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I teach a 2nd period class of 6th graders. Some 6th graders take to middle school like a duck to water. They are ALL ABOUT the organization and the locker and the schedule changing and the map of the building and the planning of locker breaks and potty breaks. All. A. ‘Bout. It. All.
Some—meh—not so mature. Papers billowing in their wake as they race—nearly tardy AGAIN to the classroom that is two doors away from their last classroom because they went to the restroom and then their locker and nowtheyarenearlytardyohno-ohno.
Then there are some who just have the occasional Monday. And today, that happened to Maria. I have actually KNOWN Maria since she was in Victoria’s 2nd grade class. She was one that would fight to sit at the front of the floor packed with 2nd graders when I would go to read to them on Friday afternoons. I went to read Geronimo Stilton nearly EVERY Friday afternoon to Victoria’s second grade class. And now I teach many of them—or at least see them in the hallway on a regular basis. They remember me, and they remember Geronimo Stilton.
Maria left her pencil bag in my room 2nd period. Now I am a HUGE proponent of the pencil-bag-with-metal-grommets-that-lives-in-your-binder type pencil bag. It HOOKS. Into your binder. It STAYS THERE. Yet there are many, many, many much CUTER pencil bags that you are just supposed to carry with you. I find these free-wheeling pencil bags in my classroom a lot—or in the hallway—or in the bathroom stall. They DON’T stay put. They roam. Or are left behind.
Maria’s was merely left behind. We were in a rush at the end of class, she had spent most of it outside my door with others who had not completed the work they were assigned over the weekend because they also didn’t complete it last week. They are kids who really SHOULDN’T be in a level one reading class—but because of changes in our district’s determination of level one—they are. So. Maria’s stress level was a little high. She is a basic reader, and was asked to complete work that is on her level to a little too difficult for her at an advanced rate. This I cannot change. It’s the nature of the level one class, and by policy, I cannot change the pace or “rigor” (how I HATE the advent of that word in the rounds of education vernacular as of late) of that class—even for sweet, gentle, lisping Maria.
I teach a 3rd period class of 7th and 8th grade dyslexia students. They also struggle. There are only 11 of them in the room, and the things they are being asked to do are not difficult—it’s more drill and practice to cement skills they need to aid in their reading for the rest of their lives. They have been in the dyslexia program a long time, so they do, in fact, know the drill. Today I had them split up a deck of vocabulary cards and a deck of missing letter cards and work on them in pairs. Then they switched with someone else and worked on the other half. I let them choose a spot in the room. There were two students sitting over where Maria sits in class during this activity. After that, I had the 7th graders come to one side of the room to do a lesson while the 8th graders did some “drill bit” practice in pairs. Again—two students (different ones) sitting where Maria sits–and 2 others also on that side of the room. A total of 4 7th/8th graders where Maria sits and 2 8th graders NEAR where Maria sits. I know them all. Taught two of them in 6th grade. . .and now again.
After 3rd period, Maria came into my room. “Mrs. Langley, have you seen a pencil bag?” “No, honey, I haven’t. . .wait—there is one over on the floor where you sit.” HUGE RELIEF on Maria’s face. Her item was found. Cue angels singing and ethereal light from heaven.
Then she opened it.
At least the person who stole her stuff had the decency to leave her house key. I guess that’s something. Right? They didn’t leave her stranded outside her door after she got off the bus waiting for her mom to arrive at 6:00 when Maria gets home at 4:00. How polite of them to be considerate of her while they were stealing all of her pens and pencils and map colors and B.E.S.T. tickets (our school reward program.) They also left her cute bag with the puppies and her name on it. Oh—and her “cut in line pass” for lunch since her name was written on it in ink. At least they didn’t tear that sucker up and leave it on the floor for the custodian to vacuum. That’s something.
Thing is—Maria should have kept up with her stuff. She should have. I know that. I get that. She will learn a lesson today. BUT—the BIGGER thing is that no one should have TOUCHED HER STUFF except to put it on the chalk tray at the front of my room with all of the OTHER left-behind items that collect there on a daily basis. What is so hard about leaving other people’s stuff alone? Why can’t we dispel or dispense with the attitude of “finders keepers” or “what’s mine is mine and what’s yours is mine?” Why should—when I go to talk to a peer about it—it be Maria’s fault? Which one of us has not forgotten or left something even when we WERE paying attention? Why should we, as a society, automatically assume that someone will take our things? Why have we settled for this notion? Am I the only one who is naive enough to find this disturbing despite the fact that I know it to be true?
Well. . .I’m just not sure what the answer is to any of these questions. I have a purple, grommeted pencil bag that I will fill with pens, pencils, and map colors to give to Maria. I will tell her to use it rather than her cute, puppy one. I will gently remind her to keep up with her things. I will e-mail her teachers to see if they will give her some B.E.S.T. tickets since hers got stolen and are probably now in a trash can because her name was on all of them. I will talk to my class of 7th and 8th graders tomorrow—I might even read them this—and hope that it makes a difference. That is what teaching is—just HOPING that one thing will make a difference to somebody on some day and change their behavior, and therefore their life, for the better. At least. . .that’s what *I* think teaching is.
So the first official week of school has come to a close. In fact, the first official Saturday after the first official week of school has very nearly come to a close. . .and we all survived–even thrived this week.
The kids LOVE–let me repeat L.O.V.E.–their new schools. No tears. No missing of Lamkin or their Cy-Fair friends in excess. Not even a little bit. Kudos to the Magnolia school district and their teachers and students. Thank you for making my children feel welcomed and loved.
Tony, too, had a good week. One day he sent me the following e-mail: “My kids are doing interview questions with each other right now, and I can actually hear myself think. I’m considering asking them to be a little louder. And they are even discussing the questions that they are supposed to be discussing. . .” Obviously, this has not been the case for the past 14 years of his teaching experience. He was in shock.
My kiddos, too, are very nice. . .everything going well. . .some of the “good” behavior wore off a little by 7th period on Friday, and I had to put my school teacher face on, but they settled down quickly, and it’s going to be a good year.
Of course, there were some glitches along the way. Victoria forgot her homework one day. . .and it was for the teacher that had been a little stern with another student the day before. A lunch kit was left on the shuttle bus on the second day of school, so that’s gone. And Thursday morning on my way out of the house, I fell AGAIN. I was not in a rush. I was not being careless. I simply stepped on a loose rock, and down I went. Well, actually, it probably looked like a very humorous slap-stick routine. I kind of wish someone had been secretly video taping it just so I could have watched it later on.
I was walking with purpose toward the car at 6:38 a.m., and very proud of my early departure, when wham, bam, blam. . .the ground moved and I began evasive maneuvers to avoid landing on anything but my feet. I was unsuccessful. After making enough scuffling, falling noises to wake the neighborhood, I landed on my left side near a huge tree that we cut down last summer. My feet were in the air, and I knew there would be a price to pay. Luckily, it was just the price of some pride. I wiggled my already injured ankle–which has been healing nicely–to make sure it was not reinjured. It barked a couple of times but was otherwise okay. I sat up and looked around. Nothing was spinning, so I got to my feet. I saw one shoe where I had left it on the driveway, but the other was nowhere in sight. It did not help that it was 6:40 a.m. and still a bit dark out. I finally located it 5 feet from where I’d fallen (an open-backed sandal, so it became a free agent as soon as the momentum hit) cowering under a particularly large milk weed bush. Next item on the agenda was finding my keys that had been in my hand. My bags were on the ground, but my keys were nowhere to be found. Again–dark out–I finally saw them winking at me from under a clump of yaupon in the opposite direction of my errant shoe. It was more like I exploded to the ground rather than merely falling.
After finding all of my belongings, I decided to take a look at my pants. There was a smudge on the knee, but nothing worth taking even MORE time to go back into the house over. I took a deep breath, climbed into my car, and headed out. It was 6:45.
I got three miles from the house, and discovered that I had forgotten my lunch. At this point, my head start was gone, so I turned around and went back to get it–thus adding 6 miles coming and going to my trip. I went into the house, turned on the light, located my lunch, and just happened to look down at my pants. The foyer brightness showed more than the dim light of dawn regarding the state of my pants. The entire left side of my cropped khakis was covered in what appeared to be the left-over results of a very cranky baby feeding himself creamed spinach with dismal results. I have not had to scrub grass stains off my children’s clothes in several years–much less my own–but I did that night.
So, I changed pants, then walked VERY SLOWLY back to my car and tried to leave AGAIN. It was 6:58 a.m. I was already late for school–so I stopped at Sonic and got a large Diet Coke. On the way there, new abrasions kept presenting themselves like bread crumbs–a pants burn on my knee, a gouge on my big toe, a broken toe nail, jabs in several fingers from the yaupon bush I flattened. . .you get the idea.
I had to laugh.
We’re back in the swing of things. . .
In about 6 weeks I will turn 40. It is one of my dearest hopes that I will have, at the very least, another 40 years on this planet to enjoy my wonderful marriage and my incredible children and my glorious life. I am well aware that I don’t know SQUAT about a lot of things, but, as my mother has told me before, I pay attention. I’m not really into rebellion, disobedience, pain, or the consequences that come from such. I was not–and am not–one to cave into peer pressure. If I find myself in a learning situation that is painful, I’ll bite the bullet and feel the pain every time so I can learn and be better prepared for it to happen again OR learn not to make the same mistake twice. If you have been through a life lesson and are willing to share what you’ve learned with me, then I am more than happy to listen AND take notes so I don’t have to learn that very same lesson completely on my own from scratch or, better yet, at all. I’m more than happy to take your word for it. I am also, for the most part, a people pleaser. I want to be all things to all people on all occasions and there we have
Lesson #1. . .that is impossible. I can barely please all three of the people who live in my house on a daily basis–two of whom walk around carrying half of my DNA in their molecular structure, so the rest of the planet will just have to take a number. And I’ve had to get over the fact that I can’t always make everyone happy (even though I still try to).
Lesson #2. . .if every fiber of your being screams that you shouldn’t do something, then it’s very likely that you SHOULD NOT do it.
Lesson #3. . .intuition is a gift from God–it should not be relied on completely in all situations, but it is a gift that should be honed and a counselor that should be consulted when it starts knocking at your door.
Lesson #4. . .people will ALWAYS suprise you. Sometimes it’s a good surprise, and sometimes it’s a bad one.
Lesson #5. . .(I tell my students this EVERY year) 10% of the people cause 90% of the problems.
Lesson #6. . .everyone looks at life through their own lense, and it is shaped by their own experiences and how they perceive the world to be.
Lesson #7. . .(from Mike Cope when he was the preacher at College church in Searcy) many things are like eating fish. You need to eat the meat and throw away the bones.
Lesson #8 (from my mother–some of the last words she spoke to me before leaving me in the dorm my freshman year). . .people find what they are looking for. If they are looking for the bad, that is what they will find. If they are looking for the good, that is what they will find.
Lesson #9. . .(also from my mother and one I am ignoring spectacularly at this moment) sometimes you just need to use your good, common sense and go to sleep.
Lesson #10. . .as much as people DON’T want to believe it, Harry was right. Men and women CANNOT be friends. I have men whom I call “friend” and with whom I am on friendly terms, but I cannot truly have, nor do I NEED to have, a close friendship with them. Nor should I have a close friendship with any man that does not include AT EVERY STEP OF THE WAY IN ALL SITUATIONS my husband’s full knowledge of the relationship and all of its terms.
I am FINE. We are all FINE. Nothing is wrong, but if you care to know WHY I felt it necessary to write such a list then feel free to leave a comment. I’ll e-mail you the somewhat cryptic yet explanatory details. I have just been reminded recently of when and where and how I learned those lessons in one, fell swoop. I’m not so much writing them for your benefit as I am for Victoria and Thad’s and to be reminded–again–that what others intend for harm, God uses for good.
So, I’m pretty much a lump right now. With the luncheon done, I’ve checked off the last “big” thing I need to do this spring besides, you know, teaching. That might be the death of me that teaching.
On Friday I had a girl squawking at me like a wet hen. The part of the tirade that cracked me up the most BEFORE I sent her to the office? “You expect me to read THIS book???? YOU expect ME to read this book????” I didn’t get to deliver my answer to her question. She kept on squawking. But my answer, had I been able to give it was, “Yes. Yes, I DO expect you to read this book, because this is language arts class, and IN language arts class, we read. We read a lot. In fact, you are standing in a school building where teaching is going on and therefore, this place is RESPLENDENT with things that are in the process of being read or WAITING to be read. So, yes. Reading this book is expected of you.”
She was in such a lather over every single thing I tried to do to de-escalate the situation, that after I sent her to the office (still fussing at me ALL THE WAY) I walked into the room and asked her friend if she might, indeed, be smoking crack. ‘Cause I just couldn’t figure out all of the squawking. I am guessing she had a bad day.
We’ve been reading (imagine that–READING) about Abraham Lincoln this week. I am so intrigued by his story. I made a power point of photos of him including the items that were in his pockets the day he was assassinated. Interesting stuff.
My mother is still here. Today she took the kids and me to Dollar General–the closest thing to Wal-Mart within 15 miles of us–where Victoria got a pair of sunglasses, Thad got a Super Soaker, and I got three tops and a cute, little condiment/cutlery holder. Then we went to Burger King and ate. Then we went to a sort of Flea Market/Antique Store to look at a china cabinet that caught my eye a few months back. It is similar in size and coloring to my Granny’s, and it’s the right price. I wanted something “matching” to put on the other side of the window. She is going to spend tomorrow night and Monday with Tony’s parents–I’m feeding them lunch for mother’s day tomorrow–then going back home early Tuesday. We will miss her. We’ve gotten spoiled having her here.
On the way to church Wednesday night, we were discussing the various and sundry ways to ward off misquitoes. Moving to the country means leaving behind the handy dandy spray trucks that used to make their way through our neighborhood under the cover of darkness to fog the misquitoes. Victoria is a misquito magnet, so Tony said he’d heard that taking and abundance of garlic capsules would keep them away–you have just enough of a garlic hint that the misquitoes won’t bother you. After he tried every way possible to convince Victoria that she should give it a go, she finally said to her Daddy, “Knock yourself out. I’m not doin’ it.”
And on Friday night, my baby girl OH-fficially became a part of the youth group. How can this be? She will be able to attend teen functions starting in June. Again, I say HOW, HOW, HOW can this be??? She has a girl mentor who has already taken Victoria under her wing. It’s an exciting time. . .but it still breaks my heart.
I have a very long, photo filled post to post at some posting time later. For now, run over to Melanie’s and read HER post on not postponing time with your kids. For me, it stung a bit–just bit–but was a good reminder that even though I need breaks, those breaks shouldn’t turn into hours of breakage that could eventually break things I don’t want broken.
My post later.
Enjoy your Easter weekend–the beauty and symbolism of spring (even if it’s cold and rainy where you are–it will be here too).
I just keep getting better y’all. Seriously.
Today I had to run to the dr. I am fine but needed to get there quick as the thing that I have can get out of control fast. During my lunch break I called for an appt. (got one for 2:30), found someone to cover my 8th period class (it’s from 2:30-3:15 and my dr. is 40 minutes away), got permission from our principal to leave early, ran by Tony’s room to tell him where I was going after school so he could get the kids, AND ate my sandwich.
At 1:40, I went into a computer lab to type up directions for the gal who was taking my 8th period class–then deleted them before the printer (which was supposed to be holding onto my information) died a horrible death. I realized about the same time that I did not have a cell phone, so I re-typed my lesson plans then went to get Tony’s phone. . .and then he didn’t have one. It was now 1:50, and I needed to leave IMMEDIATELY. I was on my way to the parking lot when I ALSO realized that I did not have my car keys.
So I went to get Tony’s.
I finally peel out of the parking lot at 1:58 and hurtled onto the freeway.
Where 20 minutes into my trip I realized that I had:
a) no cash
b) no check book
c) no Mastercard
d) no Discover
So. . .I opened the place where Tony ALWAYS keeps his wallet.
And it was where his cell phone and keys HAD been earlier–which was in his possession. At that point all I could do was laugh. It was too late to turn around and there was nowhere to go but to my appointment.
Luckily my nurse practitioner has known me for about 15 years–managed my two pregnancies–delivered my two babies–and passed the prescriptions or Kleenex to me more than one time. She laughed. Then diagnosed me. Then wrote “no charge” on my chart and gave me a free parking sticker.
Not bad at all.
I have a student. He is Hispanic. That is important not because of racial negativity–I have taught every nationality in the greater Houston area and can tell you good and bad about them all–but because many, many Hispanic males in urban areas show up to school each day with a set of issues and mores (read “morays”) that I as a caucasian female will never fully understand. Despite my lack of understanding, it is my job to teach them, to discipline them, to move them along the road to high school and beyond.
This particular student is one of a handful I have kicked out of my class this year. As in, “Get out.”
My exact words.
I don’t say it often. I like to handle issues in my room, because if a student is in the office rather than my room, that student isn’t learning. When their disruptive behavior becomes such that NO ONE is learning, I kick them out. He’s been out at least five times this year. I do not find this pleasant. It makes me cranky.
That being said, he is the ONLY person in my 8th period class–including the “smart girl”–who knew exactly what the word “propaganda” meant today. Lots of people were throwing out various and sundry things that were close, when, under his breath with his face turned to the wall he said, “political.” I had him repeat it, “It has to do with politics and governments, miss.” Then I explained how everyone else’s statements were also true, but HIS statement was the most exact.
This all happened after I had to haul him into the hallway because he didn’t bring paper to class. When I told him he had a phone call home for not bringing supplies and tried to GIVE him a piece of paper, he ignored me and let the paper fall to the floor. Then he refused to answer my question about whether or not he was refusing to follow directions. You see? This is not fun.
We had a little conference out there in the hallway. Most days he says, “I don’t care,” and we proceed from there. He also knew–from experience–that the next step was getting kicked out and, for some reason, he didn’t want that to happen today. I’m not sure why.
But it’s a good thing since he was the only one who knew what propaganda meant.
He is also the one who got REALLY angry about how people treated Charlie when we read “Flowers for Algernon.” He felt sorry for the orphaned boy in “A Mother in Manville.” He was the one to whom I referred when I talked about big, bad kids playing in the snow. He asked permission to call his mom on his cell phone. Kids aren’t supposed to use their cell phones during the day, but when it snows in Houston and you want to call your mom, I will let you.
So I made his “didn’t have supplies” phone call a little bit ago, at which time I ALSO got to tell him that he made commended on the state’s TAKS test. This is a big deal for anyone–but it is especially a big deal for him. It means he missed three or fewer questions on a 52 question 5 passage test that took about three hours. He asked me twice if I was serious. I had to talk to him because his mom doesn’t speak English. He’s a pain, but he doesn’t lie, so I knew he’d tell her about the fact that he didn’t bring his supplies to class today. And I also promised to have a note written in Spanish for his mom tomorrow, because she didn’t believe at first that he had made commended.
Then, I got to do what most teachers dream of. I got to say, “R____o? What have I been telling you ALL YEAR LONG?” And he replied, “That I am capable and need to do my best.” “Yes. That is what I have been telling you. And I was right.” “Yes ma’am.”
Yes ma’am, indeed. He is capable. In fact, he is SO capable, that after I got off the phone with him and dug a little deeper into his scores, I found out that not only did he get commended, but he made a PERFECT score. That’s right. He didn’t even miss one. So I called back, but he was outside helping his dad, and his brother had to deliver the good news rather than me. I hope he’s not suspended tomorrow. I can’t wait to see the look on his face.
I also hope it makes a difference that I have kicked him out of my class. I hope it makes a difference that I let him call his mom when it was snowing. I hope it makes a difference that I am proud of him now and may be mad at him tomorrow but will always care about what happens to him–even when I don’t really want to–even when it makes me tired–even when I want to quit–to give up on him. And I HAVE wanted to give up on him. More than once. There have even been days when I have done just that.
Yet somehow I keep on learning as much as I am trying to teach my students. You don’t give up. Ever. I sometimes forget that I am still in God’s classroom. But since God hasn’t given up on me, He just keeps the reminders coming.
It is a bad idea to sell a house during a recession.
Gasoline in my neighborhood is $1.39, which is the silver lining to the whole recession thing, but such a low price that it’s nearly scaring me.
It snowed in Houston on Wednesday. Real, live, big, fluffy flakes came tumbling from the sky at 3:00 in the afternoon right outside my classroom window.
If you want to take a 6′ tall, 14 yr. old boy who might possibly be in the beginning stages of gang banging and turn him into a child with wonder in his eyes, take him (and his 25 classmates) out into the snow at 3:05 in the afternoon. It will, literally, warm the cockles of your heart. It came close to bringing a tear to my eye as I stood with Tony (who was in the computer lab on my hallway that day) and watched our students run through the (small) field near the freeway (so picturesque) like 5 yr. olds trying to catch that (polluted) snow on their tongues. One kid laid on the wet, soggy grass and began making a snow angel–there was no accumulation–but there WAS snow. The last time it snowed in Houston, my students were in 4th grade. Tony’s were in 3rd. Snow is a big deal.
If you are driving down a road say, on a Thursday at 4:15 p.m., and you look out the window at the sunlight setting the oak trees ablaze and you think, “How did it get to be February? Wait. We haven’t had Christmas yet. Whew–it’s only November. . .or. . .December. Yes. Yes! It’s December. It IS December.” That’s probably a sign of some sort.
There is nothing more fun than having inside jokes with your children. . .Thad and Victoria have developed my penchant of inserting movie quotes into every day conversation at random, and I LOVE it. We have lots of Veggie Tales and Finding Nemo and Bugs Bunny references. It makes us laugh.
Today is, indeed, Friday, the 12th of December. I checked. Twice.
So, there is absolutely NO reason whatsoever for me to be in a Funk, but I am. It’s the Sunday Night Funk. It is an actual phenomena from which school teachers suffer. . .and probably everyone else who has a weekday job. It is the precursor to a Case of the Mondays. (Name that movie.)
In an effort to blow the cobwebs out, I went for a walk, and this is what I saw:
*white rose petals from a tearose bush on the concrete sidewalk
*a Red Oak that was, indeed, red
*a yellow Elm
*a Tallow tree (which Tony HATES because they drop these hard, greasy berries all over everything) that was in all of its maroon–nearly purple–autumnal glory. They may be trash trees, but the earn their place in the fall
*someone sitting beside a window in the dark
*the park that the kids and I used to frequent which was the source of this post from long ago–and evidently they’ve not fixed the water problem, because the ground was still squishy
*a garage door that was all white except for the very top panel which was tan
*the light from my own garage as I rounded the corner to head home
So I can’t say that the funk is completely gone. . .but the walk helped. Maybe my current state of mind has to do with the stack of essays I have left to grade before tomorrow since it’s the end of the 6 weeks. Hmmmmmmmmmm. . .I am thinking that Procrastination is the precursor to The Funk which is the precursor to A Case of the Mondays.
Today, I chewed Javier out for “not putting forth ANY effort.” He is in 6th grade and reads on a 3rd grade level. . .and what I told him was, “I don’t care if you read at a 2nd grade level as long as you put forth the effort to READ at a 2nd grade level. You, however, put forth NO effort at all to read at ANY level.” And Javier needed to hear every word I said. . .and so did I.
What is it that I need to put forth more effort at? What am I putting forth even a minimal amount of effort toward that I need to congratulate myself for?
I spend a lot of time bashing myself–house not clean, desk at school a mess, ate an entire box of Girl Scout cookies (Caramel Delights to be exact), lost my temper with my babies, skipped my Bible reading for a week. I certainly need to put forth more effort.
But when I talk to the kids rather than scream at them, when I can see even a fraction of my desk, when I stop eating Valetines candy before I get sick to my stomach, when I pick up my daily devotional Bible and read even though I’m only on February 8th, then I need to make sure and congratulate myself.
I have a feeling lots of women need to do more of that. . .
