What Are You Going To Do?

"Yo, Miss, I don't like reading, so save that crappy book for someone else." This was both an exact quotation and the general consensus on day one in my ELA 8 class. To be precise, this is not “my” class per se; I am a middle school ELL (English Language Learners) teacher in an underperforming school in Massachusetts, and my role in this particular class is to provide ELL support to students with intermediate English skills. I recall looking at the book in my hand that I was attempting to pawn off on the class. In a way, this kid who declared this a “crappy” book had me over a barrel. This text looked pathetic. Were I still in 8^th grade, I would turn up my nose at it the same way he did. In fact, every single book in the classroom stack of Walter Dean Myers' 145th Street: Short Stories was in seriously sad shape. Pages were missing. Most of the covers were ripped. I remember glancing up at my co-teacher, who returned my look with a “oh-well-what’re-you-gonna-do” shrug.

This is typical of the experience in an underperforming school. My school does not have automatic funds to replace worn materials at the drop of a hat. We usually make do with what we’ve got – and what we’ve got seems to diminish in number and quality by the day. What’s more, students here don’t come to school with freshly scrubbed faces and newly sharpened pencils, ready to just eat up every single lesson plan that their teachers have put countless hours into crafting. They tend to have issues and problems that make learning difficult. In the setting where I teach, my students are tough, hardscrabble kids, most of whom are refugees from harder lives in Puerto Rico. They are English Language Learners. They come from broken families. They live in poverty. They are hungry. Many are homeless. Yet my students are fiercely proud - and they should be. They are as deserving of healthy lives and better opportunities as any other person on the planet

I teach in what is called a Gateway City in Massachusetts. My school has been deemed "underperforming" by the state Department of Elementary and Secondary Education. We are in a school turnaround plan, a three-year endeavor that has required an all-hands-on-deck approach to reform. We are faced with what feels like an insurmountable task--but our resolve to succeed is unshakable. Giving these kids a chance at an education is the most valuable gift I can offer. The gangs and the streets wait outside the doors of our school every day. In spite of all economic and social obstacles, my job—my mission—is to convince the students I work with that learning and literacy are the ticket to a better path.

Oh well. What are you going to do?

My co-teacher and I forged ahead. We modeled fluent reading and guided students through comprehension exercises as we read 145th Street: Short Stories as a class. Class discussions began to get more lively. Kids asked questions about the characters in each story, making meaningful connections and writing insightful journal entries. By the time we finished 145^th Street, every copy had fallen apart completely. Ceremoniously, we took the pages and made annotated murals as a final group project. The kids were visibly proud. It was beautiful.

Knowing that it would be tough to replicate this experience for future classes, I thought about ways to raise funds to purchase a new set of books. A colleague in my ELL teaching community on Twitter had suggested writing a proposal on Donors Choose some time ago. I sat down at my computer one recent weekend and wrote. And wrote. I submitted a proposal on a Saturday evening, and by Monday morning I got word of its approval. I sent the link to my project at the Donors Choose website to everyone I know. Within 6 hours, my project was completely funded. I was overjoyed!

Since the completion of this project, I have successfully submitted and funded another one, and I am now working on a proposal for materials to use in my role as an after school tutor. Tutoring is as vital as classroom instruction in the setting in which I work, possibly in all teaching and learning communities. There are ways to succeed even when circumstances are challenging, I have learned. Opportunities are everywhere, if we simply allow ourselves to see them.  

Click here to see my ongoing projects: www.donorschoose.org/kate.blair

Donors Choose (hopefully me)

I've posted before about the works of wonder that Walter Dean Myers writes, and how his voice so clearly and resonantly speaks to the population I work with. Today's post is an indelible underscore of my belief in the power of his writing and how it can transform the lives of young learners. I am reaching out to folks in every possible way I know in an effort to help gather support for my ESL classroom. We are looking to acquire a new set of Myers' book 145th Street: Short Stories. It's a collection of stories written about young people in an urban setting with tough lives, and it's serving to turn some of my more reluctant readers into motivated, capable students. The copies we had up until this year have fallen apart completely, and unfortunately the school does not have the funds to replace them. Right now, Donors Choose is pledging to match any donation dollar for dollar up until November 19th. I thank you in advance for considering, and please feel free to share this project with others who might be looking to support local underserved students.

Click this link to see my page:http://www.donorschoose.org/kate.blair 

Vocabulary and ELL's

When it comes to learning a new language, the importance of vocabulary cannot be undervalued. Words are points of synthesis, like little power packs or building blocks to new knowledge, better understanding, and greater ease of movement in a new language and culture. Words are food. They help a brain to grow.

The process of teaching words to students who are learning a new language is, well, a process. They need these aforementioned power packs, not just in my ELD (English Language Development) class, but also in their other core academic classes, in gym, in music, in life. But when you look at my particular students in my particular setting, it's pretty clear to see that the teaching of new vocabulary requires a special touch.

I realize I haven't posted in Tales From The Clink in quite some time. I guess it's because I spend most of my time trying to perfect that "special touch," which is really just what all caring teachers do as part of their jobs: the constant pursuit of better methods to optimize student learning. I have a constant time crunch, and that means I'm on the go as soon as my foot passes the threshold of door 3 at M School every morning. "Spare time" in my world is an oxymoron. Let me paint a picture. 

My classroom consists of sectioned off quarter of a regular classroom, and I share it with two other teachers who are also equally compromised for space, time and resources. My students are ten in number, are seventh and eighth graders, and are growing both physically and as numbers on a roster week by week. We are big people in a small space. We are transient. We are victims of significant trauma. We are homeless. We are refugees. We are on government assistance. We are hungry.

My teaching, and my planning for my teaching, has to take all this into account. I know I have to expect obstacles to learning, and so I plan my lessons in 20 minute chunks of time (studies show that both ELL's and kids who have been exposed to trauma need tasks broken down into roughly 20 minute periods of time). One of these chunks is devoted to word study. I have come to rely on a fantastic website called Vocabulary and Spelling City www.spellingcity.com. I discovered VSC a few years ago when I started teaching reading in the juvenile justice system. Someone had mentioned this site at a conference I had attended, and I found the site and started experimenting with it with my students at the time. The group of students I had been teaching then were pretty diverse in their reading levels, and using this website allowed me to customize word lists to each student’s ability. It was an instant hit. I could create assignments that connected to what each student was reading but also wove in customized writing and listening tasks. I could give them feedback right on the site, which they loved. 

My year started with a pull-out group of 5 students, and now, in early November, this group has doubled, and it promises to continue this trend. The coming and going of students on a regular basis requires a high degree of differentiation in my instruction.  Having the use of Vocab & Spelling City.com allows me to create custom word lists for my brand new beginners, my emerging students, and those who are approaching fluency. Even those students who have access to the internet outside of school can log on and work on word study assignments outside of the classroom. My students have all improved their scores on a variety of literacy assessments, and I feel that our word study routine using VSC has a lot to do with this success.

I don’t know what I would do without VSC., and I want others to know about its great features and benefits. I feel as though I have a partnership with the people who have created this web resource. I hope other teachers and learners will discover it too. If you do, let me know what you think! 

Yes, We Can

Wow. It's nearing the end of the school year, and what a long, strange trip it's been. At M School, we've taken an all-hands-on-deck approach to turning things around, and by "things," I mean a collection of indicators of performance as seen through the lenses of higher-ups at the state level. Those things would include, but are not limited to: test scores, attendance, and behavior (internal and external suspension rates). We have increased the length of our school day, and we have added two hours of professional development to our working time each week. We have made a concerted effort to improve student writing skills by delivering monthly open response questions and focusing more on writing instruction techniques. As of this past Thursday, we were still awaiting our MCAS test scores, which many in the M School community are awaiting with the most bated of breath. 

But the sparkling cider corks are already popping for me.

MEPA (Massachusetts English Proficiency Assessment) scores arrived this past Thursday. Our district goal was 62% improvement. M School beat that goal, and moreover, the ELL kids at the middle school level surpassed it by an even larger margin. As a teacher of beginning English Language Learners in grades 6-8, I've got myself a tall order. My students arrive directly from Puerto Rico with little to no English proficiency, and believe it or not, they don't always arrive in my classroom doorway with freshly sharpened pencils, clean, smiling faces, and positive attitudes. Frankly, they're pissed that they had to leave P.R., their culture, their families, their homeland. They take one look at me, Gringa Maestra, and suck their teeth and cross their arms, waiting to see what I do with their defiance. Fortunately, I've gotten my Spanish on this year, so I've gained some competence in bridging this gap. I don't look like I can speak their language, but when I throw a few key Spanish phrases around, they pay attention and sit up. In addition, I've had a full year's worth of trying different teaching approaches, diversifying my techniques. I've worked hard to earn their trust and build relationships, and really, that matters more to me than test scores.

But I can't help but feel a sense of pride and affirmation in seeing those MEPA scores shoot right up, especially after such a grueling year. Half of my students improved enough to be mainstreamed into regular English Language Arts classes. I expect there to be a steady stream of newcomers next year, however, and they will likely arrive at random intervals during the school year. My brain definitely needs the summer off - for a very necessary vacation. In September I'll be ready to do it all again, knowing that when there's a will, there's a way. Si se puede!

Reckless Abandon

I often think about writing. More often, and lately, I think about not writing. I am not writing. Sure, I write lesson plans (tons), and behavior reports (half tons), and scads of assignments related to my practicum and CAGS program and other professional development endeavors, but let's call a spade a spade. This isn't writing. Writing is nourishment. Writing is love. It's sustenance, the kind of soul food that makes some people feel integrated and whole. And then, when writing disappears from the regular routine, things atrophy. They wither. If writing were my child, which it kind of is, then I would be reported to the authorities.

I feel like I've ditched my kid.

I effectively gave up writing Tales From The Clink when I left my job teaching reading in the juvenile justice system. I did not leave willingly--I was laid off, and because I have bills to pay and mouths to feed, I had to chase down a full time gig. Quickly. And with good fortune on my side, I landed my current job, teaching English language learners at the middle school level in an underperforming school. Yes, I think I may have mentioned that I work in an underperforming school in a previous blog post. The underperforming status of M school serves to make sure that I (and my fellow teachers at M School) do the opposite. Perform. And golly, do we do that all the time! We do it before school, giving extra help to students; after school, when we are contracted to teach extended days because someone theorized that more instructional time translates to higher academic achievement; after dark, when we are mandated to stay 2-3 hours weekly for professional development; and after we return home to our families each weekend, which I'd prefer to reserve for spending time with, well, my family.

The time that I used to use for reflective thinking and writing has been supplanted by these new "have-to"'s. I feel stripped of a certain vitality that used to feed my teaching self as well as my whole self. Do I just need to become a better manager of time? Or am I in an untenable situation?

I try to meditate sometimes. I'd been hearing more and more about meditation, from the occasional Facebook post or in quick snippets of "news" from Yahoo, that meditation is the new/old essential practice for good health. So I try. I never seem to stay at it that long, but when I do, and when I try to "listen" as I empty myself out, I hear something in myself. A voice, a signal. Write, it says. You have to. Don't and you'll starve.

Starving is a pretty senseless thing to do when you should and do have access to food. It's reckless. Making time for writing in the face of all these other responsibilities feels the same way. As I type this blog post, my children are fixing their own dinner and bickering over who got more mini chicken tacos. Voices are being raised. They clearly need their mother's attention. But I'm finishing this piece because I owe it to myself. Sometimes, you need to go after and get what you really and truly need. With reckless abandon.

The Glow of Opportunity

And summer school commences.

I was really on the fence about whether I would teach this summer. This past year has been pretty rough and tumble, between getting laid off from my job as a reading teacher in the juvenile justice system, to starting a new position as a middle school teacher of English Language Learners in a severely underperforming school. I have learned that if you're looking to raise your blood pressure by, say, ten to fifty or more points, a good way to do it is to start a teaching job in the middle of a school year. Even better if you're teaching middle school. And you get bonus marks if your students don't want to learn English, which is what you're contracted to teach them.

Over the course of the past six months, my head became like an over-inflated tire, dangerously close to exploding. My days were spent in the mode of constant redirection, with little successes sprinkled in here and there. I told myself, over and over, that this summer would be my grand reward, my treat to myself for having endured an incredibly stressful year. Images of beaches, lawn chairs, books I've been meaning to read, and cool drinks swirled around in my head. I was dizzy in love with my dream summer-to-be.

In early June, my school's ELL coach told me that the summer program had reposted the ELL Writing position. "I know you're not thinking about working this summer, right, Kate?" she sort of sheepishly said one day in passing. No, I'm not. Or I wasn't. I hadn't been? But it was becoming more and more a part of my thinking as we got closer to the end of the school year. I'll admit that part of my thinking had to do with my son's recent declaration that he wanted to go out for the high school golf team in the fall (big cash hemorrhage). But the bigger part of my shift in thinking had to do with conversations I'd been having with colleagues on Twitter. I participate semi-regularly in what's called an #ELLCHAT, in which teachers, consultants and other professionals in the field of teaching English Language Learners get together and share ideas, pose questions and create a supportive community in the field. A few folks had mentioned during one particular chat what a glowing opportunity it is to teach in the summer, particularly with this population.

I guess that's all it took. "Glowing opportunity" is the term that got my attention, but was I thinking of the kids' opportunity, or my own? At this point, I'm inclined to believe it's both. True, I'm far from the idyllic beach setting I imagined myself in earlier this year, but I'm glad I took this job. The kids are (surprisingly) well behaved, at least in my classes. We go on lots of field trips in this program, which provides great fodder for writing. The picture above was taken on our first excursion to a state park about 20 minutes outside the city. The kids got to explore the shallows of a pond and use small hand nets to find critters, creatures and other sorts of freshwater aquaculture. Later, they got to go swimming (although their swim was cut short due to tardy lifeguards). We'll be writing about this trip, and others to come, using pictures, posters, pamphlets, and more.

These kids often don't leave the confines of the city in which they live and, from what I hear, they often don't leave their homes except to go to school. It's awfully hard to teach kids when they have such a severe lack of background knowledge on which to base their learning. But here, in this program, there's a great - and yes, I think glowing - set of chances for kids to enrich their experiences and broaden their horizons. Maybe, together, we'll start to stretch ourselves in ways we never thought we could.

Saturday School, Part 2

It's June. The weather out here in western Massachusetts is pristine, with a series of recent wild storms and tornadoes having all but scrubbed the skies clean. I look up and see clear, azure tones. I hear summer's call. And my students do, too. I can tell, easily: they're absent all the time now.

This means they've gotta do their due time at Saturday school, which is like structured, glorified detention, for three hours each Saturday. As I've confessed already, I usually work these shifts to pick up a little extra cash, but honestly, I also do it to build relationships with my students. They seem as though they're not all that interested in buddying up with teachers in general, but I've noticed lately that when I approach them to offer help or redirection, they look away or suck their teeth less often. Hoorah! This is progress. I feel the tiniest little victory inside when this happens, and I know that these moments represent learning, in seedling form.

So it's Saturday again. Normally I'd be in my car right now, headed south for the 40 minute commute to school. But today I'm home, still in my nightclothes, a mug of hot, fresh coffee next to my laptop. In a little while I'll be preparing to take care of day-long duties as a baseball mom. I'll certainly miss the opportunity to continue the process of strengthening the bonds with my students. They may or may not show up, I know. But in the back of my mind I'll be thinking about them, engaging in my favorite metacognitive game of playing and replaying the tapes I keep in my head, the ones that have to do with being a better teacher.

There are three more weeks of school this year, and two more Saturday school days. Seventeen opportunities left for me to grab the attention of fourteen Puerto Rican adolescents. I'm ready for a grande finale. I just hope they're at school to see it.

La escuela de sabado

It's Saturday. Can't think of anything I'd rather do than make a hundred bucks the hard way. Actually, what used to be the hard way has become pretty easy money. I have to admit, I work Saturday school for the money, not for the glory or the power. Kids who come to Saturday school are here because they've racked up piles of unexcused absences. If they want to move on to the next grade in September, they've got to erase those missed days. So they show up here, at school, to immerse themselves in higher learning for three hours. With me.

The schedule says that four of my lovelies should be here today, but only one has shown up - and her name isn't even on the list! Am I going to turn her away? Um, no. Come. Come in, dear Kiana. Let's spend time together, and teach each other a thing or two.

More later...

surfacing

This is my first post since January 1, which was two days before I started my new job as a middle school ELL teacher. It's February 18, 12:05 pm, and the kids have just been dismissed so that we teachers can have a half day of professional development.

I feel like someone just handed me a snorkel. I am just now surfacing. I can breathe. I can write.

Overwhelming is a mild term to describe my transition from teaching reading to teenage boys in the juvenile justice system to working with English language learners between the ages of 11-13. Let me make this clear assertion: teaching in jail was way easier than this gig. The kids knew the drills. They knew that if they stepped out of line, there were clear and foreseeable consequences, and so they pretty much behaved. Most of the time. But here, in this level 4 school, in this socioeconomically stretched city in western Massachusetts, things are a bit more dicey. This is an academically underperforming school. There's a general lack of motivation among the kids and, perhaps in a greater sense, among their parents. In very real, tangible ways, there are big behavior issues. There is neglect. There is truancy. And then I also get to deal with those added layers of a language barrier and the age-old challenge of the creature that is the tweenager.

I keep calling this the molotov cocktail of teaching jobs. It's kicking my ass in ways I've never quite felt. These kids have tested me as though I were a 22 year old student teacher. In my first seven weeks here, I've seen a student stabbed with a pencil, had things thrown across the room, watched my materials get broken, been called many unsavory names in Spanish, and, oh yeah, had a kid--somehow--post a picture of an erect penis on my computer (that happened on my second day. it was unforgettable). And throughout all this nonsense, I've had to remind myself that I'm supposed to teach these kids English, not just play defense.

I think a lot of people would turn and run, or go get a real estate license, or find a good therapist. I've felt all kinds of things over the past 7 weeks, but defeated is not one of them. One of the reasons I wanted to work in a community like this one is that I know there is goodness and potential in these kids. I know that they haven't been given a fair shake. The odds are against them, and statistically, they are highly likely to fall prey to a long list of risk factors. A bunch of them will end up in the juvenile justice system, and then prison. Yes, it does suck to be them. But I believe in working for social justice, and the way that belief needs to play out is right here, in this little, hot, windowless classroom. I am sticking with this job, and with these kids, and when we all return from this blessed winter vacation, we will be refreshed and recharged. And ready to learn.

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.

shifting gears

Folks, this is to be my last post for a while. I've decided to shunt my blogging juices in a different direction, away from one thing I love, teaching in the juvenile justice system, and toward another: food.

Now you may be wondering why someone would want to add another food blog into the already well-saturated blogosphere. Who would read it? Why would anyone care about what yet another food-obsessed American has to say about a topic that has been whirled around the world wide Cuisinart too many times? Who cares?

It may well be that, in fact, no one does. Besides me, that is. And that would be fine. My new motivation for writing about food comes from how moved I am by the little farm that my family and I have bought a share in for the past several years. It is a little jewel of a place, rich with biodynamic soil and people who believe in the vitality of food, community and sustainability. Honestly, when I think about the upcoming farm season, which begins in just two and a half weeks, I feel myself start to shake a little bit. It's just a farm, I know; but what I've realized is that its presence in my life has a deep and profound effect. In big and little ways. So I'm going to write about it, on a daily basis, for 22 weeks. We'll see what happens. If you care to, follow me on over to my new blog, Big Onions, at Salon:

http://open.salon.com/blog/katrocada

And, if not, thanks for following Tales From The Clink.

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.

indulge yourself

Just ducked out at lunch to fill my gas tank and grab a delicious iced caramel latte. While in the quicky mart, I decided to throw caution to the wind and buy a scratch ticket. For ten dollars, I could make retirement happen way sooner than when I'm planning to, which is, by my calculations, age 93. A bargain, I reasoned.

Well, my visit to the quicky mart cost me this:

gas: $34.10
iced caramel latte: $3.31
scratch ticket: $10.00
_______________________

TOTAL: $47.41

Moral of the story: gambling, as well as lattes, are for suckers.

where the wild things are

I have a student named Robert, the likes of whom I have never faced in my decade or so of teaching. Robert is a fairly adept reader, reading and comprehending at close to a 9th grade level, and he likes reading, so right there we seem to have two strikes in our favor, right?

Wrong. When Robert gets to my classroom door, he's accompanied by a one on one staff who's ready to apply restraint techniques at the drop of a hat. Or a pencil. Or my laptop. Or anything that Robert feels like flinging across my classroom. If we could see Robert biochemically, I think it would look something like a Jackson Pollock piece. He's all over the place. I think he's on a molotov cocktail of personality meds, and from what I can tell, no one can seem to find a good combination. One may not exist. Normally, a kid who's as much of a powder keg as Robert is would not last here at G House. He'd be shipped back to secure treatment, most likely. But Robert is going to age out in three weeks, at which point he'll become a ward of the Department of Mental Health. So here he will stay, until he turns 18.

How do you teach a kid like Robert? What are a reasonable set of goals and expectations? Two words: harm reduction. My goal is to reduce the possibility that Robert freaks out and hurts someone or something. I've decided to take this approach to Robert's remaining time here not so much to protect myself - although I'll admit that's part of it - but to offer this kid at least one 45-minute period each day during which he might be able to feel a little bit of calm, perhaps a touch of peace. I imagine it must be very, very hard to live inside this kid's body. I believe in empathizing with kids, but I would never want to walk in his shoes.

At one point Robert indicated that he liked Scrabble. So this is what we do during Robert's class time. I have Scrabble on my laptop, and we play together pretty much every day. We talk about words, we strategize, and maybe here and there I sneak in a little writing exercise (if he's having a good day, which are few and far between).

When Robert ages out next month and moves on to his next facility, I, along with many other teachers, staff and residents, will exhale loudly. You'll probably hear it. But in spite of the relief we're sure to feel, I hope Robert finds some of his own, some kind of peaceful plateau. We all deserve to have a slice of it.

spring break

It's finally here: April vacation week. I'm sitting in a coffee shop while my little guy is at a birthday party at a movie theater around the corner. I'm having nearly two hours of ME time! Imagine that! Moments like this seem rare, but it's the perfect way to kick off my spring vacation. I get a chance to let all my thoughts settle and sift while the idle cafe banter plays in the background.

I'm letting my mind just wander, but it's making its way back into thoughts of my professional life. Clink stuff...

I think of William, who is about to graduate next week but doesn't want to, because he's so tied into the gang culture and he knows he is going to have to face the kid who stabbed him before he got locked up.

I think of Paco, whose girlfriend just had a baby girl, and who told me, after his last home pass, that he gives the baby extra Tylenol just to make her sleep.

I think of Kyle, who was going to graduate yesterday, but instead got into a fistfight with another resident. His transition into the next stage of his life is now tainted. I hope and pray it doesn't set him back.

I think of Alex, who has bragged to me about his prowess at many things, including dealing drugs and as a ladies' man. He told me a few days ago that a girl claims she's pregnant with his baby. By the way, Alex's girlfriend is expecting in June.

I think of Manny, who read with me last Thursday a short story published in 1996 about Tiger Woods. He told me, "Miss, even though I can read this, I love it when you read out loud...it's like the words become alive when you read."

It's 11:10 and I have to pick up my son from the birthday party. May we all have a peaceful, restful week, and do something that gives us pleasure.

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.

fringe benefits

One of the fringe benefits of teaching in the DYS system is that teachers have no extracurricular requirements. You aren't forced to supervise any after school clubs, coach any sports, or suffer through detention duty. This is not to say that I don't value the educational opportunities that out of school time programs offer. I simply welcome not having to be an unwilling supervisor. But because we're mandated to work an eight hour day, DYS teachers are on the job site for a significant period of time outside of acadmic instruction, and some of that time includes those morning hours when the boys are getting up to start their day, eating breakfast, doing their chores, etc. I try not to get in their way, and they seem to go about their morning routine in a fairly calm and resolute manner.

In a way, I've come to enjoy this part of my working day. I have a full hour in my classroom before my students arrive. I greet the boys quietly in the second floor common room as I make my way up to my third floor perch. I leave the door to my room ajar, leaving open the opportunity for boys to say hello, or not say hello, or ask what we're reading in class today. Simple stuff. Chitchat. Conversation that won't be graded or judged in any way.

This morning, Omar's face appeared at my doorway. "Miss," he chirped. I saw that he had rubber gloves and three or four trash bags in his hand. "Miss, you need your room cleaned, or your trash taken out?"

This program, like others in the system, operates on a point system. The kids need to earn points to maintain their status level. Points are earned and lost for good and poor behavior, academically and otherwise. Kids who might be a little lower on the points ladder might go looking for creative ways to earn extra points. In Omar's case, I know that he lost points for getting into a squabble with another resident over the weekend. But he's always been a very willing, very cooperative student with me. "Well, sure, that would be great. Are you looking to get some extra points?"

Omar nods. I glance at the trash barrel, which is overflowing with garbage left by the third shift staff who uses my classroom like the basement of a frat house. "Can you take the trash out?" I ask him. "Yeah, uh, that's my chore this week anyway. So, I'll sweep the floor, wipe the desks, and take your trash. Is that okay?"

Omar's face, like the faces of all of these boys, seems so innocent right now, so freshly scrubbed. Sometimes I truly wonder how so many of these boys got into so much trouble. "That'd be great, Omar. 25 points sound okay to you?"

Omar smiles. "Yes, thank you." He goes about cleaning the room as I begin my morning routine of starting up my computer, putting out supplies and arranging my plan book. Omar finishes his job pretty swiftly, gathers the trash and heads down the stairs. In a minute, he reappears in the doorway with a funny look on his face. "Miss, staff is busy right now, and I need to take this trash out." I know very well that Omar can't exit the building without a staff present, but this seems like an unusual circumstance. With a high-risk kid, I would never agree to it, but Omar is such a straight arrow, no-nonsense type of resident. "I'll come out with you," I offer, and I grab my keys and we head out.

It's a beautiful morning. The cool air feels refreshing, invigorating. Omar trots out to the sidewalk with the trash bag, and as he does so I notice a woman to my right, walking down the driveway next door to G House. I hear her high heeled shoes before I see her. She's light brown skinned, maybe in her late twenties, wearing a very tight, revealing dress that shares more with the world than I can say I'm comfortable with. I glance up at the front porch of the house next door and see a man. Wearing only a towel. As my eyes take in this information, it all registers. There's business being conducted next door. Before I can bring my attention back to my charge, I hear the man on the porch say "good morning," and I look up in time to see him drop his towel, exposing his manhood to the brisk morning air. And to me.

Immediately, I see Omar fling the trash bag down and run toward the neighbor. "OMAR!!!" I yell. "Omar, get over here!" I manage to grab Omar by the sleeve, and somehow push and shove him back toward G House, where another staff, who has obviously heard my outside voice, comes to my aid.

"That guy can't do that shit," says Omar, breathless and clearly heated, once we get safely inside G House.

"Do you think he was trying to offend me?" I ask Omar.

"Yeah! Miss, that guy was so rude. I had to stand up for you."

"Omar, it means a lot to know that you would stand up for me. But I would never want you to get in trouble as a result. I tell you what: the next time you need someone to escort you outside, we'll find a male staff to do it. I'll stick to teaching. Deal?"

Omar smiles. "Deal," he agrees.

I head back up to my classroom, and Omar goes to wash his hands. I stifle a smirk as I consider how authentic learning opportunities can be found in the most unlikely places.

the best way out

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

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.