I'm a Teacher

I think I had my biggest validation as a teacher this week. We each have our professional challenges and our personal challenges. On Monday, I overcame a significant professional hurdle, and on Thursday, my personal. About a month and a half ago, I lost my first student. I had her twice during the day. She was in my 12^th grade English class, and because she needed to retake some classes she failed in previous years, she was in my 9^th grade English class, too. Having her twice in one day allowed me to get to know her. She was very good at participating in class, volunteering answers and asking to read out loud. She has the most beautiful hazel-green eyes.

Around the time she left, we were writing persuasive letters in 12^th grade. Their prompt was this: Write a persuasive letter to a 9^th grader, convincing them to not drop out of school, using statistics, personal anecdotes, and interviews. Statistics show that 40 percent of ninth graders in our district do not graduate high school. I wanted my seniors to persuade my ninth graders that it’s worth sticking with school despite the challenges.

I was really getting on this girl’s case because she wasn’t getting her drafts in on time. I would hound her. I still regret this part. I would tell her every day, this is the easiest assignment because you’re living it. You’re a 12^th grader… how did you get here? Tell me your personal anecdotes – you’re an expert opinion. About a week later, she stopped coming to school.

Apparently, Cynthia was pregnant with her second child. The reason she was crying in class last week was because she just found out – and perhaps because I was on her case for not turning in a rough draft on the irony of her life. She didn’t come to school for a month and a half. However, each day her name would still appear on my attendance roll – I never dropped her name from my gradebook. Each day, I filled in the absent bubble and skipped over her name when submitting homework grades. I used her as an example of how I need to know my students more; how I need to try harder. I have to keep reminding myself that my students live lives that are so outside of my own experience that I need to keep expanding my perspective. My teachings can’t end with the four walls of my classroom. Cynthia hurt me because I made wrong assumptions. How many of my ninth graders will hurt me in the next two years? And how in the world do I prevent that from happening?

Monday. I am in the front of my 12^th grade class, introducing the day’s agenda and objective. I scan the faces of my students. There, in the back, between Daisy and Jose, is Cynthia. I won’t lie, I stared.

“Cynthia?! Hello! You’re back? Uh, we need to talk.”

She smiled, nodded, and gave me one of those “so are you going to start the lesson or what?” looks.

After class, we talked. Apparently, she’s back in school and that I should expect her everyday in my 9^th and 12^th grade English class. We are going to set up a system for her to make up the work she missed the last month and a half. She didn’t give me any personal information. I don’t know what happened about her pregnancy, but I won’t make the mistake of assuming anything. All I know is that I got the biggest second chance I could ask for. I will not mess this up.

Thursday. My mom visited my school. She came to spend a week in Los Angeles from her home in Dallas. My aunt brought her to my school to come see my classroom after the school day. After my detention kids left (I let them go five minutes early), I skipped down to the main office to gather my aunt and mom.

I’m observed often as a new teacher. Teach For America observes me, LMU observes me, my own school observes me. I have never been more nervous about anyone observing my classroom than I was when I had these two ladies in there. And here it is, “straight from the horse’s mouth” as Aldous Huxley would say (not that my students would know that quote since they obviously did NOT read Brave New World… bitter):

“Wow, Stu, this is a real classroom, you’re a real teacher.”

Bam. Done. Validated. You hear that… I’m a real teacher. My mom thinks so.

Chaperoning Homecoming

I have more school pride now than I did at my high school or at my college. I eagerly anticipated Friday’s football game against Santee far more than I ever cared about my own homecoming. [Go Cobras!]

After school on Friday, I went with a couple of teachers to a happy hour in a downtown bar. The two guys that I went with used to play high school football for their schools in LAUSD. Drinking some beers, they shared stories about their glory days, and how if these kids played their teams, they wouldn’t stand a chance. We all became increasingly nostalgic as the evening progressed. After a couple of hours, we were ready for the football game. Our current record was one win to many losses. No one is really to blame. Since we are a brand new school, this was our first year to have a football team, and we were still sorting out the kinks (and, er, the fact that all of our boys have soccer bodies, and the boys across town are big and mean). In short, no one was really expecting a win from the homecoming game. Mostly, we wanted to cut our losses short and prepare for the excitement of the next day’s homecoming dance. Who knew the game would have more action?

We scored first! And that’s all the on-field commentary I will give you besides that we won – big time. The play-by-play was a lot more exciting off the field. The Homecoming court paraded around the track field in convertibles. The crowd oohed and ahhhed. I stopped a fight in the stands. Stood right in the middle of two boys, and kept yelling “look at me, look at me, look at me,” until one of the boys actually, well, looked at me. I put both my hands on his chest and shook my head. By then, other teachers convened and the boys were removed. (Boy did I feel confident after that!). One of my students came completely trashed to the game. He was completely white and stumbling past the teacher section in the bleachers. He, too, was escorted out of the field. Ten teachers tsked.

After the big win, everyone was in high spirits and the teachers grew a little nervous at how their excitement might spill over into tomorrow’s dance. I was still too excited about chaperoning my first dance to care. A chaperone! Me! Another example of how I can’t possibly understand how I ended up here.

When I arrived at the dance at 8:30 PM the next day, the students were still pretty tame. They all looked incredibly beautiful. Not too many people on the dance floor yet. Those who were on the dance floor were all clumped in a massive heap in the middle. I dare not imagine what was happening in the middle of that grinding mass. Ew, visual pollution. Ms. Jodry and I were assigned dance floor duties since we were the “young ones” and because the administration likes to make fun of us whenever possible. We had fun, dancing on the sides and laughing at our students. A couple of boys (who didn’t know we were teachers), asked us to dance. After that, I took out my lanyard with keys and ID badge and displayed it proudly throughout the rest of the night. The faculty still makes fun of us for that. The later it got, the more kids joined the grinding mass in the middle of the dance floor. Everyone was starting to look really sweaty. Make-up was being smeared away, and couples were starting to fight and find other sources of entertainment. Cough, cough. I can’t believe I stayed until the end, when the lights come on and the kids see where all their friends ended up. New couples made, old couples fade. Ah, high school drama.

I sneaked off to my car, and drove to meet my old high school friend at a nightclub in Hollywood. By the time I got to Hollywood Blvd., the place was packed. The lines outside Les Deux were huge, parking was $25, and I was exhausted. I looked at myself in my car mirror. Twenty-two years old and too tired to stay out past 11 PM. Skipping the club scene to chaperone high school dances. Somewhere between graduation and now, I turned into a 40-year-old.

Halloween Is Never More Scary than in a Classroom

I like complaining about multiple preps. I usually start preparing for my 12^th grade classes, then I move on to 9^th grade classes, and before I collapse on my bed in exhaustion, I scrape some lesson together for my Pathways class. I always dream how nice it would be to teach only one class. Planning time would cut in half. I would have time to exercise and watch movies. I could watch bad reality shows on E! and Bravo like my roommate does! Halloween robbed me of my beautiful dream. Thank the planning Gods that I have three preps in one day.

On Halloween, which fell on Wednesday (the day I don’t have a free conference period), I created the same lesson for all of my classes – both 9^th grade and 12^th grade. Such a horrible idea . . . Halloween really can be a frightful holiday. It started off like a great day. Fun costumes, fun activities, candy! Each period it got progressively worse. It was like living in my own “Tell-Tale Heart” nightmare. The entire faculty at my small learning community decided to dress up in doctor-themed wardrobe. The day before Halloween, I ventured into the fashion district of downtown Los Angeles to find some cheap scrubs. I bought this flowery navy blue set for fourteen dollars. Then, I bought this kid-sized surgeon outfit from the 99 cent store. The top barely fit but the surgeon mask and cap were totally worth the 99 cents. I threw some red paint on the surgeon gown and in big black letters wrote: Warning: I’m a First Year. I wanted to be cheeky. If a student asked, I could wave off the question with a Meredith Grey reference. I bought lots of Toostie Roll-type candy and Starbursts and put it in a pumpkin basket. I placed orange and black butcher paper in the windows. My room had an eerie glow. I had my scary stories, my videos, my Edgar Allan Poe on tape. I was ready for the best lesson EVER. I was going to have fun, they were going to have fun, what could go wrong? How about the best lesson ever five times in ONE DAY.

Each period, my students were more hyped up on the candy they were consuming in each class. After lunch, those periods were disaster. Too much sugar, too little patience. My scary story that involved the overhead being turned on and off like car headlights stared getting really annoying for me. I couldn’t read it with the same emphasis or foreboding. The Tell-Tale Heart video started seeming longer and longer each period. By the time sixth period came along, I was so tired, and I had a splitting headache from all the sugar I was eating (come on, you don’t expect me to ignore the pumpkin basket on my desk). Moreover, after five lessons teaching the exact same thing, you start thinking that your students are getting really stupid. You forget that they haven’t sat with you through the lesson already. So when sixth period starts answering questions incorrectly or when they sit silently when prompted for an answer, you want to shake them. Hello?! Duh! Poe uses foreshadowing! Idiot!

My Halloween cheer wore thin. At 3:12 after my detention kids left, I quickly swept my room (using my 99 cent broom and dust pan . . . love that store!). The floor was littered with candy wrappers and spilt skittles. I packed my bag and left – perhaps the earliest I have ever left school. I somehow made it home, swallowed two Tylenol, and collapsed on bed still in my scrubs. Three hours later, I woke up and sat down at my desk to plan three very separate lessons for tomorrow.

Pissing off the Teacher

For all the intangibles that make my school different from the hundreds of other schools in Los Angeles, it is remarkable how many similarities there are still. Let’s start with the differences. My school is brand new. The athletic facilities are remarkable – an Olympic size swimming pool, brand new football field, two indoor basketball courts. There is almost no tagging at my school, which is so very different from my experience at Jordan High School. There, I would walk into our first period summer school class past freshly painted walls. I would walk out of class an hour later and somehow the walls would be tagged. Every single day the walls are repainted. (Embarrassing anecdote: I once backed into our freshly painted blue classroom door. I had blue paint on my butt the rest of the day. Dry cleaning got most of it out). At my school, nothing needs to be painted.

Small learning communities help preserve an intimate learning environment. It is possible for me to know all the 440 students by face. I feel like I know almost every senior by name. The teachers at my learning community are incredible. They are all innovative and invested in their students. Unlike some stories I hear from other corps members about their dysfunctional schools, there is not one teacher who does not care about their students. It is a remarkable achievement. I could keep listing differences, but the similarities keep popping up – in their grades. What do you do when only twenty percent of your students turn in their homework? If you’re as frustrated as me, you yell at them and then threaten them. It is completely inappropriate and, perhaps fittingly, it didn’t make me feel any better about the situation.

“When I give you time in class to finish your work, and you waste it talking or sleeping or whatever you do, I have no patience when you do not turn in your homework the next day. I can hurt your grade a lot more than giving you a zero for this assignment. You all are starting to piss – me – off.”

Complete uncomfortable silence for a whole minute as I walked around the room, passing out handouts of today’s reading. In my mind, I was frantically trying to think of a lighter next line – somehow transitioning from that regrettable speech into introducing today’s lesson. Mostly, I was just waiting to make sure that I could make that voice transition successful. It’s harder than I thought. Changing from angry, trembling voice to a calmer, steady voice is almost impossible without coming off to high-pitched or forced. Putting on a veneer of patience, I try out a few “okays,” “alrights,” and “does everyone have a copy of the reading?”

A few minutes later, Carlos asks me if I’m going to cry. I look at him straight in the eyes and say, you can make me yell, but you won’t ever see me cry. Twelfth graders are such punks sometimes.

After fourth period, my neighboring teacher came into the room and gave me two big hugs. That really calmed me down, and I had a wonderful fifth period after lunch. I bet my ninth graders wondered why Ms. Goswamy was so overly goofy that period.