Detentions and Fire Drills

September 30

Black Dickies and oversized black t-shirts. Smudged glasses and gelled spiky hair. Meet Luis – my 9^th grade nemesis. Luis is late to my class everyday. He refused to do work in class. He yells inappropriate things like “f---er” during instruction. Oh, Luis. Luis wants to try out for the JV soccer team next week, but might have some problems given that he has detention with me on Monday and a ‘U’ in citizenship and work habits. I was supposed to call his mother on Friday, but no one picked up.

Last week was super tiring. By Friday, I had a headache.

It is Sunday again, and I face a new week. I will not recount the bad parts (besides Luis, of course, because I feel like I needed to introduce him in my journal . . . I have a feeling he’ll appear in these pages again). I am going to list the good things. The experiences that make me feel validated as a teacher (and person – sometimes amidst the classroom insanity, I forget the humanity part).

The new best part of my day is 2:59 to 3:12 PM. Every day, the students who are tardy to first period have detention that same day for thirteen minutes in their sixth period class. This means that every day, I have at least four seniors who spend a few more minutes with me. I love it! They deep clean my white boards, which is so fortunate because I was getting a reputation as the teacher with the filthy boards. They help me move desks around and put up chairs on the day my floors get swept. The best part though is that they talk to me. I ask how their day is going, and how they like their classes. What are you doing on the weekend, Diane? Think we’ll win the football game, Marcos? And so on. I really love it. They don’t hate me because I’m not the one who assigned them the detention. They aren’t even being punished for misbehavior! They’re just too lazy to get to school on time! Clean white boards and the latest greatest 12^th grade gossip. That’s one happy teacher.

On Friday, we had our first fire drill. I never remembered these things taking a whole period. I thought they lasted fifteen minutes but apparently they take a whole 65 minute period. I would have loved it as a student. Woohoo – no fourth period notes! Now, as a teacher, I hate them. Waste a whole period to walk out to the football field when we could be learning about in-text citations?! Horrible! Anyway, I had to manage the fire drill with my infamous fourth period class. They all knew about the drill so the few minutes I had them in class were completely unproductive. Some of them even walked out before the bell rang.

“Carlos! Eslee! Where are you going?! Get in my class and sit down, the alarm hasn’t rung!”

“But, Miss! It was supposed to ring at 11:15 AM, it’s now 11:18!”

“Thank you, Carlos, I can tell the time.”

“But, Miss! I see people leaving – what if we’re the only ones left!”

“Carlos, get away from the window. No one is leaving yet. I’m not really afraid of an imaginary fire anyhow … we’ll survive.”

“I think we’re supposed to go, Miss, maybe the bell won’t ring.”

“Get in your chair now! I’ve been in a fire drill before, thank you. The alarm always rings!”

I then to proceed to lecture on the valuable time of a class period and how we must learn something today. I start handing out my handouts. I get about half way through the class when – of course – the deafening alarm rings. Chairs scrape the floor, handouts fly up (in a very Hollywood-esque teen drama fashion), and I am left yelling over the bleating alarm.

“Okay, WAIT UP! No one leaves – we’re doing this in an organized way! Walk to the North end of the football field. We’re on the 20 yard line. All together!” As my students race out the door and down the steps on to the street. Oh dear. Exiting a school in downtown Los Angeles is a lot different than the fire drills I had been to in my high school days. Getting to the football fields means walking the sidewalks of downtown, crossing major streets and holding up traffic.

I haven’t forgotten that this is supposed to be the recount of the lighter, happier moments of my week. I just need to describe the first scene so that we can all appreciate how it got so much better. Once on the field, and after I had filled out my missing person sheet and injury report sheet (“okay, where is Carlos?”), I had some great moments. Kevin – the students who always has his head down during class – came up to me and started chatting. Despite being the cool bad boy of Miguel Contreras, Kevin did not have too many friends in my class except for three girls who according to him were being too girly right now. Granted, they were doing cartwheels and giggling loudly. One of the girly girls is his on-again, off-again girlfriend. He really opened up. He told me the whole drama. He told me how he wants to go to church again. How he transitioned poorly from middle school to high school. How he wants to go to community college and then one day, Howard University. I loved every second of it. It is moments like this that feel validating. I talked to him like he was an adult, asking serious questions and expecting though-out answers. Because, in most ways, he is an adult. It’s scary/wonderful whenever I realize that of my students.

The Bad Day

September 22

Friday was my worst day yet. The first time I brought my work home. And not in the traditional sense because, let’s be honest, I bring my work home every day. Planning lessons, grading papers, making handouts. This Friday, I brought the hurt home. My fourth period class made me crazy. 28 seniors – and I felt like every one of them was against me. Even the good students who always sit quietly and do what I say made me feel horrible. While chaos erupted in my class, those good, quiet ones looked at me the whole time. I felt like they were saying… “act like a teacher, miss, what kind of control is this?” I let this one class affect my day. The rest of my classes were awesome – really incredible. The football game in the evening was also fun. For some reason, all I remember is my 4^th period class – and a girl named Beatrice.

I yelled for the first time. I took my first student into the hallway for a one-on-one “what the hell are you doing?!” conversation. I felt my voice strain for the first time – the high-pitched trembling that sounds like you’re about to cry. I always understood why you NEVER cry in a classroom, but I never understood why a teacher would ever feel that way. I know why now. It’s because you’re trying so hard, and they aren’t meeting you half way. I heard about a dozen expletives yelled in my class (granted they were never directed at me), but I didn’t know how to manage it. My voice turned ugly. “Do not use that word in my classroom, am I clear, Carlos?” I stood in front of my class and gave period 4 the teacher stare for a full 30 seconds. It felt like the longest thirty seconds I’ve ever stood in one place. By twenty seconds, every one was silent, except for Devie who said “damn, she’s angry” and Alis who said, “shiiiiiiiit” in a quiet, resigned voice. I stood there for the last ten seconds just for effect. Lie. I stood there for ten more seconds because I didn’t trust my choked voice to start talking again. I felt my cheeks burning red.

You know, it wasn’t all that bad. It feels horribly bad at the time. Every time I looked at Ross, I wanted to say “I’m sorry, I know you’re listening, and I know I’m giving a horrible lesson right now, but don’t stop listening!” Every time I looked at Cristina, I wanted to say “thank you, stick with me.” Every time I looked at Carlos, I wanted to say “are you f---ing kidding me, sit in your seat and shut up!” And I never say the f-word.

So Carlos and the rest of the rowdy 4^th period was not the reason I had the worst day yet. I can handle those kids. Sometimes they’re hilarious and productive in class, and sometimes they will be chaos. I can get over those students easily. They just make me tired and red in class. The reason I brought the hurt home was Beatrice. She’s easily one of the brightest students I have – such a great writer. She should be in AP Lit, but Ms. Drinkward, the AP teacher, said she’s too lazy. Beatrice was reading a book in my class. Can you imagine how infuriating that is? She’s reading – she likes to read! Yay! – but she’s not doing any work in class. Instead, she’s reading and talking to her friends. I tell her to put the book away repeatedly until I actually go over and take the book from her hands, shut it, and hand it back. She tells me that her mom is going to come in ‘cause she would be angry that I just did that. I sarcastically respond that, good, I would love to talk to her. I handled Beatrice all wrong. I should have challenged her with harder work, but instead, I got into a conversation with her in front of the whole class. She called me out.

“Miss, why are you telling me to work when every one else is not doing the stupid worksheet on introductions either.”

“Because I’m not talking to everyone else right now, Beatrice, I’m talking to you.”

“I don’t need this worksheet, when I write, I just write, I don’t need to fill this out. I don’t need this.”

“I know you’re a great writer, but I need you to learn how to follow directions and work productively in class.”

This went on for a little while.

We never resolved the conversation because at that point Carlos yelled something inappropriate, and we needed to go out into the hall. When Carlos and I came back in, the class was more subdued – a bit scared that I took someone out. Then again, Beatrice never picked up a pencil.

After school, I ran concessions at the football game with my fellow teachers and a lot of my 12^th grade seniors. Among them were students from my 4^th period class. We talked, joked. I even gave Carlos a high-five and let him hang around me as I grilled the hot dogs. Beatrice was always within talking distance, but we didn’t say a word to each other. I gave her a few small smiles, but something she could easily pretend she didn’t see. When she left around 9 PM from the varsity game, she walked by me.

“Goodbye, Beatrice.” I waved my hand.

She walked right by me, purposely and heartbreakingly ignoring me.

Ouch, it hurts.

The Beginning

September 16: Four days of teaching. It’s Sunday, and school has been in session for two weeks. For the first three days, I established rules and procedures, I developed classroom culture, I talked in-depth and in-length about our vision. I spent a day defining voice and what it meant to have one. I was feeling good – my students were listening! Besides rowdiness and a penchant for talking when I do, these kids were good. Then I learned what it meant to work in the biggest of big systems: The Los Angeles Unified School District.

I then miss the second week of school because of required English teacher training! The. Second. Week. Let me tell you what that means in teacher terms . . . shit happens. If you’re not there to reinforce all the rules and investment that you spent time creating, they disappear. I got a day break from training last Wednesday, and I was pleasantly surprised how controlled my students still were. I got a lot of questions about my absence though. Teachers at least wait a month before they pack their bags. On Tuesday, when I finally reenter the classroom, I dread their reaction to why I was gone again. I’m expecting at least a dozen exchanges along the lines of:

“miss, where you been? You vacationing?”
“no, Ricardo, I told you before. I had to go to some training about this new, awesome unit we’re about to start”
“awww, miss, don’t be lying – you got married?”

I am really excited about starting to teach content material now. I think I’m boring my students so far. And I fear my advisory (homeroom) class hates me. By the way, I never really had so many doubts until I became a teacher.

Ezequiel refuses to call me anything but Ms. GoSwimming. It annoys me to no end. [yes, sigh, I do appreciate the word play – I think he’ll like Shakespeare.]Imagine what I could do with his name!
Esmeralda asked on Day 2 what I do to my eyebrows. “They’re really nice, miss.”
Katherine (a really creative writer) came to school an hour early to read her short story on werewolves to me. It was really good. I asked her if she’d read Harry Potter (since everyone should read it regardless of werewolf fascinations and Book 3), but she gave me a two minute answer that mentioned witchcraft, the devil, and a pretty definite No, she does not read Harry Potter. Hmm, I wonder if moments like this are what my advisors warned against. Something about overcoming our biases. Forget racial biases and gender biases. This girl doesn’t like Harry!
Luis will not use the red-colored marker. Blue only.
Stephanie will not make a T-chart on her notebook paper without a ruler. Seriously? “Stephanie, don’t worry about straight lines, just draw two lines and let’s get on with the lesson.” “But they’re not straight!”
“Stephanie, I’m not repeating myself, let’s go.”
[Stephanie shoots me an ugly look, draws two lines very slowly, and looks at me with “now what?” eyes. During independent practice, she erased her hand-drawn lines and traced over them with a ruler.]

How to conclude the first few days? I am nervous before every single class. I have felt incompetent, unprepared, and misunderstood. But, oh, I love going to work in the morning. There’s no feeling more alive than minute one. Forty seniors pack into the classroom. You’re probably not picturing it right. They are not in their seats – they are not looking at me in the front. They are talking to their friends, with iPods in their ears, they are still eating breakfast, and they are sitting on tables, fighting over the one chair with wheels. I really love minute one. “Class, Do Now is on the board. Sarry, throw away the bagel. Salvador, headphones out. You know better. Francisco, you’re sitting up here with me today. No one sits in the rolling chair! Ladies, make-up away. Okay, good morning, class, let’s get started.”

Overdue Like a Homework Assignment

I start teaching on Sept. 5. I have two classes of English 9, three classes of English 12, and one homeroom class. I have no lesson plans... yet. My classroom walls are still bare. The next two weeks are full of professional development classes and school-required meetings. In a month and a half, I look forward to getting paid finally.

On Tuesday, students arrived at my school (Miguel Contreras Learning Complex) in order to register for the upcoming school year. I got the sweet job of handing out schedules. Before handing them over, I looked at their schedule (to see if they would have me!) and to glance at their grades and GPA. Have you ever seen a senior in high school with a GPA of 1.25? What about a 0.81? Should I stop now or mention the 0.25? Alright, I'll stop.

A real, updated post will arrive as soon as my sanity does.

Ma'am Can I Go to the Bathroom?

I have been a real teacher for almost a summer now. Hmmm. Maybe I need to rearrange a couple of adjectives. I have been an almost teacher for a real summer now. I can't pretend the last five weeks away - they have been the most glorious - frustrating - five weeks. I taught persuasive techniques to my summer school students so they could learn to write a 5-paragraph persuasive essay and master the reading comprehension questions on the state exam. Mostly, of course, the five weeks were a training period so that I wouldn’t make the same mistakes in the fall. I think my most discerning students realized that their teachers were new to the profession. I hope they never felt like guinea pigs. Honestly, even if these students were exposed to inexperienced teachers for the summer, I don’t think they have ever had more passionate, hard-working teachers. We were trying to prove ourselves after all. Good things I did: I encouraged, I was patient (sometimes), I got through to Danny C. and Nancy L. Bad things I did: I rolled-my eyes on several occasions (Ms. Goswamy: “Say your name and your favorite candy”; Shawn T: “Shawn and, um, peaches and cream”), I yelled at a student, I gave up on Daveon W. and Juan S.

Day Two of teaching was epic. It was the first time I was all by myself in front of real students. No more role-playing or graphic organizers asking me how I would respond if a). a student refused to do work, b). a student cussed me out or c). a student (and I really hoped this would NEVER happen) threw a book at me. For those curious, you do get a lot of a), the occasional b) and thank goodness, no c). We're all about numbers at Teach For America. We want to make significant gains with our students. It's the whole achievement gap problem after all. We're trying to change the fact that our students are performing on average four grades below their peers in high-income communities. So before Day Two, I didn't quite understand the concept of on average when it came to the numbers of teaching. I taught ninth grade English. And I had a lot of students who were further behind than four years. I had a student reading at a first grade level. I had students about to enter twelfth grade. I have students who are bored with my lectures because they are incredibly bright. I have students who are bored with my lecture because they don't understand what I'm saying.

Addressing the needs of all of my students has been the most challenging thing so far. And here I was worried about classroom management. I learned the secret on why kids act up in class - it's always the teacher's fault. If they're messing around, misbehaving, they aren't interested enough. I'm either talking above them or below them. Or right through them. Engaging a student can be tiring. You have to put on a show with hooks and fireworks, invest them in every lesson. I danced for them, I ran from poster to poster, I bribed them with candy.

By the way, on their summative exam, all my students missed the question on parallelism.

How can you absolutely love your students and also want them far, far away, past time-out corner, beyond the Dean's Office, miles beyond the school doors? One Friday, Teach For America held a college fair at Jordan High School. All of the corps members made posters of the colleges we attended and answered questions about applying, financial aid, and college life. I met a charming boy there who was the self-proclaimed big kahuna of Jordan High. He told me he could get any girl he wanted at school. I looked at his football jersey and deep dimples and believed him. After all, I’ve seen the social politics of Jordan High during nutrition and passing periods. He was one of those boys who made the girls in my class late because they sauntered down the hall, holding hands and eating their Fire Cheetos. Anyway this charming boy turned out to be the biggest punk I’ve ever met. Disrespect is the one thing I learned that I cannot handle. I’ve learned not to go by first impressions or appearances. Some of the quietest kids score the best on tests. The most friendly, charming students will not work hard. Some of them talk behind your back. For some reason, that hurts the most.

Yellow School Buses and Freeways

6:30 AM: Five hundred corps members, dressed in business professional, board yellow school buses. Good morning. It's like high school all over again - butterflies in the stomach and more worries than excitement. I had forgotten the feeling of first day jitters in college. On my way to Jordan Starr High School in Watts the feeling returned. And we haven't even started teaching yet. That's next Monday.

People started filling into seats from the front of the bus. Once you leave ninth-grade, the long-fabled "back of the bus" is no longer where the cool kids hang out . . . I sat down in the last row. School bus seats prevent slouching. There is absolutely no manner of relaxed comfort in those upright, upholstered seats that press your knees into the seat ahead. Sitting erect in my slacks and heels, hands clutching my coffee travel mug on my lap, I feel incongruous in the back of the bus. I put on my black sunglasses and plugged my ears with my headphones, trying to be invisible as I stared at the naked city. I couldn't close my eyes. The forty-five minute bus ride from Cal State Long Beach to Jordan High School was the most interesting ride I had ever seen.

Going north on the 405, you realize that Los Angeles freeways are both the great divisor and the great equalizer. These freeways break up the city; they box in neighborhoods. The 105, 110, 10, and 710 box Watts. You can easily get to everywhere else without ever entering the area. Which is why I had never seen a place like Watts before Monday. Then again, freeways are the arteries of this city. Driving along the 405 and then the 105 you see all types of cars with all types of people - different races, different socio-economic levels. You can make all the wrong assumptions you want about who sits in which car with what kind of life. Here I was, sitting anonymous in a school bus, loving my position of voyeur. We passed the Los Angeles River. It was dry, concrete, and sad. Graffiti decorated the concrete river banks, shopping carts and trash bags littered the sides. Then we got onto the 105 overpass, and I seriously could not stop staring. This year, Los Angeles has experienced the worst drought in over two decades. The land is starving for rain. It looks thirsty. The area around Jordan High School is the most uninviting, barbed-wired desert. Why would a student want to go to school? Immediately, I recognized how much easier my job will be in the fall because my school is in a brand-new facility. Learning happens much easier when the students want to be there.

And yet, and this is a universal phenomenon I think, a school is an oasis. You enter the halls of learning and you feel safer. The paint might be peeling, the floors may be dusty. It doesn't matter. You just need to see the tables and chairs in the classroom, the lockers in the hall, and you feel comfort in the fact that all high schools have the potential to be the same. Because it doesn't really matter that resources are scarce or that the school is in the middle of Watts. All that really matters is that good teachers get into those classrooms and expect the highest standards from the students, and not so that the students will escape this place, but because they'll help to fix it one day. These students own this city - they've literally made their mark on every building and every street sign. Imagine if they could raise the income level of Watts by going to school, by graduating high school, and (can I dream it?) by going to college.

I've spent almost a week at Jordan High School now, learning about classroom management, lesson planning, and teaching literacy, all under the over-arching umbrella goal of trying to close the achievement gap. On Monday, the students arrive; I face my biggest challenge; my alter-ego appears. It has already appeared in flashes. It happened last Monday when I picked up my Teach For America bright red lunch box. The staff handed me a permanent marker to label my lunch box. With five hundred corps members with five hundred red lunch boxes, you have to distinguish your own somehow. I etched my new identity right there. Scratching on the red vinyl material, the marker spelled out assertively: Miss Goswamy.

I feel more settled now. First day jitters do eventually subside (though I expect an unhealthy bout on Monday). I'm not so wide-eyed anymore on the bus ride over to Jordan High. I understand my responsibility. I have to be the best teacher I can possibly be to the students I will have in summer school. And to be the best teacher possible, I need to recognize what will help me do that. I put on my black sunglasses, plug my ears with my headphones . . . and nap. It's forty-five minutes to Watts from Long Beach - and that's a whole lot of dreams.

On Being Independent

Today I filled out a FAFSA form completely independent of my parents and their income. The joys of being independent. There is a much better chance that this teacher will now be able to receive student loans! Of course, to all bright sides, there is also a downside. I paid my first payment check to Loyola Marymount University. Sometimes being independent is not so exciting. For everyone who welcomed me to the "real world" after graduation, I thank them, and politely ask, can I go back? Responsibility and the weight of adulthood are not cooperating with me.

The first payment check was compliments of my big decision of the week. I'm going for the Masters of Education. At first, I thought I would just get my teaching credential, but I figured I could not be fully committed to this program if I didn't get a M.A. The degree leaves the door open for me in case I want to continue in the education field. (No, I haven't given up my dream about working with South Asian economic development... I'm just on a series of two-year plans). I filled out a lot of forms today. Few things are more exciting than filling out a complete form and transferring it from the to-be-completed pile to the completed pile. I've heard that TFA members are a little OCD.

I remember feeling horrible a few weeks ago the moment I realized I was taking my last undergraduate class. Luckily, it was an epic last class so I didn't feel cheated of a momentous occasion. Now, I'm super happy (and feeling a little silly) that I am again going to take classes starting in August. I am worried that teaching and taking classes will be overwhelming, but I've already described my unhealthy plan to have a love-affair with coffee. Get ready for our public displays of affection.

So I am an adult now. You can congratulate me later - as I will to all my fellow real worlders. Let's throw a big party in April (one, for having survived almost a year of teaching, and two, for embarking on our first independent income tax returns)!