Inquiry Science-Ten Questions or Fewer-L…E…S…S…

Thank you Publix for fixing all of your lessess to fewers. It is a step forward for all grammar kind. I felt pure joy when I saw these new signs. I looked at the people around me, and they were just counting their items to make sure they didn’t go over quota. I count mine too, and even have guilt when the eleventh item makes its way into my cart. Then there is always that poor soul who didn’t see the sign, and has placed sixty-five items on the conveyor belt thingy. We all know because not only do we count our items, but we also count the items in the cart in front of us. Again, this brings me to my thoughts on inquiry science and the manner in which instruction is changing.  It happens, over time-even if it looks and sounds unfamiliar, like the cadence of fewer versus less.

Publix-2-0012

One of the last classes I took to complete my specialist degree was physical science. The class was inquiry based-or what I call  McGyiver science.

My professor insisted that we never give students the exact materials for an experiment that will guarantee the desired outcome. Science is about trial and error, acknowledging variables, and persevering.  She asked us if we were expecting perfect results, or encouraging students to re-work hypotheses, collaborate, and discuss the work? It may turn out that the growth is in the mistake.

That summer was complete with my ill constructed foam roller coaster that had neither a loop nor a hill, a defunct lemon battery, and toy cars breaking down because the load was too heavy. It reminded me of my home economics class where my decorated cake looked like abstract art, and my A-line skirt was used as an example of what can go wrong in sewing.  The other day, I was faced with a vacuum cleaner and a bag. The vacuum mocks my inability to get the bag to ‘snap’ in. However, I did use that vacuum cleaner to fight a snake in my house-so I used what I had available.

This year as a gifted teacher, I have focused on inquiry science with my 3rd graders. Part of teaching inquiry is letting your personal control freak go. The first step is to admit you are a control freak teacher. Then it is time to let go a little, and let the kids do the learning.

Things are messy. Stuff spills. Students have odd ideas of what will and won’t work. They are determined that a pound of bricks weighs more than a pound of feathers.

I asked them what they thought about inquiry labs:

“You never know what is going to happen.”

“We can do things on our own.”

“We have to figure things out.”

“We got to use duct tape.”

I will say that if you add duct tape to any classroom activity, you will have the undivided attention of your class. I don’t know why, but it is true. Of course, we had the discussion about DUCT tape vs DUCK tape.

“How do they use this tape on ducks?”

Asking questions is an art of sorts. I have been asking questions my entire life, and I now find myself teaching my students how to ask questions. If I were to get philosophical, I would say that we could use the Inquiry method to drive all our life choices. We are given some random supplies and a task to complete. We try to figure it out. If it doesn’t work, we change something and try again. Getting upset over a failed outcome doesn’t help anything. We have to figure out what went wrong. Sound familiar? We are challenged daily. The results of our efforts don’t always come out the way we expect, even if we use all of our supplies.

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Design a boat that will float with 100 pennies.

The 100 penny lab was a great one to start with. Kids were given duct tape, tin foil, 100 pennies, a pan full of water, and a task to design a boat that would float with all 100 pennies in it.

I asked about the variables and the answers I got were very interesting:

“The design on the duct tape. The ink may weigh differently depending on how many colors are in the tape you choose.”

“How fast or slow you put the pennies in.”

“How smart the people in your group are.” (I admit, this was one of my favorites. )

I loved how these kids persevered until their boats floated. They were so excited, because THEY figured it out.

So, I became a little zealous.  The made duct-taped boats float, so they can build a bridge out of pasta!

“This isn’t working.”

“Are you sure you got the right pasta?”

We will be revisiting that activity with stronger pasta.  The kids did their own research on bridges that day. They told me what structures and shapes are stronger than others. They are re-designing the bridges for next week.  To think-I was ready to scrap the entire thing because it didn’t work out the first time. The kids assumed we would be doing the pasta activity again.

My students taught me my own lesson. Then I began to wonder how often I have scrapped something because it wasn’t turning out the way I wanted it to? We cannot teach without bringing these lessons home, because ultimately that is what we want our students to do. It is unlikely that a potential college or job will ask a candidate to build a pasta bridge.  But, isn’t it about the perspectives in which we perceive our obstacles?  And isn’t it great that eighteen third graders reminded me of this with their perseverance?

Here’s to using all the materials available to me (even if they aren’t the ones I wanted).

K

Where Do the Words Come From?

Writing comes from a blank space. There are no multiple choice options,  fill in the blanks, or answer keys. It is invisible until it manifests on paper or the computer. We arrange the words in various orders to convey thoughts. We move them around and shuffle them until they fall into  just the right spots.

words

I have been writing since I could hold a pencil. When I was younger, I didn’t talk much (which will be a surprise to those who know I won’t stop talking now). I remember just wanting to fade into my surroundings when any attention was focused on me. Just let me write!

In second grade, during show and tell (a school tradition that should be banned for good) my teacher asked me to get up in front of the class and tell something that happened over the weekend. I was already in trouble for having a daily “stomach ache” during math. I am convinced that my teacher believed that I got sick at the same time every day. Even if math was at a different time, I would suddenly fall ill. Who knew that skipping second grade math would haunt me for years to come?

I created a story where my brother was lost on a raft on the Chattahoochee River. I said he was wearing my mother’s dress, and we haven’t seen him for three days. I gave sensory details about the sounds of the water. I described the setting of the warm day and the sun beaming down on my brother, as he floated away into oblivion. I was on a roll. I wasn’t even self-conscious about the ‘pixie’ hair cut my mom insisted I get. Another blog. Another time.

I didn’t get to finish my story, because my teacher stopped me and told me to sit down. Later that day, my mom was called in to talk about my ‘storytelling’. I told them that my story was more interesting than what we really did that weekend. From that point on, my words came out of my pencil, not my mouth.

Many teachers have a story like this. A story where their spirits were lifted or bruised. A story where they had trouble with a subject and a teacher either helped them or didn’t notice. We all come to this job with a vision and a hope that we will do something to make a difference in someone’s life. I wanted to make sure that no child was made to feel that her words were unimportant.

The year I was asked to be the literacy coach at my school, I felt that I had an opportunity to give back to all of those teachers and administrators who held me up while making sure I had a safety net on which to fall. And when I did fall (which happened often) they were there without judgement and made me get up. They even overlooked my leprechaun trap gone bad project my first year of teaching. For the rest of the year, I was scraping green paint off the walls near the window where the leprechauns ‘escaped’.

This is my third year as a literacy coach. My first year, I just wanted the teachers to let me into their rooms. Other lit coaches told me suburban legends about how they didn’t visit certain halls, or how teachers had requested that they not come in. YIKES! I went into the job having been inspired by those teachers who kept me afloat my first couple of years of teaching.

My second year, I tried out lessons, implemented county initiatives, and got a global understanding of literacy from the view of the teachers and the students. Of course, there were many days I felt useless, and hoped to just inspire a student to write, or a teacher to teach writing with more confidence than the day before.

This year, I had a rather bumpy start because of some personal setbacks. I had a complete paradigm shift in my understanding of human nature. My suburban village was by my side at a very difficult time, and I am more grateful to them then ever. But, I tried to write, but I couldn’t find the words anymore. They danced around me, and I was unable to pick the right ones. If I couldn’t find my own words, how could I teach others to find theirs? Writing has always been so cathartic to me. This was more than writer’s block, it was a semantic void.

I taught writing in various classrooms last week.  The small people found all the words I was missing. They grabbed them from the air. They found them under their desks. They pulled them from their book bags. The scraped them from the floor. There were plenty to go around.

Not only did my words come back, but so did my spirit. After thirteen years in education, I still love my job. When we let our guard down, and the kids in-we can find all of our words.

K

Theater Mom to Soccer Mom

There is an underground society of sportmania that has eluded me for years. They live among us. A friend suggested that is ME who was living in an underground society of theater. No, that couldn’t be true.

I have two amazing daughters (Serena 19 and Violet 10) whose extra curricular activities have always been composed of reading, art, and acting. Neither one has ever played a sport, until this year.

Well, Serena took ballet when she was three, but during the recital she ran and hid in the corner. Oh and there was the time Serena was obsessed with social science fairs. She won first place with her Women in the Military project and placed third on her Audrey Hepburn Humanitarian project. (This project inspired her to dress as Audrey Hepburn for Halloween, and to her dismay no one knew who she was.)  She even won trophies for reading a lot of books.  My all time favorite was Serena trying out for talent show in elementary school. She did a little jig to, “I’m Holding Out for a Hero”. Yes, a third grader gyrating to Bonnie Tyler.

Her non-sport winning streak continued to high school drama. I am very proud that she won “Best Stage Kiss” in her senior year. I think that would be hard to do. The practice involved in preparing for such an award would be exhausting. I am just laying the foundation of my personal experiences with my kids competing and winning stuff. Oh…maybe just Serena competing and winning stuff.

Violet considered competing in Battle of the Books. (This sounds like a warrior like battle where the adversaries pelt each other with books of various sizes.) But, it is where kids read an assigned list of books then they compete in a game show like finale. She declined because she didn’t want people telling her what to read. And the list was long. And there were boring books on the list. And there were too many deadlines.

I heard of these alleged weekend games and weekday practices. There were rumors of children being picked for various teams, bladeedahh. I never listened, because thank goodness, none of it applied to me. Those sports words would float into oblivion. I was more worried about whether or not one of my daughters memorized her lines, or had her costume  for the upcoming production. I have spent the last few years in theaters, not soccer fields. So when my youngest daughter decided to play soccer, I was perplexed. My neighbors (Kate and Jay) helped me through the process. I’m sure their conversation when something like this,

“Geeze, she is clueless.”

“How many times did you have to  send her address to register?”

“Does she know Violet will need turf shoes and shin guards?”

“Does she know what turf shoes and shin guards are?”

I didn’t know there was a difference between cleats and turf shoes. Honestly, I had never heard of turf shoes until Jay took me to Target to get Violet her soccer gear. Did you know that soccer balls come in different sizes? I sure didn’t. Then there are shin guards that are attached to the socks, and some that are not. What to do?

So, we go to the first soccer rehearsal, I mean practice, and I stand by the goal to watch. I look around and I’m the only parent standing there. I walked back to my car to see the multitude of family vehicles illuminated with ipads, Kindles, iPods, and phones. Ahh! This is the secret, soccer parent society.

You cannot win or lose in a play-well you can suck to high heaven and we pretend it didn’t happen, or you can be all Sally Field where everyone loves you. During a production, theater moms don’t scream:

“Good job! Get in there! Say those lines!”

“I believe you are the character!”

“Change the director! Bad blocking!”

There has to be some clandestine book of sport mom rules somewhere. I was unaware of the gear I needed to fulfill my soccer mom duties. I didn’t have a stadium chair the first couple of games. Then I needed to look into purchasing a visor cap-not a visor and not a baseball cap.

I just learned that there is a soccer scrap-book club.I thought I could give $30 and have it done for me, but these people wanted me to actually cut out stuff and glue it in a book. Then there is the meeting new people thing, and having to be social thing, and having a quasi-sensible conversation thing. I have already blogged about my social ineptness. I am fully aware of my weaknesses, and I know that my attention span couldn’t withstand such scrapbook tedium. I fully appreciate the scrapbook aficionado, in fact I envy their focus. I digress.

Violet finally gets her soccer costume, I mean uniform. She is number 14.

One evening, I decided to be that cool mom in the front yard, kicking soccer balls with my daughter. Cool huh? Well, the thing is that I don’t play soccer. In fact, I ran track and cross country throughout high school, and I avoided any sport involving balls, sticks, or rackets.  Violet kicks the ball to me. I run toward her. I kick the ball. Slow motion timing ensues, it really did.  SMAaaaacccckkkkkCK  (that is the word in slow motion).  The size four ball pummelled her in the face. Yes, I am responsible for her first soccer injury half way through the first season. I am happy to report that the swelling has diminished considerably.

PRODUCTION TIME! No, I mean, GAME TIME! Thank goodness I didn’t yell break a leg to the team. I’m sure that the line of parents sitting in chairs would have shunned me.

There she is, wearing her three sizes too big shorts,  running, kicking (sometimes losing focus and twirling her hair) and playing SOCCER!!!!

It took me a while to figure out which goal was our team’s. Then as soon as I get used to our side of the field, they switch sides after half time.

I was pleased to watch my stepmom and 82-year old father bring deck chairs (from their deck) to Violet’s soccer game. At this point, I even  know that I am supposed to have one of those foldy stadium chairs. Geeze.

DECK CHAIRS

After soccer, other sports creep their way in. My boyfriend’s daughter plays softball and half way through the first softball game (I had EVER attended) he realized I had no idea what was happening. Their costumes, oh uniforms, were awfully cute and color coordinated, but there are so many rules, and apparently there is an illegal way to pitch. I learned this from the softball hecklers.

Then last night, I went to a SPORTS BAR and watched the MMA fights. I was totally engrossed in the smack downs. What has happened to me? I watched soccer, softball, and MMA all in one day. I even have a favorite fighter, Roy (Big Country) Nelson. This was more than my theater DNA could handle.

After my day of sports, I felt as if I was neglecting the theater. But this week, we are preparing for our productions for drama club. I have to paint sets, coordinate costumes, schedule extra rehearsals, direct, produce, and not end up twitching and hiding in my classroom bathroom. I wonder how I’m ever going to get through these production, and make sure the kids have good experiences on stage?

Saturday, I saw one of my drama club students (who plays Peter Quince in Midsummer Night’s Dream) playing soccer. Her soccer and theater worlds seem to blend very well. She was also in The Battle of the Books last Thursday.

It is the end of another school year, and I can check off year thirteen in education. As I watch these kids prepare for various events, productions, and games, I can only be inspired by their drive and ability to seamlessly meld their extra-curricular worlds.

Here’s to theater, soccer, and an occasional smack down.

K

Gratitude.

Collective grief is the only way to describe what happened in our school the Monday after the Connecticut school shootings. During car duty, I thought about the parents who kissed their children good-bye that morning. I thought about how those parents didn’t know that they would never see their children again. Without talking, I knew we were all thinking about our own children, and how we couldn’t survive such a tragedy.

The new years come without our permission. We may have unfinished business, or maybe we are still wondering what would happen we had made alternate choices. What could have been different?

When I see a car accident, sometimes I think, That could have been me, if I were here five minutes ago. And usually, I think about what may have delayed me. I wonder about our place in the world, and how many times I will be afforded a coincidental delay. It just isn’t enough to fully appreciate our lives when tragedy happens. But, sometimes we do.

We look for messages in tragedies. There is no message in the Connecticut incident. Sandy Hook Elementary is the new school for the survivors of the shooting last month. I read this quote from the attached article:

Sandy Hook Elementary School parent Vinny Alvarez says he took advantage of an open house at his daughter’s new school to thank a teacher who helped protect her class from a rampaging gunmanSandy Hook

This scenario isn’t something for which we could ever be prepared. How does a teacher shift from teaching, to saving the lives of his or her students? Where did that courage come from? Is it in all of us? I am amazed by the human condition.

We wonder how we got here, and how to prevent such events from happening again. I still think of the faces of the victims. I think about what must have happened that day; I cannot fathom any of it. If the domino had fallen another way, could the outcome have changed?

As the holiday season comes to a screeching halt, and I begrudgingly resume my episodic days, I can only be grateful to have a rut. This year, for me, has been a challenge. My nineteen-year marriage ended, I sent my eldest daughter to college, and I earned another degree. These life events are insignificant when images of that day fill the minds of parents and educators across the country. It didn’t happen to us. But, what if it had?

The moment 2012 came to a close, I felt nothing but gratitude. Gratitude for the ugly parts as well as the momentous occasions. Gratitude for my daughters, my family, my friends, my job, and for a few coincidental delays.

K

A Midsummer in Oz at the Chocolate Factory-and a Lonely Goat

This week, we are auditioning 85 kids for three plays: Midsummer Night’s Dream, The Wizard of Oz, and Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. This is our third year of drama club, and like a distant memory or a faint dream, I can’t quite place the moment it all became real.

Over twenty kids are auditioning for Midsummer Night’s Dream. I am thrilled that there is such interest with fourth and fifth graders. Of course, I’m sure there is hope for a sword fight, a chase, and a few fairies causing havoc. (The boys are bent on a sword fight.) Then there is the bizarre fascination with the donkey head.

I went to the Leaf Festival in Asheville. While the Moody Blues inspired parade passed me, I had costume inspirations for Midsummer. I can’t use stilts, and I’m still a little bitter about that. That was the my first inkling of my  mild theater obsession. You see, graduate school is over soon, and I must fill my time with another endeavor that will encompass me, completely.

The Wizard of Oz has been done so many times; I am driven to do it a little differently. I could have them set in the future, like that Julius Caesar play I saw in high school. Dorothy is wearing space boots, and the Wicked Witch needs them to find her space voyager monkeys. Glenda is tired of green witch’s shenanigans, and she sends her off in a space shuttle-for eternity. I’m not sure what to do with the munchkins in the space scenario.

This story has always been a metaphor to me. I mean, Dorothy-searching for The WIZARD of OZ? And for crying out loud, he was such a let down.

Her real world is black and white, which could mean a myriad of things that only Dorothy could discuss with the right therapist. Her colorful world could illustrate her awareness of her issues. Her best friends need a heart, courage, and a brain.  We have all been there. Wouldn’t it be lovely to always be courageous, intelligent, and full of love and compassion?  But, it usually comes down to our friends shaking us apart, and telling us to scrape up the last bits of courage from the remnants of the day. I hate when they do that.

The Wicked Witch is a sad little green thing. I can’t imagine being allergic to water. No wonder she was neurotic and a shoe obsessed.

I sat with Shannon, doing drama club paper work, and we sang “I wish I had a Brain” over and over. Sometimes we don’t have brains, and that is really okay.

Oh, I could tell you why The ocean’s near the shore.
I could think of things I never thunk before.
And then I’d sit, and think some more.
I would not be just a nothin’ my head all full of stuffin’
My heart all full of pain.
I would dance and be merry, life would be a ding-a-derry,
If I only had a brain.

I tell you, life can be a ding-a-derry. Whatever that means.

My friends, Margarita and Victor, who have kept our community theater afloat for the past couple of years, posted this on my FB timeline:

Dancing Goat Theater

As I am becoming embroiled in our school theater productions, I am saddened by the fact that this wonderful theater is close to shutting down. This is where we saw, The Taming of the Shrew, Hamlet, A Thousand Paper Cranes, Macbeth, Macbeth Junior, The Holiday Hootenany, Ensler’s monologues, and so many more amazing performances. This is where I performed with my daughter, for the first and last time.

When I think of this theater, I think of some of my dearest friends; Daniel chewing wood while directing Shrew, Margarita encouraging me to have the Macbeth narrators dance to Liza Minelli’s All that Jazz, avoiding the giant MACBETH boulder in the middle of the theater, and most of all-laughing through our creative spirits.

I think of my personal growth as an educator, because I saw the need for theater arts in our elementary school. We have 85 drama club members, within two grade levels. That means something. That is huge. Sometimes, that is overlooked.

I think of how quickly hours of work can become a wrinkle in time, because the cause is so very worth every single, tiny, moment spent, working with these kids. I think of our volunteers, who came together from diverse backgrounds, to keep the heart of performing arts beating in the theater.

My hope is that by some miracle, Oz is real-somewhere. Maybe, in our little theater? Maybe, in the hearts of our performers? Maybe in our audiences? Our community? Because without them, we have no theater.

GLENDA WHERE ARE YOU?

“Now I know I’ve got a heart because it is breaking.

– Tin Man”
― L. Frank BaumThe Wonderful Wizard of Oz

Here’s to theater.

K

When the Time Comes, Pick the Top One

It all started in Helen, the fictitious German town in north Georgia. In Helen, gnomes walked among us, and people wore Bavarian hats, willy nilly. Beverages were poured into plastic boot mugs.  There were people playing air guitar to Jimmy Buffet cover songs. I saw one Fräulein, in full Oktoberfest garb, walking her dog all over the city. Yes. Her hair was in braids.

I knew my fun and frolicking couldn’t last. Maybe it was the cool mountain air. Maybe it was the enchantment of fake Germany in Georgia. Maybe a troll jumped in my trunk and has been tormenting since the Helen weekend.

The next day, when I woke up, I had a slight cough. No big deal. I did the Sunday chores as usual. I did take a nap, which is unusual for me. The nap was more like a light coma. But, I thought nothing of it.

Monday morning, I was feeling warm, and a little light-headed, but I figured I needed coffee and more sleep. So, off to school I went. I was teaching math, and it was one of those Ally McBeal moments when the kids started looking like they were moving in slow motion. I still kept teaching.

ME: Order of operations. Parentheses, braces, brackets. PEMDAS

Student: Do the parentheses go first, or do the brackets? Wait, are the brackets the twirly things or the boxy things?

ME: Yes.

Student: ooookay.

After class, I went to the nurse to take my temperature. She had this new thingy that she ran across my forehead. It read 100.9.

I went home. I slept. I fell into a level of sleep that is yet to be identified. I woke up long enough to swim out of the puddle of my fever to email my professor. I remember writing: Not coming. I’m dying. I didn’t really write that. But, since I was feeling particularly dramatic, it seemed concise. I actually thought I was going to make it to work the next day.

Delirium sets in when a fever takes over the body. My dreams were lucid and freaky. You would think that in the throws of a high fever, I would have serene, calming dreams. But, no. I had one of those waitressing dreams where I couldn’t get to all the patrons. I dreamed that my laundry was piled up to the ceiling. I also dreamed that I was replaced at work because I had missed school. Yes. Sad. But true.

By Tuesday night, I had one of my suburban village friends take me to the after hours clinic, which was closed, after hours. I ended up in the ER. There was an IV and a doctor who was a Christopher Walken look-alike. The people in the waiting room were suspiciously similar to those in Helen. It was a Twin Peaks/Mork&Mindy episode

Wednesday happened. I just don’t remember it.

Thursday, I trudged into school to teach my math class. Bad idea. I looked like the Goldi Hawn character in Death Becomes Her, where she has a hole in the middle of her body, and her head is twisted and contorted in the wrong direction. People in the hall scurried away from me. I don’t blame them. I went home and fell into another coma. No grad school. Sleep.

Friday!!! I can go to work!!! No fever!!!

I taught my math class. I was dizzy. I sat at my desk and had children come to me.

I went home. I slept.

One friend told me that I don’t hold the world up, and I could take a week off to recover from the evil virus. My other friend sent me threatening text messages, guilting me into staying home and keeping the world safe from my germs. My explanation of the horse-pill antibiotics meant nothing. Another friend sent me a text, “Have you met your maker?”

There are times when your body says enough is enough. I scheduled my life so that I had no time to sit in silence and reflect.  Because sometimes, reflecting isn’t pretty. And sometimes, the silence is deafening. Sometimes, movement is easier than stillness. Hitting the wall is a mild description. I slammed up against it, splattered a bit, and had no choice, but to be still.

My Suburban Village showed up again. They were like superheroes, swooping in, with their capes flapping behind them.

Today, I took my daughters and some other little people to eat Chinese food. My fortune said, “When the time comes, pick the top one.” I asked them what it meant, and Courtney, Violet’s friend, said, “You will know when the time comes.”

She is ten.

So, I’ll slow down, maybe a fraction, and wait for the time when I have to pick the “top one”.  Apparently, I’ll know when the time comes.

Here’s to friends, family, and little people with infinite wisdom.

K

My Suburban Village

Thursday was one of those days that lasted eighty-seven hours. I had a Common Core meeting before school, a gifted meeting after school, and then I trudged my way to graduate school. I can’t remember Tuesday. I don’t know what I ate for breakfast, or if I even ate breakfast. My contacts began to blur, because they had been in for more than twelve hours. I thought of the Fred Flintstone episode where he used toothpicks to keep his eyes open.

This is my LAST SEMESTER in graduate school. Thursday, was my first night of my research capstone class. The professor asked us to introduce ourselves. This is the first-day-of-school custom that makes me twitchy.

My professor said, “I admire each one of you for coming here to school, after working at a job that drains the energy out of you. But, if the job didn’t enchant you, you wouldn’t do it. Right? So, why are you here?”

I perked up a bit. He was saying profound things. Did he use the word enchanted to describe teaching? I had never heard that word used in that context. Enchanted was one of my vocabulary words for my gifted first graders when we did our mythology/fairy tale unit last year. It denotes a magic element.

I wondered why I was there. I was so exhausted, I think I dozed off sitting upright. My fancy pens didn’t even lift my mood.

My professor told us that he drives from St. Simons Island to teach our class. He visits his mom and brother, then goes back home for the week. He told us he knows what struggles we face as educators, and he is honored to teach us. Although I was emotionally drained, my eyes teared up, because someone validated the ten bedraggled souls sitting in that classroom.

I wondered what this degree will do for me? Will it really make me a better teacher? Am I just a tiny spec attempting to push a boulder?

I had that moment where I thought that nothing I could do would change anything in the world of education. It has been a while since I felt that my efforts were futile. I keep planning , learning, and trying, but some days my brain is filled to capacity.

I thought about my day. I thought about the writing workshop in the two first grade classes that left me and the other teachers in a sweat, but we were all so enchanted afterward. The kids wrote words! They stretched the sounds of words they didn’t know how to spell! Yah, that was kind of magical. In another class, students were vying to get into the guided reading group. Okay, that plastered a smile on my face for a while. Maybe a sprinkle of magic worked its way in.

After my research class, the torrential rain prevented everyone from leaving. I sat on the bench near the doors of the education building. Disgruntled students filtered in from every direction of dismissal. They contemplated how they were to get to their cars. They stared at the rain as if they could make it stop with their magic powers. A few exhausted ones just walked out of the door, letting the rain soak them to the core. I watched them. They didn’t run. They walked through the torrents, and conceded to the weather . Apparently, getting home was more important than driving and shivering in wet clothes.

My odd professor emerged from our classroom. He put a trash bag over his head, poked eye and mouth holes in it, and proceeded to leave.

Before he left, he turned to us and said,  “You will learn something from this old guy.”

Those few words stayed with me. Did he mean that I’ll routinely keep trash bags in my purse, or that I’ll figure something out in this stage of my teaching career? It didn’t matter. I believed him.

One of my classmates sat across from me, and gave me a huge smile.

She said, “I’ve been in class with you for a year now. Every time I hear you talk about teaching, I always think how much you could do for our school.”

“Really?”

I couldn’t believe that anything I rambled about in school would have any impact on anyone. I’m not having a pity party, really, I’m not. It is just that some days, we are all pushing against the current. This week, the current took me with it.

Isn’t it true that circumstances put us in places to re-evaluate our skewed perspectives? The rain Thursday night made it so that we had to acknowledge one another. We had to slow down. We had to stop the incessant treadmill of the day. We weren’t teachers. We weren’t students. We weren’t parents. We were exactly the same in that moment. We were waiting for the rain to let up, to get closer to home, to our cozy beds-to sleep.

When the rain did dissipate, during the drive home, I realized that I wouldn’t be in school if it weren’t for my village. Four of my friends helped me work through a complicated schedule to make sure that my ten-year old was taken care of. I was so grateful for my suburban village, that no more appreciation could be compacted into that tiny moment. Thank you Katey, Jennifer, Kate, and Jay.

Friday rustled me awake with its steely gaze and 5:30 alarm screech.

Car duty. Get up. You get to wear jeans. Get up. Coffee. Car duty.

When I got to school, I saw a mass of tired teachers. They smiled. They hugged small people. They read books to their classes. They planned for the next week.

There is nothing more inspiring than to see the school village at work, after your personal village has saved you.

Here is to a little awareness to awaken a tired spirit.

K