I spent the better part of this morning administering a post-TABE test to Jonah, a nice kid who's going to be leaving the program in the next few weeks. As I was filling out my portion of his bubble sheet, in walked Jonah.
"Good morning, Miss."
"Hi Jonah, good to see you. Take a seat and I'll be done with this in just a sec."
I glanced up to see some weird looking red mark on his neck. For a split second I thought: HICKEY?!? Then I realized that this would be very, very unlikely. At least I hoped that's not what it was.
"What's that on your neck?"
"Oh, that," Jonah remarked, pulling back his shirt collar a tad to expose the mark in its entirety. It now looked less like a hickey, and more like he had gotten into a fight. Well, lo and behold, I was right. "That kid, Tyler. He kept comin' in my room last night, talkin' shit and messin' with my stuff. I told him to stay out, said I'm tired of his bullshit. Next thing I know, I'm in the bathroom, and I come out and the kid just frickin' jumps me."
"Really? He just went at you?"
"Yeah, so, like, what was I supposed to do, right? I just went at him, popped him in the face pretty good. The kid was crazy."
"Did staff file a report?"
"Yeah."
"What's that on your leg?"
"Oh, that. That's from when he tried to grab my legs, and I kneed him in the face. You should see that kid's eye!"
"Well, actually, I think I'd rather not. Listen," I said, trying to steer the conversation away from last night's Mixed Martial Arts bout and toward the task at hand. "I'm sorry to hear that there was a fight. Why don't we get this test started. The sooner you finish, the more time you'll be able to get outside with the rest of the guys."
Jonah completed his test with diligence, with enough time to allow him to get outside before the afternoon classes started. I went downstairs, looking for Tyler. I know Tyler has had some issues with his temper, both in this program and in previous settings.
Coming down the stairs, I practically knocked over the program director. "Good morning, Mr. G.," I said, stepping aside.
In a low voice, he said, "Good morning, Miss. I was just coming up to your classroom to tell you that Tyler will not be in your class today." I studied his face for a second, then realized that what he meant is that Tyler will not be in my class any day. Ever again.
Damn. Damn. Damn.
The kid got booted back to lockup, a western Mass version of the place in which I taught last year. I totally get it, why he had to go. Tyler had gotten into/started at least four fights since arriving a month ago. Jonah was not the first kid who sported battle scars as a result of a scuffle with Tyler. But I had been rooting for Tyler to get it together! He had admitted to me, in private, that he had been working on his anger issues, and he'd even been able to work with a boxing coach while he'd been on the out. "I miss boxing, Miss," he had said one day. "I know it sounds like a violent way to manage a violent temper, but it gives me discipline. It's harder for me to deal with things without it." In class, we'd started reading the book Fighting El Fuego, about a young punk kid whose brother gets locked up and starts getting into trouble. Can't control his anger. "Miss, this kid is just like me!" Tyler exclaimed after we'd read the first couple of chapters. "My brother got locked up, too. Ever since then, I've just been, like, crazy. Only in the story, the dad is still there. Who knows where mine is."
I'd like to know, too. Where do all these fathers go? I keep wondering about this as I work with more and more kids whose dads are just absent. In the meantime, I'll keep Tyler in my prayers, and hope that somehow he finds his way.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Sunday, November 8, 2009
Swine Flu in the House, Yo
I'd like to take this opportunity to thank all of my students for sharing so generously their virulence with me last week. Because I've been FLAT OUT this weekend - this, of all weekends, with its unseasonably glorious weather - with what I believe to be the Scrabble flu (yep, H1N1). The group home where I teach is a perfect petri dish, I've found, for all things that produce fever, phlegm and inflammation. Even though I'm so heavily armed with Clorox wipes, sanitizing spray and Purell, I guess there's no stopping this virus, especially in a place that's this dirty and inhabited by so many young men with poor personal hygiene.
I feel like there's a small elephant sitting on my chest. I'm tired, in spite of getting 12 hours of sleep last night. I don't feel like watching football, and my bloodshot eyes can't follow more than a line of text on a page. Typing this blog entry is exhausting. I think I just caught myself starting to drool.
But I'm dying to get back to my reading workshop tomorrow. We have to keep reading Fighting El Fuego so that we can find out how the book ends before two of my students graduate this Thursday. FEF is about a young Puerto Rican-American kid who has a big anger management problem and gets into fights all the time. I have some of the most reluctant readers actually begging me to read this book with them. No need to build background here, folks.
So, it's off to bed with tea and cough drops. And my rally cap.
I feel like there's a small elephant sitting on my chest. I'm tired, in spite of getting 12 hours of sleep last night. I don't feel like watching football, and my bloodshot eyes can't follow more than a line of text on a page. Typing this blog entry is exhausting. I think I just caught myself starting to drool.
But I'm dying to get back to my reading workshop tomorrow. We have to keep reading Fighting El Fuego so that we can find out how the book ends before two of my students graduate this Thursday. FEF is about a young Puerto Rican-American kid who has a big anger management problem and gets into fights all the time. I have some of the most reluctant readers actually begging me to read this book with them. No need to build background here, folks.
So, it's off to bed with tea and cough drops. And my rally cap.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
she's got a gripe
It's rant time.
For one thing, I still don't have internet access in my classroom. All the cool web-based lessons I used last year - poof! Gone. I keep hearing that a wi-fi hookup is coming, but I've given up hoping and waiting. It'll never happen. Sure, there are plenty of other paths to literacy, methods of instruction that don't require electricity, much less a computer. But what about the "new literacies?" Those podcasts, wikis, blogs, video technologies, gaming software, technologies that establish communities on the web, and search engines are a huge part of the changing landscape of reading and reading instruction. If we are expected to prepare our students as readers, writers and thinkers, we need to include in our instruction the kind of information that they will be accessing at home and in the workplace. No internet = no brainer = no wonder there's such a growing gap between the what students do in school and what they do at home. This has to be addressed. YES, EVEN IN THE CLINK.
The other half of my bitch session has to do with other unenlightened colleagues who think that if you only see one or two students at a time, you've really got it easy. There's one co-worker in particular that comes to mind here. She has a tendency to imply this sort of thing when in conversation with me. It's getting to be pretty irksome. Title I reading is a pull-out, intensive, individualized method of reading instruction that offers, as a perk, a shitload of paperwork for progress monitoring and tracking. It isn't the regular classroom; it's not supposed to be.
Okay, enough for now. I won't get into the cleanliness issues I face in my new classroom (remember, it's a third shift hangout for staff who "need" to watch TV to stay awake). I won't mention how I come in each morning to find food containers, greasy handprints and God knows how many strains of viruses on my desk. Oh, and the adjacent bathroom? Oh golly, I won't go into how it has paper towels littered all over the floor...ramen noodles clogging the sink...pee splattered all over the toilet seat. Nah. I'll keep those juicy tidbits to myself.
Wait...what's that sound? It's Gloria Gaynor's voice, loud and clear. I hear ya, Glo!And I'll do more than survive.
For one thing, I still don't have internet access in my classroom. All the cool web-based lessons I used last year - poof! Gone. I keep hearing that a wi-fi hookup is coming, but I've given up hoping and waiting. It'll never happen. Sure, there are plenty of other paths to literacy, methods of instruction that don't require electricity, much less a computer. But what about the "new literacies?" Those podcasts, wikis, blogs, video technologies, gaming software, technologies that establish communities on the web, and search engines are a huge part of the changing landscape of reading and reading instruction. If we are expected to prepare our students as readers, writers and thinkers, we need to include in our instruction the kind of information that they will be accessing at home and in the workplace. No internet = no brainer = no wonder there's such a growing gap between the what students do in school and what they do at home. This has to be addressed. YES, EVEN IN THE CLINK.
The other half of my bitch session has to do with other unenlightened colleagues who think that if you only see one or two students at a time, you've really got it easy. There's one co-worker in particular that comes to mind here. She has a tendency to imply this sort of thing when in conversation with me. It's getting to be pretty irksome. Title I reading is a pull-out, intensive, individualized method of reading instruction that offers, as a perk, a shitload of paperwork for progress monitoring and tracking. It isn't the regular classroom; it's not supposed to be.
Okay, enough for now. I won't get into the cleanliness issues I face in my new classroom (remember, it's a third shift hangout for staff who "need" to watch TV to stay awake). I won't mention how I come in each morning to find food containers, greasy handprints and God knows how many strains of viruses on my desk. Oh, and the adjacent bathroom? Oh golly, I won't go into how it has paper towels littered all over the floor...ramen noodles clogging the sink...pee splattered all over the toilet seat. Nah. I'll keep those juicy tidbits to myself.
Wait...what's that sound? It's Gloria Gaynor's voice, loud and clear. I hear ya, Glo!And I'll do more than survive.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
modern love
A quick post, on this beautiful Sunday of Columbus Day weekend. I wanted to share a link to my brother in law's essay that was published in today's New York Times. He writes about my nephew, Michael, and the unique beauty and challenge that comes with raising him. It's lovely. In a modern sort of way.
http://www.nytimes.com/2009/10/11/fashion/11love.html
http://www.nytimes.com/2009/10/11/fashion/11love.html
Saturday, October 10, 2009
hot child in the city
The kids in my program have access to a great horticulture class in which they learn the basics of gardening and composting. One day each week, the kids travel by van to the greenhouse on the other side of the city and tend their plants, get their hands dirty and, I'm guessing, resist the temptation to assault each other with shovels and spades. Last week I became the lucky recipient of some of the fruits of their labor. "Miss, would you like some peppers to take home?" Umm...would I? I like peppers, especially those toward the really mild end of the heat spectrum. I remember eating a whole jalapeno as a teenager on a dare. I thought the resulting inferno in my mouth would never go out. Ever since then, I've been sort of timid when it comes to anything beyond the blissfully sweet bell pepper. Okay, maybe straight up chickenshit is more appropriate a description than "timid." But when a smiling, wide-eyed Josef offered me two tiny red peppers that he had cultivated and produced with obvious pride, how could I refuse?
Tonight I learned about the potency of Josef's classwork. I made a pot of chili for dinner, and I thought I'd play it safe and add roughly an eighth, maybe less, of one of the peppers to my recipe. Just to be sure I didn't set my family's mouths on fire, I decreased by half the amount of chili powder the recipe called for. This'll be fine, I thought. After carefully mincing the miniscule amount of pepper and adding it to the pot, along with the sauteeing garlic, onions and ground beef, I had the weird sensation of sunburn on the fingers on my left hand. It smelled really good, though, so I continued adding chopped tomatoes, green bell pepper, tomato puree, and a little cilantro. It seemed a little wanting for liquid, so I poured about half of the beer I was drinking into the pot, gave it a stir, covered it and let it simmer for about half an hour.
The final product? Let's call it "well beyond warm." We each ended up giving our bowls very generous dollops of plain yogurt, plus lots of shredded cheddar cheese. It was still hot, but not inedible. The fact that my little guy ate two big bowls of the stuff is enough proof that I didn't use too much of the mysterious pepper. But my hand still feels sunburned, even after washing several times.
I think I'll save a pint of my chili to bring in for Josef on Tuesday, just to show him I appreciated his thoughtfulness. After all, it's the little things we do that mean a lot.
Tonight I learned about the potency of Josef's classwork. I made a pot of chili for dinner, and I thought I'd play it safe and add roughly an eighth, maybe less, of one of the peppers to my recipe. Just to be sure I didn't set my family's mouths on fire, I decreased by half the amount of chili powder the recipe called for. This'll be fine, I thought. After carefully mincing the miniscule amount of pepper and adding it to the pot, along with the sauteeing garlic, onions and ground beef, I had the weird sensation of sunburn on the fingers on my left hand. It smelled really good, though, so I continued adding chopped tomatoes, green bell pepper, tomato puree, and a little cilantro. It seemed a little wanting for liquid, so I poured about half of the beer I was drinking into the pot, gave it a stir, covered it and let it simmer for about half an hour.
The final product? Let's call it "well beyond warm." We each ended up giving our bowls very generous dollops of plain yogurt, plus lots of shredded cheddar cheese. It was still hot, but not inedible. The fact that my little guy ate two big bowls of the stuff is enough proof that I didn't use too much of the mysterious pepper. But my hand still feels sunburned, even after washing several times.
I think I'll save a pint of my chili to bring in for Josef on Tuesday, just to show him I appreciated his thoughtfulness. After all, it's the little things we do that mean a lot.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
graduation day
A kid in my program graduated today. In this program, "graduation" refers to the day when a kid leaves the group home and goes out into the real world, whether it's back to his home, a foster home or an independent living situation. In the case of today's graduate, Nico, he went to a foster home in a town about 45 minutes away, where he'll live, attend high school and, hopefully, graduate and go on to college. I have to admit that most of the time, when a kid is discharged from the system, I think the chances are likely that he'll get out, do something dumb, get recommitted and end up back in the same or a similar program. It happens all the time, and although I hate my pessimistic outlook, that's just the reality here. If you looked at Nico's case history and track record, you'd peg him as the next poster child for recidivism, too.
My money's on Nico.
Now, I did not inherit the gambling gene in my family, and I've been advised that if I am ever in a betting situation, to always bet with my head, not over it. I've only been working in this program for five or six weeks. I counted the number of class periods I've had with Nico (nine). Knowing what I know about the likelihood of kids in the system getting out and continuing to steadily screw up their lives, I should know better. Especially after today's graduation ceremony, where Nico's biological mom and dad showed up in what had to be a combination of drunk and high (but hey, at least they showed up), it's so clear this kid comes from such a fucked up background. How do you shake that, at age 17, and transcend it?
I remember the first day I had Nico in class. I gave him a basic diagnostic fluency screening, having him read a hundred-or-so-word passage out loud while I timed him. I practically dropped the stopwatch on the floor as he began to read. Even though the passage was just some sterile excerpt from an assessment book, Nico's voice had feeling, expression, warmth, and flow. Not the monotone staccato I typically hear from my students the first (and second, and third) time I do a fluency screen. Nico was polite, cooperative, and willing to make eye contact. And I could pretty much tell he wasn't just selling me a ticket.
What I've come to realize is that Nico is done selling tickets (among other things). By all accounts, he is poised and ready to use his natural skills and abilities to move forward with his education and his life. At the graduation ceremony, everyone - staff, clinicians, caseworkers, teachers, and residents - spoke so warmly and supportively on Nico's behalf. Even his foster dad, who blessedly seemed a full 180 degrees from Nico's mom and dad, said positive words of encouragement. Everyone expressed sincere well wishes for Nico, and I believe that he will truly be missed by all.
I know I'm really going to miss this kid. Not just because he was willing to do what I asked of him in reading workshop. Not because he was a beacon of light in what can be such a raw and rough environment. Nico definitely had a sort of positive osmotic effect on the other residents. He brought the whole program up a couple of notches and, just by being there, made my job a lot easier. But it's funny: I've never felt more strong a desire to never want to see someone again.
My money's on Nico.
Now, I did not inherit the gambling gene in my family, and I've been advised that if I am ever in a betting situation, to always bet with my head, not over it. I've only been working in this program for five or six weeks. I counted the number of class periods I've had with Nico (nine). Knowing what I know about the likelihood of kids in the system getting out and continuing to steadily screw up their lives, I should know better. Especially after today's graduation ceremony, where Nico's biological mom and dad showed up in what had to be a combination of drunk and high (but hey, at least they showed up), it's so clear this kid comes from such a fucked up background. How do you shake that, at age 17, and transcend it?
I remember the first day I had Nico in class. I gave him a basic diagnostic fluency screening, having him read a hundred-or-so-word passage out loud while I timed him. I practically dropped the stopwatch on the floor as he began to read. Even though the passage was just some sterile excerpt from an assessment book, Nico's voice had feeling, expression, warmth, and flow. Not the monotone staccato I typically hear from my students the first (and second, and third) time I do a fluency screen. Nico was polite, cooperative, and willing to make eye contact. And I could pretty much tell he wasn't just selling me a ticket.
What I've come to realize is that Nico is done selling tickets (among other things). By all accounts, he is poised and ready to use his natural skills and abilities to move forward with his education and his life. At the graduation ceremony, everyone - staff, clinicians, caseworkers, teachers, and residents - spoke so warmly and supportively on Nico's behalf. Even his foster dad, who blessedly seemed a full 180 degrees from Nico's mom and dad, said positive words of encouragement. Everyone expressed sincere well wishes for Nico, and I believe that he will truly be missed by all.
I know I'm really going to miss this kid. Not just because he was willing to do what I asked of him in reading workshop. Not because he was a beacon of light in what can be such a raw and rough environment. Nico definitely had a sort of positive osmotic effect on the other residents. He brought the whole program up a couple of notches and, just by being there, made my job a lot easier. But it's funny: I've never felt more strong a desire to never want to see someone again.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
The Return of the Clinkmistress
Actually, I've been in the new clink for a little over three weeks now. Sorry for the delay, my three fans. I guess I've been "settling in." It has taken some time for me to absorb my surroundings, and to realize that I'm in a completely different place than the one in which I worked before. I have a hard time calling my new teaching site a clink. Mostly because it isn't one. This isn't jail. No bars, no shackles, no state-issued uniforms. It feels more like off-campus housing for some unknown Hispanic educational institution. I teach in a group home, kind of like a halfway house for kids who have just come from secure treatment and are spending a few months in this facility before being released to their parent(s), or other family members, or foster care, or independent living. My classroom - which functions (apparently) as a third-shift lounge for support staff - has its own bathroom, which, like many college apartments, is in screaming need of a woman's touch. Or just a shitload of Lysol.
There are three classrooms on the first floor: two regular education classrooms, and one special education classroom. My classroom is on the third floor, adjacent to two student bedrooms. I call it the Reading Penthouse, because 1) it's at the tippy top of the building, and 2) although it may not look like it now, I vow to make it the slickest, most tricked-out reading nest EVER. Kids are going to make HUGE strides in reading with K-Bizzle! Um, I mean, with Miss. Yep, that's right: "Miss." Residents call teachers and staff by Mr. or Miss throughout the program. The first time a student called me Miss, I confess that the thought "do I honestly look like a fucking waitress?' drifted through my mind. I realize that it's just part of the way this program works, that no, they don't expect me to serve them up a plate o' buffalo wings, and that "Miss" mirrors in English the Spanish term "Senorita," which in Hispanic culture is perfectly respectful. Plus, it's easier to say "Miss" than it is to try to remember the name of the 198th teacher you've had in your life. Maybe I should simply take it as a compliment that they think I look young enough to be a Senorita.
Anyway, I could go on about the differences between the job I left in hard core juvie and the one I've taken on in Halfway House Hood. It will take time to settle in. I'm writing this post from my hotel room at the New England Reading Association conference, where I'm soaking up lots of ideas and practices for engaging reluctant readers. The best I can do is to arm myself with lots of teaching tools, march right up to that third floor on Monday, and welcome my new boys with open arms and high expectations. And Clorox wipes.
There are three classrooms on the first floor: two regular education classrooms, and one special education classroom. My classroom is on the third floor, adjacent to two student bedrooms. I call it the Reading Penthouse, because 1) it's at the tippy top of the building, and 2) although it may not look like it now, I vow to make it the slickest, most tricked-out reading nest EVER. Kids are going to make HUGE strides in reading with K-Bizzle! Um, I mean, with Miss. Yep, that's right: "Miss." Residents call teachers and staff by Mr. or Miss throughout the program. The first time a student called me Miss, I confess that the thought "do I honestly look like a fucking waitress?' drifted through my mind. I realize that it's just part of the way this program works, that no, they don't expect me to serve them up a plate o' buffalo wings, and that "Miss" mirrors in English the Spanish term "Senorita," which in Hispanic culture is perfectly respectful. Plus, it's easier to say "Miss" than it is to try to remember the name of the 198th teacher you've had in your life. Maybe I should simply take it as a compliment that they think I look young enough to be a Senorita.
Anyway, I could go on about the differences between the job I left in hard core juvie and the one I've taken on in Halfway House Hood. It will take time to settle in. I'm writing this post from my hotel room at the New England Reading Association conference, where I'm soaking up lots of ideas and practices for engaging reluctant readers. The best I can do is to arm myself with lots of teaching tools, march right up to that third floor on Monday, and welcome my new boys with open arms and high expectations. And Clorox wipes.
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