of the finding of the bedbug all day.) Just one of the many glamorous sidebars of teaching in a densely populated urban setting... Who would've thought that good ol' PS OO would be so teaming with life! Working there has exposed me to a wide variety of biologically diverse organisms, which besides bedbugs includes mice, cockroaches, water bugs (latin name: Godzillus maximus), pigeons that fly in windows, and lice. And all of these I have experienced in a very, shall we say, up close and personal way.
Ah, the rich tapestry of life! The miracle of the natural world!
entymologist/epidemiologist.
Captured a bedbug in the classroom, crawling on Sh--'s pant leg. (Then of course dealt with the fallout from the trauma of the finding of the bedbug all day.) Just one of the many glamorous sidebars of teaching in a densely populated urban setting... Who would've thought that good ol' PS OO would be so teaming with life! Working there has exposed me to a wide variety of biologically diverse organisms, which besides bedbugs includes mice, cockroaches, water bugs (latin name: Godzillus maximus), pigeons that fly in windows, and lice. And all of these I have experienced in a very, shall we say, up close and personal way.
Ah, the rich tapestry of life! The miracle of the natural world!
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