Au revoir, Le Clink

As I ring in the new year, my thoughts turn both to reflection and a bold look at the road ahead. I hereby bid adieu to 2010, as well as to my tenure as a reading teacher in the juvenile justice system. Yep, I've busted out of jail - but not really by choice. You see, I got laid off a month ago. Even though my brief leisurely schedule was kind of fun, it was not a sustainable situation. A smart person once told me something about necessity being the mother of invention, and in my little world, it is definitely necessary for me to work full-time. Knowing I sure couldn't stay laid off, I hit the pavement and found a brand new gig as a middle school ELL teacher. For those not up on their education acronyms, I'll be teaching English Language Learners, or kids whose primary language is something other than English.

I start Monday. So goodbye, my youthful offenders, whose faces and voices and stories I will treasure and keep with me always. Hello to a new community, new challenges, and the next chapter in my professional life. Maybe I'll have the time and creative energy to refresh my blog and give it a new look. I'll try to make that happen. But I know that my students get first dibs when it comes to their new teacher's time and energy. Kids deserve that, don't they?

Who, What, When, Where, Why, and How

I haven’t posted any Tales in a while.

But that doesn’t mean I have ceased thinking about my students and the meaning of my teaching, and looking for ways to make more and stronger connections with these boys. Even though I am very short on time lately, I wanted to put something down about what’s going on here at G House. But what?

If I spin my teacher’s roulette wheel of memorable moments over the past few months, here’s where the little ball lands: Cesar. He’s the kid who threatened a teacher (not me) in a way that made her both laugh out loud—and wince visibly. What he said to her was, “Miss, I’m gonna stick a pencil up your ass.” I know that this is crude. But this is par for the course in the clink. This isn’t Sunnybrook Farm, you know. Cesar, with shaved eyebrows, eyes the color of wet, dark chocolate, and long, dark, curly hair (always pulled back in a ponytail), was excused from the program. Today. Cesar was brought back to secure treatment in Westfield. Today. It wasn’t only because of this comment; it was because he had threatened plenty of other staff and residents, with words in various languages and dialects, as well as behaviors that translated rather clearly across every culture.

Why? I ask. Why is Cesar so angry? Is it anger? Is it a mental health issue? I only had a sum total of seven short days, truncated by extended bathroom breaks, to try to teach him to read, most of them in a hot, cramped classroom. With one very small, very anemic air conditioner, and with books and materials I had such lofty hopes for, but that never got used. By me. And Cesar. How will he fare? I do not know. I’d like to remain optimistic. Some of these kids can - and really will make it. But sadly, my mind keeps coming back to the word recidivism. I cannot help it. I don’t think Cesar is going to live much of his life beyond prison.

Tase Me, Bro

Today in my Title I reading workshop we're taking a look at an issue that has made recent headlines: the fan at a Phillies game who ran onto the field and was subdued via taser by police. I've just completed 90 or so hours of state-mandated Category 1-4 English Language Learner (ELL) teacher training. Much of this training has focused on methods of modifying instruction for students whose primary language is something other than English. This population of students, which is very culturally diverse, makes up a majority of students within the juvenile justice system. In my ELL training, there's a lot of emphasis on building background, in explicitly linking concepts to students' own personal experiences.

In preparing for this lesson, I think a lot about how I can build background for my students. I'm guessing they've heard about this issue, because the TV is on in the living room downstairs somewhere between frequently and always, and it's tuned to ESPN about 90% of the time. It's a sports issue, I reason, so they'll have to have at least heard of this, right? I pre-teach some of the vocabulary in the NY Times Bats blog post by Justin Sablich ("tased," "appropriate," "force," and "stunt" are a few); we watch a 45 second You Tube clip of the kid running on the field and being taken down; we do a shared reading of the NY Times sports article, "To Tase Or Not To Tase?"; and we listen to a podcast excerpt of the Tony Kornheiser Show in which several sportswriters/commentators discuss the ins and outs of this issue.

True confessions: before teaching the lesson, I pretty much make up my mind that the kids are going to love the fan who ran out on to the field and hate the trigger happy stun gun cop. How could they not? Kids in juvie hate cops, don't they? Plus, every teenage kid probably wants to get his 15 minutes of fame somehow, some way. They'll think the fan is cool and the cop's a jerk. I'm totally convinced of it.

As we finish reading the blog post, Carlos blurts out: "Miss, I've been tased before. It feels like a big shock, and your arms drop and you go down. Oh, and it leaves a big red mark." Raul adds, "Yo Miss, I haven't been tased before, but my brother has. The cop had to hold the trigger down like, mad long, because my brother's really fat, and he had to like, aim it at his ankle and his back and stuff. My brother had like a heart problem and had to go to the hospital when that happened." By the end of the day, I find that all but one of my students have direct experience with being tased. They know how it feels. I don't.

So much for the freshly-trained teacher building all that background. I half laugh to myself as I realize something: they've built the background for me.

We compile a pros and cons wall around the issue, and each kid contributes something to it. Some play devil's advocate, some not. We discuss the rights and wrongs, the who-did-whats and what-would-you-have-dones. At the end of the class, each kid writes a reflection statement in response to the appropriateness of the use of tasers on fans who trespass at a major league ball game. "People need to act right when they're in public," Pablo writes in his response statement. "We couldn't know what the kid was going to do. No one can know. He could have had a weapon. And if the cops had taken him down in a tackle, he could have gotten way more hurt. The taser was an appropriate use of force in this case."

By the end of the day, every kid agreed that it was the fan who was at fault for making a poor decision to run out on to the field. Every kid sided with the cop for using the taser to subdue the fan and control the situation.

I begin to realize that this happens all the time. By 'this,' I mean the prejudging of my students. Lots of people take these kids of color, these kids in lock up, put them in boxes and attach labels: 'Trouble.' 'Lazy.' 'Stupid.' And although I definitely don't see my kids as any of these things, I had sized them up in a certain way because of their status as juvenile offenders. I 'knew' their opinions before hearing what they really thought and reading what they wrote. I made them guilty of something, in my own mind, before hearing their testimony.

Now, some may say that mine isn't such a horrible gaffe. But thoughts, even the tiny, invisible ones, can lead to meaningful behaviors and actions that are detectable by others. I really want my students to be sure, as often as possible, that I believe in them, that I give them the benefit of the doubt. I think all teenagers need guidance by adults who have this attitude. As I reflect on today's lesson, I feel a bit disappointed in myself. I'll try not to make this mistake again. And I suppose what I feel the most is gratitude to these boys for reminding me that teachers, not just students, can learn important lessons in their own classrooms.

It's true I've never been tased. But today I felt a little stun. And it felt good.

friday at the masters

Today is Friday--with a capital F. It's the end of a long week, one that somehow feels as though it's lasted longer than five working days. I thought today would be a perfect day to introduce writer's journals to the kids. They could take the stack of magazines I keep in my classroom and cut out images and words that reflect their personalities and strengths, then decorate their journals in a way that has personal meaning. Hopefully, with a touch of their own style, the kids will be more likely to feel connected to their writing, and more motivated to share authentically in it. They dive into the magazines with zeal while I point out that the words and images they choose need to be appropriate.

"You mean no gang stuff?" says Jerome.

"Right," I respond.

"What about booze?" queries Paco.

"Yeah, we need to leave that out, too," I say. The boys seem unfazed by these parameters and go about their searching, cutting and gluing.

To go along with this relaxed atmosphere, I'm streaming live coverage of the Masters tournament. A few of the students here have been lucky enough to have been out on a golf course with a particularly kind staff member who happens to be a golf fanantic. Most, though, don't like golf. They don't follow it, don't care about it, and don't know of any golfers aside from Tiger Woods. But, I reason to myself, there's nothing like the sweet, tinkling sound of the piano music that they play during Masters coverage, the tweeting birds in the background, and the hushed voices of the commentators to set a relaxed tone. It's this kind of aural accompaniment that I think can really help keep the most explosive DYS resident fairly tame.

During 5th period, Alex remarks, "Yo Miss, you got any better music than this?"

"Why, you don't like it? This is the music they play whenever the Masters is on. It's supposed to be soft and calming, I guess," I point out.

"They don't got no Puerto Rican music? You know, bop bop bam bam, bop bop BAM!" Alex mimes.

"Yeah, I can see how that might liven things up a bit. But they tend not to play Puerto Rican music during golf tournaments. Especially this one. They like to keep things pretty chill."

I giggle to myself, imagining the brass at ESPN or CBS Sports or The Golf Channel trying to reach out to the Hispanic audience, experimenting with salsa music during the biggest golf event of the year.

Hmph. No wonder these kids can't relate to golf.

The 'Hoodest White Girl You Know

Overheard a moment ago at the end of my 5th period class:

Tariq: "Miss, I'm gonna start calling you Shaniqua. No, Shanaynay."

Me: "Oh yeah? Why is that?"

Tariq: "'Cause you is the 'hoodest white girl I know."

Me: "Wow, thanks Tariq. No one has ever said that to me before."

I try to connect with my students, to work and interact with them in such a way that they don't see me as some uppity white woman who's trying to teach them a brand of literacy that they can't relate to. I want to create a teacher-student connection that makes it easy for them to become better readers.

But I didn't see myself as being 'hood. Oh well. Maybe it's a good thing, after all.

one simple thought

I'm not going to wax too poetic on this blog entry. But I feel an urge to put down this one simple thought: that all of the materials I use to teach comprehension, fluency, vocabulary, phonics, and all the ins and outs of turning out better readers - would never lead to my desired outcomes if I left out one key ingredient: love. There is a certain kind of love that exists in my classroom. It cannot be defined, but it can be detected. My students come from places where they cannot let their guards down, where they lie, steal and cheat to survive. Somehow--I honestly don't know how--I figured out that my success depends on my being able to offer these boys a place where they feel respected, valued and safe on a consistent basis. Mine is a small classroom, but it offers deep dividends in potential for learning. And it's because of love. Without it, I'd be a failure. And I could never live with that.

progress

I did the biggest double-take on Friday, the last day of school before the winter break, and also the last day before Valentine's Day, which typically ranks up there among the biggest candy holidays in the school year. Walking past the common room on my way up to my classroom, I glanced in and thought I saw kids eating fruit. NAHHHHH, I said to my inner cynic, not believing what I was seeing. I looked back again and confirmed not my fears, but my hopes: every single kid was eating a piece of fresh fruit. "What are you eating?" I asked Jamal. "An apple, Miss," was Jamal's nonchalant response. "I'm hungry," he continued. "Is it good?" "Yeah, Miss, this apple's real good."

I didn't bother to ask where the fruit came from, or why I haven't seen the kids eating it more often. I left well enough alone, glad to see something nutritious going on at G House. In a very small way, it helps to balance out some of the less healthful things that happen there, such as kids who escape by jumping out a second story window at midnight because their withdrawal symptoms due to cocaine addiction force them to. Yes, people, fruit consumption in the clink is significant progress.

greens, blacks and browns

So the boys came back from horticulture class this past Monday with an abundance of vegetables: salad greens, radishes, russian kale, parsley. During fourth period, under the guidance of Mrs. H., the horticulture teacher, they assembled a beautiful chop chop salad with the bounty of their harvest, adding hard boiled egg, bermuda onion, chopped apple, carrot, Chinese noodles, and more. It was stunning. "Miss," they said. "Are you going to have some of our salad for lunch?" "If there's any left over, sure!" I replied enthusiastically.

They looked at me kind of funny. I realized later that this funny look meant "we don't eat no stinkin' vegetables." It's true - I've never seen a kid at G House eat anything green and fresh. Or orange and fresh. Or anything that grows in the ground in its natural, unprocessed state. When I've asked them why they don't eat vegetables, most will say they simply don't like them. They were never offered them as young children, and so they have developed anti-vegetable palates. I observe what my students do eat, which consists of meat (chicken, pork, sometimes beef), rice or pasta, potato chips, and soda. That's all, folks. No fresh fruit. No salad (only on special occasions, and then it's in the form of iceberg lettuce, January tomatoes, and unidentified salad dressing).

And so my students--who are predominantly black or brown, 96% of whom are on behavioral medication, all of whom get little to no exercise, and all of whom eat unbalanced, unhealthy diets--are expected to learn, grow and meet the academic standards set forth by the Massachusetts DESE. This is a nutrient- and activity-poor recipe for failure, no?

What if...

-kids in juvenile justice facilities were provided with a wider array of nutrient-rich foods and given junk/treat foods only occasionally?

-there were reasonable limits set on the amount of time spent watching television and playing video games - for all kids, including those in juvenile justice facilities?

-each juvenile justice facility offered some kind of comprehensive physical fitness program?

-Mrs. H.'s horticulture program were expanded beyond the limits of the DYS program and right into the communities that these kids come from, so that kids and families could be connected to affordable and nutritious food sources while building up the communities at the same time?

-these efforts were pressed into action, if only to a minimal degree. Would we see increases in academic performance and decreases in behavioral issues?

It occurs to me that the latest national efforts to create standards for healthy lifestyles are far from becoming reality in the educational setting in which I work. The federal crackdown on getting junk food out of schools...the First Lady's Let's Move program, which addresses childhood obesity...even the quasi-hip Mediterranean Diet...do these concepts have any chance of becoming part of the reality at G House and programs like it at any time in the near future? Or is the juvenile justice system not considered part of "our nation's schools?"

I just read an article heading: "Low I.Q. Predicts Heart Disease." This comes from the latest headlines from the New York Times. I'll have to read it later but I can't get past this thought: that it is the cycle of generational poverty that weaves the web of academic underachievement, chronic health problems, drugs, crime, etc. We can't cure any one problem or issue using one single method or effort. It's like trying to perform social liposuction: it just isn't a healthy, sustainable solution. We have got to take a holistic, broad brush approach to all of these issues, not just waging little wars a la carte. Geoffrey Canada's Harlem Children's Zone is the best example of an anti-poverty effort that offers education, social service and community building programs. The data show that HCZ is working, and not just marginally. To read more about HCZ's dramatic success, take a moment to pore over its website at www.hcz.org.

I hear that President Obama intends to replicate Mr. Canada's success by creating 20 new "Promise Neighborhoods" across the U.S.. I cannot wait for this to happen. In the meantime, I'll keep fighting the good fight, teaching reading to my kids at G House, and figuring out a way to get some veggies into their mouths. Maybe I'll have to resort to bribery. Hey, it works for Geoffrey Canada.

recidivism bites

Last Friday we had a graduation for Jonah, a sixteen year old kid who is the father of two children and has another on the way. At the ceremony, we all bestowed our best wishes upon Jonah, saying positive words of encouragement and reminders about responsibility, hard work, and healthy goals. Jonah thanked everyone, including teachers, staff and other residents, and said he would keep his head up and stay out of trouble. To be honest, I had strong doubts about Jonah's future and his ability to make it out there (and by 'make it' I mean finishing school and getting a legitimate job, as opposed to earning a living as a purveyor of illicit drugs).

This morning I learned that Jonah was arrested for possession of marijuana, which means a few things:

1. he's going back to secure lock-up after only 6 days on the out
2. his community re-entry and education plans are totally derailed
3. I now know why I had such doubts about Jonah

In reading workshop, when I would ask Jonah to describe something in either oral or written format, he used to say to me, "Miss, I know what I am trying to say, but I can't find the words. I don't know...it's just...it's so hard for me." Jonah had also confided (in a very open way) that he had been smoking pot regularly since he was ten years old, and that he didn't know how he was going to make any money in life other than by dealing drugs. I asked him if he thought that plan would work for him in the long term. "What are my other choices?" he replied. "Well, education would be a good start, don't you think?" I offered. "Which would lead to a career path of your choice. It can be done, you know," I told him.

But I always saw a dismissive expression on his face when we had conversations like this one. I never got the impression that Jonah wanted to complete his education and get a job. Maybe he was addicted, to a number of things for a variety of reasons. But I still feel mournful at this latest twist in the tale of Jonah. I'd rather be writing about all the success stories of kids in DYS who actually use their time in custody to turn their lives around. These stories exist and are worthy of wide public broadcast. For now, though, I reflect dolefully on Jonah. Perhaps his latest learning experience will be the catalyst for some sort of positive change.

Man On Wire

I just finished a mini unit on courage and perseverance using the Academy Award-winning documentary film Man On Wire as my focus story. Before watching the film, I indulged in a read-aloud of Mordicai Gerstein's The Man Who Walked Between The Towers. I'm sort of sadly amazed at how much background I need to provide to my students on things I used to think everybody automatically knows, such as What Was The World Trade Center and Where Is New York City and Why Is The World Trade Center Not Standing Anymore. That last one, having to do with a lack of awareness of 9/11, is rare among my students, I must admit. But it is a fact that the kids who come into custody of the Department of Youth Services tend to be 1)lacking in formal schooling, 2)from families that either cannot or do not support learning, and 3)are ELL's. Hence, I need to pre-teach a lot of stuff. On the other hand, that's why I'm here, right? I love teaching, reading and learning side by side with my students. So I guess I'm in my dream job.

"Can you 'see' yourself in this story?" I ask them, reminding them that we comprehend stories in many ways, two important ones being feeling and visualizing. "Miss, I would never do what he did. To walk on a wire up in the air, that far up? No way. Maybe I'd try it if there were, like, a trampoline or something underneath me."

I give an empathetic chuckle. "I hear you on that one. I can't see myself as a wire walker, either. But what do you think Philippe Petit's story has to tell us about things like following a dream and never giving up? Is there a message there for us?"

One of my students, Miguel, raises his hand. "Miss, it's like he's telling us that we are powerful beyond our wildest dreams. All we have to do is think it, dream it, and we can do it. I hear his message. I get it."

I look at Miguel, my eyes wide and glassy. "Yes, you get the message. You are all so capable and powerful," I tell them.

May my students set their goals in high and healthy places. And may they embody the true meaning of perseverance. I'll help in any way I can.

Christmas in the Clink

Today was the last day of school at G House before the holiday break. Keeping with tradition, we had a huge midday feast, complete with roast ham, pernil, roast turkey, seafood salad, rice and lentils, and loads of sweet stuff for dessert. As I sort through my mental snapshots of today, I call up images of lots of smiling faces, both staff and residents alike. The kids all received Christmas presents, consisting mostly of clothes, games and candy. Those kids from local neighborhoods were encouraged to invite family members to the feast. I truly enjoyed meeting the grandmother and aunt of a new student of mine, Antonio. It's been a rare experience to be able to make face to face contact with the families of my students in DYS, and I felt lucky to have the chance to see another facet of Antonio's life.

While chatting with Antonio's grandmother and aunt, I noticed a very quiet Manuel over my left shoulder, sitting in a corner chair. He had his hoodie zipped up all the way so that it covered his face. That's strange, I thought. Manuel didn't seem tired just a second ago. But then I noticed Manuel's chest shuddering, ever so gently, beneath that hoodie. Suddenly, I got it. Manuel's family. They're local. He invited them. They didn't come.

It's easy to look at these kids as statistics on paper and just dismiss them. If most people saw Manuel's rap sheet, they wouldn't have a shred of sympathy for the kid. Manuel has done some pretty bad things to pave his way into lock up. Most of these kids have. But they're kids. They're human beings, and they've got so many unmet developmental needs. One of those needs is love. The kind of love that's demonstrated by showing up for an hour to see your kid and get some pretty damn good free food at the same time.

So that's Christmas in the clink. Some good times, some bad. I suppose it's just like everyone else's Christmas, with bits of sadness sprinkled in with the holiday joy. I know I can't ask for a world without tears. But I'd really like it if misery would walk through the back door of these kids' lives a little less frequently.

OMG!

If I were writing the supermarket tabloid version of my experiences in the clink--the kind where only the Most Shocking And Outrageous Headlines made it to print--here's what you'd see:

"Cell Phone And Charger Found In Resident Rec Room! No One's Admitting Anything!" (editor's note: remember, in jail they don't let you have cell phones...or chargers)

"Three Residents Infected With MRSA! Really Poor Hygiene Or Illicit Sexual Contact To Blame? Or Both?!?"

"Resident On Anti-Psychotic Medication Regularly Cheeks His Meds - And Gives It To Other Residents So They Can Get High!"

"Generous Parent Donates TV To Juvenile Detention Center - With Hidden Gun Inside?!?"

"Resident Steals Scissors From Classroom, Eludes Guards And Holds Case Worker Hostage!"

(related to previous scandalous headline) "Although Guards Were To Blame For Not Noticing Scissors In Resident's Sock, Guards Get Mild Reprimand While Teacher Whose Classroom They Were Taken From Gets Shit-Canned!!"

"Guard Engages In Sexual Activity With Resident On Third Shift While Others Either Sleep Or Look Away!"

It's a crazy, crazy approach to teaching in this place. It's a far cry from Waldorf education. Being a teacher in the clink requires a certain constant watchfulness that I never had to muster when I was teaching in public schools. There is much possibility for chaos, and even more chance for danger.

So why do I do it?

I teach reading to these kids because they've gotten the short end of the stick in life, and they need someone to give them a chance to succeed, in spite of everything. And that "everything" means their criminal records, their angry dispositions, and their convictions that they're still going to keep hustling when they're discharged. That's the hard part: when I overhear my students making plans to get back on the street to keep dealing, stealing and gangbanging. Makes me disappointed, dejected, depressed.

But I won't give up.