Category Archives: elementary education

Centrifuge

One of my favorite classes in high school was advanced chemistry. I remember watching the centrifuge and always happy with the results of its manic spinning. The purpose of the centrifuge is to separate liquids from solids, or liquids from each other at varying densities.

This year has been my emotional and physical centrifuge. I’ve had to move on from many things, keeping with me what is meaningful, important, and good for me. I miss quite a bit, am sad about  a few things, excited about new opportunities, and reminisce often. I’ve moved from my house of ten years. I’ve left the school I’ve worked at for eight years. I’m going to be teaching co taught 4th grade at a brand new school; I haven’t been in the classroom for five years. I have been pintresting, and actually felt a little teaching MOJO return. The people with whom I’ve worked have become family, and I won’t have them laugh and cry with. They held me up in some very difficult times, and in that, my heart is heavy.

My older daughter, Serena, graduated from college, and Violet starts high school in a few weeks. I’ve spent the summer in Tampa to be with my boyfriend who has taken, what we hope, is a temporary job. So, all I know, all I’m used to, and all that is safe and comfortable has been put in the centrifuge, and here I am…

So, it’s been a while since I’ve done any writing. The internal dialogue sometime around Thanksgiving went something like this:

“Sure, I should sell my house. If I sell my house, I should get a job closer to where I will be living. I might as well do it all at once….”.

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The monumental ripple effect of these choices didn’t hit me until recently. Moving is an emotional upheaval of all we know. Memories and artifacts are unearthed. I found ten years of our lives settled into the foundation of the house. Time and events ran past me and through me in a disorderly montage.

I began decluttering, purging, and donating as soon as I made this decision. Room by room, night after night, weekend after weekend, and making many trips to Goodwill was all I knew. It began to feel like that recurring waitress dream where I’d finish serving the entire restaurant, only for it to be filled again-and of course I would be the only waitress working that night.

I had personal goals set: downstairs closet Monday, four kitchen cabinets Tuesday, buy wine, bookcase Wednesday, buy wine, laundry room Thursday, buy wine…

Of course, while all of this was happening, I decided to get a job closer to where I’ll be moving. Sure, I pack my classroom each year, and I complain, and I post the “packed up classroom-must be summer” pic. But, for the love-this took me weeks of packing every day after school. It culminated with me renting a Uhaul truck, and if you know me at all, I can barely drive my very cute Mini Cooper.

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After renting the truck and the very nice Uhaul lady showed me how to get in and start the darn thing. She sent me off, like a kid on a bike for the first time. I watched her close the door with a look of terror in my eyes. She faded into the distance. My feet barely touched the floor and I had to scoot the seat very close to the steering wheel. I felt like a Polly Pocket in a Barbie Van.

I’m pretty sure every car on all the roads passed me since I was driving so slowly; there was honking and disgruntled looks. So, I get to the school, which is about to close, of course. I began by bringing box by box out, neatly packing them, then going back into the school. I realized I was running out of time, so i just did the lift, scoot, and dump the stuff outside bit. I packed the Uhaul full, only to see that it wasn’t all fitting, and I couldn’t leave the stuff out, but what to do? I reconfigured everything a few times, while sweating more than I thought possible.

I get everything loaded and head to my new neighborhood. Bottled water in hand, and feeling a bit more confident in the truck. I made turns without twitching, and even found the radio for a few tunes.

I get to the new neighborhood, and of course miss the house. I knew there was no way to back up, so I drove to the culdesack where the neighbors were having a block party. OH NO!! I can’t turn around. I can’t back up. I began to drive into someone’s driveway, but couldn’t back out. So, I sat there and began to crumble. One neighbor asked if he could help me. I immediately jumped out of that mean truck and let him get it back to my new home.

I unloaded, got back in the truck, took it back, got in my Mini Cooper and went home. The pic below is just my school things. OMG.

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Moving day is here! I chose the ONE moving company in that green book of handy helpers. I liked that they charge one fee, even if I have no clue how to assemble the TV or picture boxes (that the owner dropped by my house). It didn’t seem like so much until the truck was packed and they needed a van to get the rest. The cats hid in an empty house, and of course I kept thinking they just packed their cat things and went elsewhere.

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I’m still waiting to close on my house. It is set for the 21st; it has been pushed back once already. Then there was the thick and heavy red tape of documents we were made to find for the closing.

I never thought I was capable of changing the DNA of our lives. There are times that we are gently forced to be alone to get stuff done. No pity party here-I can drive a truck and pack a box in less than a few seconds. I do give the Chisel and Hammer work outs credit for the ability to lift the heavy boxes.

We are in the last moments of summer. The centrifuge has stopped for a moment.

Here’s to change!

K

 

Hiatus

Posted in Education, elementary education, Philosophy, Teaching, Theater Arts by

I’ve been trying to figure out what I’ve been doing instead of blogging. Revenge-Victoria-sits-in-her-chair

I was obsessed with evil Madeline from Revenge. She can smile through the most horrendous comments, and evil doings. Plus, she has that cool chair where she sips her coffee while plotting against everyone. Her dresses are flawless, and she always has good hair. I told my colleague that I kind of wish I could smile and be evil simultaneously. She reminded me that was not a normal goal.

I have put my energy into refining my 3rd grade guided math. The other day, I looked up from my “meet with teacher” group, and saw an amazing thing: Children were engaged, on task, and collaborating about math. No one fell out of his chair, or asked me to sharpen a pencil the 567th time.  This class has a thing about sharp pencils. I’ve purchased two pencil sharpeners from Amazon; one already broke.

The following type of conversation happens daily:

Me: “We are going to do math journal, Number Talks, and then guided math.”

Student “Are we doing Number Talks today?”

Me: “Yes, we are doing Number Talks today.”

Me: “When you are done with your assessment, put it in the basket under the white board.”

Student 1:”Where do I put my work?”

Me:”In the basket under the white board.”

Student 2:-“Where do I put my test?”

Me: “In the basket under the white board.”

Student 3:”Do we give you our tests when we are done?”

Me: “No, put it in the basket under the white board.”

Then there is the stop everything, look at me, listen carefully classroom intermission.

“Everyone, hands on your heads. Look at me. The assessment goes in the basket under the white board. Thumbs up if you understand where the assessment goes.”

I’m working with my students to think outside the math box, or at least open the box and peek outside.

I have used picture prompts to show children that math is not confined to an hour a day, in my classroom. Slide25 This was a journal prompt one day.

Student: “There is no math in this picture.”

Me: “Yes, there is math in this picture.”

Student: “I don’t see numbers.”

Me: “Is math always numbers?”

Student: “Yes.”

Me: “What about geometry?”

Student: “Oh!”

Me: “There isn’t one right answer. Look for the math.”

Students are looking for the one right answer. I want them to see math as a part of their worlds that cannot always be defined with one correct response. I ask them if there are other ways to solve a problem, and they give me blank stares. It has taken me a couple of months to show students that the process in which they are doing math is very important. Just because they know that 3×3 is 9, doesn’t mean that they understand the many ways this multiplication fact can be represented, or what multiplication means.

I am on a math committee for my county. We discussed how the traditional algorithms, we have always taught, are causing students to have little to no understanding of number sense. For example, if we are dividing 45 by 3, we ask the kids how many times 3 can ‘go into’ 4; place value isn’t considered in this standard algorithm. What we are really asking is, ‘How many groups of four are there in 40?’. Students have to explain their reasoning more than ever now. So how do we balance the right answer with the process?

I have tried to show students a standard in every possible form. I say it is the same standard, but in a different outfit. They need to apply the skills to various situations, which may or may not be the examples used and practiced in class. I have changed much of what I do as a math teacher, and it hasn’t been comfortable or easy.

I have been personally challenged this year. As the literacy coach, I have had less time in classrooms, and spent more time in meetings and out of the building. I begin teaching the gifted endorsement Monday. I’m in a small panic, because now I’m teaching a class to teachers. I am driving myself a little nuts. Should I bring cookies? Candy? Tell a joke? Do a little dance?

We have a new evaluation system. It’s amazing that I’ve taught fourteen years, but at the end of the day, I am reduced to a number between 1 and 4. I do understand the efficacy of a standardized evaluation system for teachers. But, sometimes I don’t want to worry about it. I realized that my expectations for myself are, at times, unrealistically high. Some days, we just feel like a 3. And that’s ok. Isn’t that what we tell our students, and better yet, their parents?

I remember my early years of teaching, where I felt invincible and that I could affect change. I hope that I inspired or encouraged a few students along the way. In those early years, I was able to advocate for children without meetings, emails, or glaciers of paperwork. I just did it. I’m sure there was protocol; I just didn’t think about it.

Now, I advocate for students in different ways. A test score doesn’t fully give the scope of a child’s potential. And if a child doesn’t qualify for the gifted program, that doesn’t mean he or she isn’t brilliant. Children cannot be reduced to numbers and percentiles. There is so much pressure on everyone to perform. What happened to the utter joy of learning something new? What about taking risks in learning?

I believe that Drama Club has given students a chance to take risks without the fear of grades. I promised myself that I would only direct one play this year. We have ten boys in drama, and they requested Shakespeare. So, we are doing Macbeth.  I really wanted to do Romeo and Juliet, but the suicide aspect is too heavy for elementary kids. So, I thought if I made them zombies, they couldn’t die. Yes, I’ve been watching The Walking Dead. Zombie Romeo and Juliet is a future project. It has to be written…

Teaching is very much like impressionistic art. The further away we get, the clearer the picture. When we are too close, everything is a blur, and unrecognizable. None of the parts are logical, and everything seems disconnected. We often get lost in the blur. I am thankful that sometimes, I have the awareness to step back and see the intended beauty of being an educator.

K

Allegory of the Educator

Posted in Education, elementary education, Literacy Coaching, Philosophy, Teaching, Teaching Reading by

I have waited to post my final paper on my philosophy of education. If you are a philosophy geek, and an educator, you may enjoy the post. If not, don’t bother reading it, because it is weird. 

 The first day of class, my professor talked about the Allegory of the Cave. I was drawn to the story, partly because it is an extended metaphor, but mostly because it captures the essence of the human condition. I began writing a generic regurgitation of my personal educational philosophy. But, the images of the cave in reference to our current educational predicament inundated me. I often call my home office, my cave, because there are no windows, and I spend much of my time in there, writing and planning for instruction. So, from my cave, I wrote about the educational cave.

Thanks Daniel for the awesome sketches. Somehow, you captured what was in my mind. Wow.

Allegory of the Educator

Long ago, there was a school, nestled between a mountain and a river. On the side of the river, the sun shone directly into the library.  The view from the mountainside of the school was solid rock. The teachers on the mountainside lived in the school. The inside of the school was the only world they knew. Nothing else existed. And if anyone talked about a world outside of the school, they would create a new philosophy representing the idea of that made-up world. For ideas could exist without matter, and matter only existed because of ideas. Sometimes, the stories of the other place became myth and were re-told as fictional accounts.

The walls were always walls, and only ever walls. The floor could only be floor, and made only of floor. There was something they breathed in and out, but the true nature of that was somewhere in a book, found on the riverside of the school. It wasn’t important because the thing they breathed in and out would never run out, according to a story they re-told one another.

Many of the teachers had been chained to the walls of the school, because they thought that was what they were supposed to do as inhabitants of a school. They didn’t need mobility of mind nor body.

Seldom did anyone venture to the riverside of the school. The chains kept teachers in their respective rooms, and there was no need for books since everyone had memorized the curriculum.

The students had lost two and a half dimensions, and they became a generation of shadow students. The shadow students had smoke and mirror thoughts. All student thoughts conglomerated into one mass thought. At the end of the school day (when the lights were turned off) all thoughts evaporated. They turned into thought vapor, and when the new day began (when the lights were turned on) the thoughts would trickle down and return to the dim brains of the shadow students. The same thoughts were recycled daily. If there was a new thought, where would it go, and what would the teachers and students do with it? It wouldn’t fit anywhere, so why have it?

The atomic make-up of a shadow student consisted of percentiles, rankings, and standardized test scores. When shadow students were injured, numbers would leak from their bodies.  The school nurse would scoop up the lost percentiles, and attempt to put them back into the shadow students. Unfortunately, once a student lost a percentile or a ranking, it was almost impossible to put it back.  In order for the percentile to be valid again, there was extensive paperwork that had to be completed. It had to be stapled three times (one millimeter apart) in the upper right hand corner, be signed by fourteen school dignitaries, and be put in a red folder, with a tab in the middle (not on the left or on the right). As each number bled from the shadowy bodies, the students began to further fade. So, it was in their best interest to keep still, sit in seats, and stare vacuously at the stone walls.

On murky school day, after students learned about the philosophy of penumbra, took three hundred forty-five assessments, filled out sixty-two scantron sheets, and watched the nurse sweep up the numbers left by a faded shadow student (who met his demise with an errant pencil) a teacher realized her chains were broken.

She stood up and balanced herself on the cinderblock wall. She felt dizzy and unstable. She had been chained to the wall since the beginning. The beginning of something important. Long ago.

No one noticed as she stood up. They continued to sit; they remained chained to the walls and watched the shadow thoughts move through the thought cycle. The only noise in the classroom was the clanking of the chains when a teacher would re-position him or herself.

She looked beyond the classroom and saw a light curving its way into the thing outside the room. Later, she would learn the words hall, brick, mountain, block, learn, books, brain, chain, teach, learn, walk, ask, breathe, and choice. She limped to the door and peered to the left. She glanced to the right. She gazed straight ahead. She closed her eyes and felt that thing in her chest pound. She stepped outside of the room.

Her gait was unstable for she had been chained since the beginning. As she walked, the thought dust obscured her sight. She had only seen the classroom to which she was chained. Her brain couldn’t assimilate the new images bombarding her consciousness. Eventually, she found the room with the books and light. Beyond that room was a door. She could see outside the door and the stone was gone. She remembered the myth of the outside place. She was instructed to teach the shadow students that the pictures of the things in books were only a product of someone’s mind. They weren’t real. But, now she was looking at trees, sun, river, squirrels, and grass. The invisible thing (later she would know it as wind) was blowing in her face, and it moved through her hair. Had she found the truth? How could she trust what she saw? If she left, would those things still be there? What was REAL?

She ventured outside to see students with all dimensions intact. Each student had a thought bubble attached to his or her head. Instead of smoke and mirror thoughts, each child’s thought bubble was full of images of concepts they were learning. Some students were playing musical instruments, and others where playing soccer. The teacher with the students was wearing a shirt that read, I Heart Socrates.

The mountainside teacher heard the students’ conversations. They were working in groups to solve various problems. The students shared new thoughts. And the thoughts were original, unlike those of the shadow student back in the school. There was a sign on the grass that read: “Please frolic and play on the Dewey grass.”

The riverside teacher introduced himself to the mountainside teacher.

“Hello, I’m UTO P. IA. You can call me UTO. Are you a new hire? What is your name?”

The mountainside teacher stared at UTO. She had never needed her name before, but she knew she had one. She reached into her frontal lobe and pulled out her name.

“Hello. I’m..well. I’m PAV L. OV You can call me PAV.”

She touched UTO’s shoulder and flinched when she realized that he was not smoke and mirrors. She longed for the safety of the cave. As she wandered back inside, she pondered the term, ‘new hire’. The sounds of the multi-dimensional students faded and the light dissipated.

She knew she had to go back and tell everyone that they had been wrong about the ideas. The ideas were real. Or the things were real. Maybe they were both real.

On her way back into the school, she saw a small, plump man sitting in the middle of the hallway. He was bald and effortlessly smiling.  His t-shirt read, I’m Siddhartha. Just call me Buddah. She walked close to him and he said, “You have desired nothing, therefore you haven’t suffered. Now, you are experiencing the desire to learn about life, and share that knowledge. Well, now you will suffer.” He smiled and then he began to laugh. As he laughed, the word truth flew out of his mouth. With each breath, a new version of truth came out.  Some truths were small, some were large, some had fancy fonts, and others were looked as if a child scribbled them. Pav didn’t see any of the truths as they few over her, under her, and around her.

She walked past the little man, because she didn’t know how to respond. She was never taught what to do when a new sentence was uttered. And in this case, a new sentence with a new thought.

She found her way back to the classroom where she had been chained. The teacher in charge introduced herself.

“Hello. I’m UT O. PIA. You can call me UT.”

Pav had known UT since the beginning. UT ignored the faint bouts of recognition and decided that she didn’t know Pav. The thoughts weren’t real without words to support them.  Pav realized that UTO and UT had the same names. But the two teachers were polarized, yet very content. This confused Pav because she only knew one form of contentment, and that was the classroom cave.

Pav knew that she had to tell everyone about the outside place.

“UT, I need to tell you about something. It will change everything we do here on the mountainside.”

“Well, okay-go on. The thoughts have not completed their cycle yet. I don’t need to clean the empty thoughts off the floor yet.”

Pav was nervous for the first time.

“UT, I found the outside place. There were children, who were different from the ones here.” She pointed to the shadow students and they were still and staring.

“They didn’t just sit. They talked about the things they were learning.”

UT was noticeably shaken.

“Pav, stop there. You of all people should know that those alleged children out there are behaving as they were told.  This is what we know: It is our truth.

Pav thought of her words before speaking. She tried using her common sense to talk to UT, but it didn’t seem to be working. Their words were different now. Pav’s words didn’t mean what they used to (before she visited the outside place).

Pav wondered what was real. Was UT really there, or was she experiencing the idea of UT? Then, she began wondering if she was real. She wondered if anyone else saw her. Did she really teach?

“UT, don’t you want to know what is out there? Aren’t you curious? It’s real! We don’t have to continue to teach like this!”

UT looked at Pav, and she hesitated before she began to vacuum the empty thoughts from the stone floor. The empty thoughts looked like giant dust clouds as they retreated to the guts of the vacuum.

Pav had some decisions to make. Familiar things are easy. She could go back to teaching the shadow students, and perpetuating the smoke and mirror thoughts. But, the more she thought about the outside place, the more curious she became. What if she ventured to the riverside and learned that all that she knew was wrong? What would happen?

We run the course of philosophies during a teaching career. There is no one, set philosophy that lays the foundation for my instruction. Every day, I strive to be the teacher that students can count on. I want to be mentally aware, as I teach, not on autopilot. 

I may have lost the idealism I had when I began teaching. The invincibility shield has been tarnished. It isn’t the kids: It never is. It’s the quagmire through which we sift in order bring us close to the place where we felt we could change the world. That place is not lost; it is hidden beneath the years.

So, hopefully Pav will take the road less traveled and take a few risks to make that difference.

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

Posted in Education, elementary education, Literacy Coaching, Philosophy, Teaching, Teaching Reading, Uncategorized, Writing by

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.

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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?

Posted in Education, elementary education, family, Literacy Coaching by

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.

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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

Posted in Arts in education, Education, elementary education, Philosophy, Teaching, Theater Arts, Uncategorized by

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.

Posted in Education, elementary education, Philosophy, Teaching, Uncategorized, Writing by

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 gunman. Sandy 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

Posted in Arts in education, Education, elementary education, Philosophy, Teaching, Theater Arts, Uncategorized, Writing by

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 Baum, The Wonderful Wizard of Oz

Here’s to theater.

K

When the Time Comes, Pick the Top One

Posted in Education, elementary education, Philosophy, Teaching, Uncategorized, Writing by

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

Posted in Education, elementary education, Philosophy, Teaching, Uncategorized, Writing by

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