As superhuman as I might try to be, I cannot escape the pleasure in being liked. The stony-hearted part of me is fine being cussed out, snarled at, and insulted by students. I take it rather straight-faced and if anything, I become more nonchalant the more the students become agitated. For the most part, the students at my current placement have been rather tame. Moreover, some of my students actually like me here. My chatty students have shared various parts of their lives with me, sharing interests in books, movies, and the like.
One day, my low body temperature was brought up, and I mentioned that one of the other teachers called mea vampire because of it. My students' faces lit up. (I'm trying to avoid finding out whether they're Twilight fans; I'll stick to bonding with them over Harry Potter.) "Miss S, you would make a bad-acid vampire!" The students smiled and glowed at me, nodding their assent. "You have the right hair for it!"
The subject was changed, and zombies were brought up. I turned to one of the students, "I think you would make a bad-acid zombie." The students practically exploded with joy at my use of "bad-acid." I tend to disdain anyone's use of substitutionary cursing (no, "substitutionary" isn't a word); however, in this case, I think this conversation took me miles in building rapport with students, an opinion confirmed by my students' exclamation, "You just became, like, 200 times cooler! I mean . . . you were okay before, but, we didn't really know you and now we know you!"
Perhaps tonight's just a night that I want to think on some of my more amusing teacher-student interactions.
Monday, May 23, 2011
Thursday, May 5, 2011
Hacky Sack in the Art Room
My students find ample excuses for why they shouldn't work and ample means for how they can distract themselves. One common way is to use the art room laptops. The classroom is equipped with ten MacBooks for my graphic design class primarily. The other classes, however, have used them for developing their art history presentations and other--not so academic--purposes. This has been my demise. The students' drawings and goblets compete with youtube and facebook for attention and devotion. Finally I issued an edict, declaring that I would allow students to use laptops who were not accessing youtube or facebook. Moreover, I reminded students that these laptops were not present in the classroom in order to be their personal mp3 players. I can't stand dueling music throughout the room, and I already let students use their ipods in class and about 85% of the time the radio is on.
I have since taken laptops from students who seek them simply to listen to music or update their status. Occasionally a new distraction will appear. Today it was in the form of a black, tan, and red hacky sack. I was attempting to convince J--- that he had cut off half of a person's face in the way that he had drawn her when I noticed a student tossing his hacky sack around across the room. I had previously given my support for the game in general, however, I noted that the art room wasn't the place for it at the present moment. He had invited me to hack with him, not believing I lacked foot-eye coordination--considering I was an art teacher.
Having seen him get out his hacky sack again, I looked up and said, "Hey T----, maybe I will hack with you for a little while." He excitedly got up and tossed the hacky sack towards me, I gave it an admirable tap with the inside of my right foot, then snatched it with my hand, quickly shifting it into my pocket. I uttered a "thanks!" and walked back to the drawing with the misshapen face.
As I approached J---, he gave a hearty laugh, mocking T--- for his inability to predict my actions. He alternated between chuckles, mocking comments, and amused glances. When he finally regained his ability for sustained conversation, he declared, "That was a pretty cool teacher move!" It was a couple minutes before he settled down, and in gaining his amusement, I was able to tackle the misshapen face again. At the end of the hour I returned the hacky sack. Later in the day I spotted T--- exiting a class, his hacky sack readily available in his hand.
I have since taken laptops from students who seek them simply to listen to music or update their status. Occasionally a new distraction will appear. Today it was in the form of a black, tan, and red hacky sack. I was attempting to convince J--- that he had cut off half of a person's face in the way that he had drawn her when I noticed a student tossing his hacky sack around across the room. I had previously given my support for the game in general, however, I noted that the art room wasn't the place for it at the present moment. He had invited me to hack with him, not believing I lacked foot-eye coordination--considering I was an art teacher.
Having seen him get out his hacky sack again, I looked up and said, "Hey T----, maybe I will hack with you for a little while." He excitedly got up and tossed the hacky sack towards me, I gave it an admirable tap with the inside of my right foot, then snatched it with my hand, quickly shifting it into my pocket. I uttered a "thanks!" and walked back to the drawing with the misshapen face.
As I approached J---, he gave a hearty laugh, mocking T--- for his inability to predict my actions. He alternated between chuckles, mocking comments, and amused glances. When he finally regained his ability for sustained conversation, he declared, "That was a pretty cool teacher move!" It was a couple minutes before he settled down, and in gaining his amusement, I was able to tackle the misshapen face again. At the end of the hour I returned the hacky sack. Later in the day I spotted T--- exiting a class, his hacky sack readily available in his hand.
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
School makes me sick . . .
. . . literally.
I am writing this in bed, under the dim light of the screen, table lamp, and sunken basement window. My sister brought me soup an hour ago, rousing me from my long afternoon nap.
My first clue came yesterday afternoon, when no matter how much water I drank, I couldn't seem to get the back of my throat to stop aching. I gulped water en route to the middle school. Once there, I made frequent visits to the tissue box. At the art show/band concert last night, I began wondering if my glands were swollen, and I returned home late with a headache. I blamed caffeine, but I proceeded to have difficulty concentrating as I tried to read through important documents about my Fulbright visa application. 10:30 felt like 3 AM and I went to sleep and had what can only be a stress or fever dream.
(And because everybody loves to hear about my dreams . . .)
I dreamed that I had been invited to play piano for the high school jazz band at a competition (a similar instance had happened at yesterday's jazz concert with an old alum coming in to play for an ill student). I was to play the right hand and another female would play the left because neither of us were very accomplished pianists. I practiced some then watched the main stage with some fellow musicians. Afterwards I went for a walk, finding myself in Minneapolis--but a very different Minneapolis, more European with piazzas and less traffic. I walked around and as I walked into a coffee shop I literally ran into an attractive man. It was the third time I had literally run into him, so he asked me to have coffee with him. I consented, but then realized I needed to get back to the concert. I pulled out my business cards from my purse and they flew everywhere. I then realized someone had switched my business cards with another as a prank. (Ironically, today I found out I have the wrong phone number on my card.)
Then there proceeded to be the series of events that occurs in many stress dreams--difficulty walking back to the convention center with cars blocking the roads and my feet slowing me down. No matter what I tried I couldn't get back. Then there proceeded to be the oppression of anticipated disappointment.
As my alarm went off this morning, I thought it to be phone calls berating my irresponsibility. My sister finally aided in my wakening, asking if I wanted to go for a run or not. I went to school and proceeded through the day, with frequent use of tissues and frequent hand-washing. By the time I set out for the middle school, I could feel my weakness, bracing myself on my desk and having to think extra hard. My brain could hardly function in a room of active 7th graders, and I made more frequent reminders about volume levels--moreso because of my inability to concentrate than because of their unusual energy.
Through it all, I did what every teacher must do--I went on as if nothing were wrong and continued teaching. I expelled most of my energy by 3:30, uttering a pitifully weak farewell to a passing staff member. On the way home I stopped in Walmart for a decongestant, kneeling before the shelves, overwhelmed by the options, hunting out some pseudophedrine, but settling for, oh, I don't know what, but I'm on it.
I cancelled my evening plans and have been plopped in this bed so long that I fear pressure sores (an unrealistic fear I know). I'm considering venturing up the stairs. I also know that illness or no, I'll be at school tomorrow, and I ought to do some grading tonight.
I am writing this in bed, under the dim light of the screen, table lamp, and sunken basement window. My sister brought me soup an hour ago, rousing me from my long afternoon nap.
My first clue came yesterday afternoon, when no matter how much water I drank, I couldn't seem to get the back of my throat to stop aching. I gulped water en route to the middle school. Once there, I made frequent visits to the tissue box. At the art show/band concert last night, I began wondering if my glands were swollen, and I returned home late with a headache. I blamed caffeine, but I proceeded to have difficulty concentrating as I tried to read through important documents about my Fulbright visa application. 10:30 felt like 3 AM and I went to sleep and had what can only be a stress or fever dream.
(And because everybody loves to hear about my dreams . . .)
I dreamed that I had been invited to play piano for the high school jazz band at a competition (a similar instance had happened at yesterday's jazz concert with an old alum coming in to play for an ill student). I was to play the right hand and another female would play the left because neither of us were very accomplished pianists. I practiced some then watched the main stage with some fellow musicians. Afterwards I went for a walk, finding myself in Minneapolis--but a very different Minneapolis, more European with piazzas and less traffic. I walked around and as I walked into a coffee shop I literally ran into an attractive man. It was the third time I had literally run into him, so he asked me to have coffee with him. I consented, but then realized I needed to get back to the concert. I pulled out my business cards from my purse and they flew everywhere. I then realized someone had switched my business cards with another as a prank. (Ironically, today I found out I have the wrong phone number on my card.)
Then there proceeded to be the series of events that occurs in many stress dreams--difficulty walking back to the convention center with cars blocking the roads and my feet slowing me down. No matter what I tried I couldn't get back. Then there proceeded to be the oppression of anticipated disappointment.
As my alarm went off this morning, I thought it to be phone calls berating my irresponsibility. My sister finally aided in my wakening, asking if I wanted to go for a run or not. I went to school and proceeded through the day, with frequent use of tissues and frequent hand-washing. By the time I set out for the middle school, I could feel my weakness, bracing myself on my desk and having to think extra hard. My brain could hardly function in a room of active 7th graders, and I made more frequent reminders about volume levels--moreso because of my inability to concentrate than because of their unusual energy.
Through it all, I did what every teacher must do--I went on as if nothing were wrong and continued teaching. I expelled most of my energy by 3:30, uttering a pitifully weak farewell to a passing staff member. On the way home I stopped in Walmart for a decongestant, kneeling before the shelves, overwhelmed by the options, hunting out some pseudophedrine, but settling for, oh, I don't know what, but I'm on it.
I cancelled my evening plans and have been plopped in this bed so long that I fear pressure sores (an unrealistic fear I know). I'm considering venturing up the stairs. I also know that illness or no, I'll be at school tomorrow, and I ought to do some grading tonight.
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Let's get political
Often my students take no real interest in me--what I have to say, who I am, where I came from, etc., etc. I value those opportunities in which students are engaged and view me as both human and a valuable resource (ie a teacher). However, there are some questions I am not sure I ought to answer.
In the following instance, I brought it on myself a bit. I was making some comment/critique of a student's drawing. I threw in some ridiculous comment like, "Maybe I'm some crazy revolutionary liberal from Minneapolis, but . . ." and then I think I said that she would have to use more pastel colors than white in order for me to actually be able to see her drawing. I should have used the word "revolutionary" and skipped "liberal," because with the latter word the group of surrounding students suddenly became focused on politics and they began asking about my current and past political standing.
"What do you think of Obama in his second term?"
"Did you vote for Obama?"
"Are you a Republican or a Democrat?"
Student 1: Would you vote for McCain or Obama?
Teacher: Would I or did I?
Student 2: Did you?
Teacher: I don't think I should say.
Student 1: Why not?
Teacher: Because I'm your teacher and I'm not supposed to influence your political views.
Student 1: No offense, but what you say probably isn't going to affect us at all.
Student 3: Are you a Democrat or a Republican? (Pause) You look like a Democrat.
Teacher: (Laughs)
Student 1: We aren't really that interested. We just want to know because you won't tell us.
They didn't get it out of me, though they did ask me again the next day with, "Did you figure out if you're allowed to tell us or not?" The most I said about politics was that I didn't vote on party lines but on candidates, which brought a, "So you're an independent!" This same triumvirate has asked me other questions since, launching them into deep conversations when they out to be drawing, but I try to give them some freedom every now and again when I can see they're not just chatting about petty everyday things, but really hashing out ideas. I understand that teachers aren't to preach to their students or try to manipulate them in any way, but we are in a position of influence to some degree, and though I don't want to start rousing student support for any candidate, I do hope that I can at least influence them as learners a little bit.
In the following instance, I brought it on myself a bit. I was making some comment/critique of a student's drawing. I threw in some ridiculous comment like, "Maybe I'm some crazy revolutionary liberal from Minneapolis, but . . ." and then I think I said that she would have to use more pastel colors than white in order for me to actually be able to see her drawing. I should have used the word "revolutionary" and skipped "liberal," because with the latter word the group of surrounding students suddenly became focused on politics and they began asking about my current and past political standing.
"What do you think of Obama in his second term?"
"Did you vote for Obama?"
"Are you a Republican or a Democrat?"
Student 1: Would you vote for McCain or Obama?
Teacher: Would I or did I?
Student 2: Did you?
Teacher: I don't think I should say.
Student 1: Why not?
Teacher: Because I'm your teacher and I'm not supposed to influence your political views.
Student 1: No offense, but what you say probably isn't going to affect us at all.
Student 3: Are you a Democrat or a Republican? (Pause) You look like a Democrat.
Teacher: (Laughs)
Student 1: We aren't really that interested. We just want to know because you won't tell us.
They didn't get it out of me, though they did ask me again the next day with, "Did you figure out if you're allowed to tell us or not?" The most I said about politics was that I didn't vote on party lines but on candidates, which brought a, "So you're an independent!" This same triumvirate has asked me other questions since, launching them into deep conversations when they out to be drawing, but I try to give them some freedom every now and again when I can see they're not just chatting about petty everyday things, but really hashing out ideas. I understand that teachers aren't to preach to their students or try to manipulate them in any way, but we are in a position of influence to some degree, and though I don't want to start rousing student support for any candidate, I do hope that I can at least influence them as learners a little bit.
I need help!
Teaching art can be quite different than other subject areas. Rather than spending the majority of time in lecture, worksheets, or activities, the students spend the majority of their time working on art pieces. As such, facilitating an art classroom calls the teacher to different duties. Often, the "real teaching" happens when I walk around, viewing student pieces, and offer one-on-one critiques and pointers.
One of my classes was not particularly thrilled about my attention to them. Much of the class had been called away for a meeting to review test scores. Those remaining deplored my presence. One asking when their regular teacher would be back. I gave a prompt, "Never, she just had a baby." Another student chimed in saying that she (their regular teacher) never bugged them but only those who worked slowly. I reminded them that their teacher had been pregnant and not as able to wander around as usual, and I declared that I tried to give every student individual attention. She returned, "I'm not your student." I let it drop and the rest of the class went on with much apathy on the part of the students.
The following day, students began their routine in the class--retrieving drawing implements and their various papers. Many put in their headphones and selected their own music. I decided not to turn on the radio and enjoyed the silence. I wandered a little bit, but was contented that students were on task and I minimized my individualized directives. I returned to my desk, reviewing things from another class, when a student burst out with, "I need help!" His tone was not overly emotional, but a matter-of-fact, loud declaration. I could have rebuffed at his lack of manners, but instead I was amused and somewhat thankful that at least one of my students realized that I was a resource to them.
One of my classes was not particularly thrilled about my attention to them. Much of the class had been called away for a meeting to review test scores. Those remaining deplored my presence. One asking when their regular teacher would be back. I gave a prompt, "Never, she just had a baby." Another student chimed in saying that she (their regular teacher) never bugged them but only those who worked slowly. I reminded them that their teacher had been pregnant and not as able to wander around as usual, and I declared that I tried to give every student individual attention. She returned, "I'm not your student." I let it drop and the rest of the class went on with much apathy on the part of the students.
The following day, students began their routine in the class--retrieving drawing implements and their various papers. Many put in their headphones and selected their own music. I decided not to turn on the radio and enjoyed the silence. I wandered a little bit, but was contented that students were on task and I minimized my individualized directives. I returned to my desk, reviewing things from another class, when a student burst out with, "I need help!" His tone was not overly emotional, but a matter-of-fact, loud declaration. I could have rebuffed at his lack of manners, but instead I was amused and somewhat thankful that at least one of my students realized that I was a resource to them.
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
At an Iowa rest stop . . .
I'm posting this from a rest stop in Iowa. Yes, you heard me correctly. A rest stop. In Iowa. You should check the time stamp on this post. I have been led to these circumstances through strange turns of events that befit the sporadic life of all substitute teachers.
Today I taught at my former high school. (I know, the astounding statements just keep on coming!) I have accepted a long term substitute position there. Now is the time for you to think back on your k-12 experience and conjure up images of pregnant teachers. If you ever had one, you may recall the three months that your teacher went off to suckle her newborn child and some young or very old teacher came in their place. He or she was a fixture for a while, but never the real deal. I recall only one such long-term substitute in my high school Spanish 3 class. One of the students convinced her that his uncle was a conductor on a nearby train route and the entire class convinced her that we must have a Cinco de Mayo party and that we must prepare for it by spending days making paper mache pinatas.
I'll not think on that too hard, as I am now the long-term sub for 7-12 art. Accepting a long-term substitute position contingent on someone's birthing is quite the thrill. I recommend it if you want to add some spice and uncertainty to your life. Perhaps you'll receive concerned texts or emails from the teacher, wondering if she will deliver extra early. Then you will open your planner and figure out how to restructure your life so that you can make it to a teaching post over 200 miles a way at the breaking of one's water.
Yet that does not answer why I am sitting at a dark rest stop off I-35, unnerved by the state patrolman's flashing blue and red lights over by a pack of semis. On Monday this week, I missed a call from the school secretary, saying it was likely I would be needed on Wednesday due to the teacher not feeling well. Ironically, I was in Iowa at the time, but would need to fly (well, drive) to Minnesota for a Monday night engagement and to pack teacher clothes in order to teach out the rest of the week. Tuesday I conversed with the teacher and it was established that I would teach for her Wednesday-Friday, and she might resume teaching the following Monday depending on health.
This was a nice gaurantee of a few days of teaching, but it still left me on shifting ground. So I packed my car in a whirlwind and drove to my sister's to stay. This morning I went in to teach and was greeted by the news that the aforesaid teacher was in the hospital, her water having broke. Finally, some reassurance! Some sense of permanance in the midst of shifty days, accepting jobs as late as 8 or 9 in the morning, wondering where I would be and what I would see.!
Yet I am still a nomad, my bed sitting empty in Minnesota while my body sits at a rest stop in Iowa. I realized in my packing that I was to miss a house meeting wherein my housemates would discuss the times persons were moving in and out and whatnot. Knowing it was necessary for me to be at this meeting, I needed to find a place where I could access Skype. My sister's home where I have been saying is without wireless. 12 miles away is another sister's home where I will be residing soon. At present, only her husband is at home--who often goes to sleep quite early. Their wireless seeming unreasonable to access, I went to my step-family's house, however, they turn in early at night, making the possibility of accessing internet there seem like quite the intrusion. So, I thank God for the wireless internet in Iowa along I-35, and I drove to seek one out. So here I sit, blue and red lights still flashing behind me, waiting to Skype with roommates hundreds of miles away, all the while planning in the back of my mind at the excitement to be had in the art classroom on the morrow.
Today I taught at my former high school. (I know, the astounding statements just keep on coming!) I have accepted a long term substitute position there. Now is the time for you to think back on your k-12 experience and conjure up images of pregnant teachers. If you ever had one, you may recall the three months that your teacher went off to suckle her newborn child and some young or very old teacher came in their place. He or she was a fixture for a while, but never the real deal. I recall only one such long-term substitute in my high school Spanish 3 class. One of the students convinced her that his uncle was a conductor on a nearby train route and the entire class convinced her that we must have a Cinco de Mayo party and that we must prepare for it by spending days making paper mache pinatas.
I'll not think on that too hard, as I am now the long-term sub for 7-12 art. Accepting a long-term substitute position contingent on someone's birthing is quite the thrill. I recommend it if you want to add some spice and uncertainty to your life. Perhaps you'll receive concerned texts or emails from the teacher, wondering if she will deliver extra early. Then you will open your planner and figure out how to restructure your life so that you can make it to a teaching post over 200 miles a way at the breaking of one's water.
Yet that does not answer why I am sitting at a dark rest stop off I-35, unnerved by the state patrolman's flashing blue and red lights over by a pack of semis. On Monday this week, I missed a call from the school secretary, saying it was likely I would be needed on Wednesday due to the teacher not feeling well. Ironically, I was in Iowa at the time, but would need to fly (well, drive) to Minnesota for a Monday night engagement and to pack teacher clothes in order to teach out the rest of the week. Tuesday I conversed with the teacher and it was established that I would teach for her Wednesday-Friday, and she might resume teaching the following Monday depending on health.
This was a nice gaurantee of a few days of teaching, but it still left me on shifting ground. So I packed my car in a whirlwind and drove to my sister's to stay. This morning I went in to teach and was greeted by the news that the aforesaid teacher was in the hospital, her water having broke. Finally, some reassurance! Some sense of permanance in the midst of shifty days, accepting jobs as late as 8 or 9 in the morning, wondering where I would be and what I would see.!
Yet I am still a nomad, my bed sitting empty in Minnesota while my body sits at a rest stop in Iowa. I realized in my packing that I was to miss a house meeting wherein my housemates would discuss the times persons were moving in and out and whatnot. Knowing it was necessary for me to be at this meeting, I needed to find a place where I could access Skype. My sister's home where I have been saying is without wireless. 12 miles away is another sister's home where I will be residing soon. At present, only her husband is at home--who often goes to sleep quite early. Their wireless seeming unreasonable to access, I went to my step-family's house, however, they turn in early at night, making the possibility of accessing internet there seem like quite the intrusion. So, I thank God for the wireless internet in Iowa along I-35, and I drove to seek one out. So here I sit, blue and red lights still flashing behind me, waiting to Skype with roommates hundreds of miles away, all the while planning in the back of my mind at the excitement to be had in the art classroom on the morrow.
Friday, April 1, 2011
Nah, Girl!
Chaos. It is the fear of every substitute teacher to some extent. I have embraced it. I often have wondered over my even-keel self, disconcerted about how often I wasn't disconcerted, wondering if my constantly cold hands were really an indication that I had no heart. Having the emotional range of tofu in a classroom full of unruly children makes substitute teaching a little easier to stomach. However, having a classroom full of disrespectful children that you know you will be teaching again the next day does little for one's sense of hope.
I need not go into all of the antics of junior high school students and the school environment as a whole. You all have been there, and--try as you might--I daresay you haven't forgotten it. I have been so risky as to accept two consecutive days in a classroom in which I had ne'er taught in. For this pair of days, it was for a remedial reading class. I was personally asked to sub by the teacher, who had met me in passing during an AM gym duty. I accepted, and I found a few students that were quite "active" both days. One student which fell into this category was a 6th grade female, who tried to disguise her attitude in a false cloak of indifference.
I had issued intermittent reminders to her to be working after seeing her meander at her leisure to distract and chat with other students. After yet another reminder to get to her seat and get to work, she replied with a plunky, "Nah, girl."
Girl. Not "Miss S."
A student jumped on it, interjecting, "J---, you can't talk to her like that, she's a teacher."
"But she's a girl."
"She's a woman."
I love it when students do the arguing for me. I just gave a firm, "I don't mind if you forget my last name and just call me 'Miss S,' but 'girl' is an inappropriate way to address me." She shrugged it off, somewhere managing to call me girl a couple more times for good measure. She did not make it through the rest of the block of class. I sent her out--not for calling me 'girl,' but for kicking another student.
I need not go into all of the antics of junior high school students and the school environment as a whole. You all have been there, and--try as you might--I daresay you haven't forgotten it. I have been so risky as to accept two consecutive days in a classroom in which I had ne'er taught in. For this pair of days, it was for a remedial reading class. I was personally asked to sub by the teacher, who had met me in passing during an AM gym duty. I accepted, and I found a few students that were quite "active" both days. One student which fell into this category was a 6th grade female, who tried to disguise her attitude in a false cloak of indifference.
I had issued intermittent reminders to her to be working after seeing her meander at her leisure to distract and chat with other students. After yet another reminder to get to her seat and get to work, she replied with a plunky, "Nah, girl."
Girl. Not "Miss S."
A student jumped on it, interjecting, "J---, you can't talk to her like that, she's a teacher."
"But she's a girl."
"She's a woman."
I love it when students do the arguing for me. I just gave a firm, "I don't mind if you forget my last name and just call me 'Miss S,' but 'girl' is an inappropriate way to address me." She shrugged it off, somewhere managing to call me girl a couple more times for good measure. She did not make it through the rest of the block of class. I sent her out--not for calling me 'girl,' but for kicking another student.
Monday, March 21, 2011
Employee Perks
I recently attended employee orientation for yet another district (I alluded to this in "A Slow Morning in the Library"). The orientation defied my expectations, and it was geared more towards sharing the vision of the district and inspiring employees rather than focusing merely on the substitute teacher's paperwork and responsibilities.
I have yet to sub in this district, but I have begun to take advantage of employee perks--namely their wellness program. As part of the program, they offer some afternoon classes--yoga, cardio kickboxing, and zumba at present. Last Monday, I enjoyed sweating as I undertook cardio kickboxing. Before me was a wall mirror and behind a dispersion of middle aged women--mostly teachers--engaged in uppercuts and sidekicks. Having enjoyed this experience, I decided I would partake again on Monday. I woke up and taught 7th grade language arts (I was expecting 8th, but apparently that was a false impression). The day went well, with minor incidents and students mostly on task.
Returning home, I refused to let myself depart ridiculously early for the zumba class. Leaving at a more "appropriate" time, I headed towards a neighborhood I had been to many times before, and I began my search for the elementary school. Watching street names carefully, I could not locate my turn. My clock continued to tick and the radio voices blurred together as I began to fume in my frustration. I wondered what I would do if I actually found the school. Would I actually join the class late? Probably not, and yet I wanted to satisfy my desire to find the school at least. I became angry, and angrier still at my anger. I thought, this could be an opportunity to pray for this neighborhood. I uttered a sentence before winding by "Jolly Rd" and felt that some sick joke was occurring.
I then determined to return closer to home and go for a run at a lake I hadn't run at since summer. I pulled in the parking lot, took off my coat, and headed for the trail sans mp3 player. With the of my huffing and the dull and wet colors of Minnesota spring around, I gave full reign to my musings. I quickly disposed of my frustration over not finding the class, instead turning my thoughts to teaching. My arms were pale as the wilted white oak leaves below and my hands were flushed as I considered my situation. I berated myself for not being thankful for the opportunity of employment as a sub, for being so choosy in which kind of teaching jobs I accepted, for refusing to do special ed or para work. I soon had rounded a large section of the lake, and turned towards a second--wondering if there was one lake or two. As I approached forks, I continuously veered left in my counter-clockwise direction, unsure how far I had gone and would go. My sense of distance and time both dissolving like the snow which melted all around.
I know not how many miles I ran, but with each step, each choice to go further, I felt that I was doing some sort of penance, for anger, for ingratitude, for unfaithfulness. I thought of how eagerly I accepted a job babysitting on Friday, knowing it would replace a substitute teaching experience. I thought of the unemployed in this nation and I thought of the growing obesity, of the junk food I saw my students constantly eating. And I ran, climbing hills, catching glimpses of the bordering serpentine lake--still unsure whether it was indeed one lake or three. I yielded my musings to God and to the physical strain, finally able to recognize where I was again--previously having had all trees and snow and leaves meld into indistinct forms. About 3/4 of a mile before the end of my run, I saw a man standing with his bike on the trail. I tried to avoid his gaze as I passed, and he whispered, "there's a bald eagle in that tree." Turning and still running in place, I looked up. I recognized the form, though its bald head was hidden in it's wings. I thought of the hawk I often see perched on the same street lamp on 610 East right before the 252 exit. Today I had glanced it after my frustrated driving, and I felt something like redemption.
I continued to my car, veering off for a cool down walk onto the dock, the melting lake revealing cigarette buts and beer cans below. At the end of the dock I gazed at the tiny bubbles forming where ice met recently melted water. I walked back to my car, wondering at those who sat motionless in their cars contemplating the lake under a hazy sky, wondered if they were looking for redemption, and rolling down my window, I drove home.
I have yet to sub in this district, but I have begun to take advantage of employee perks--namely their wellness program. As part of the program, they offer some afternoon classes--yoga, cardio kickboxing, and zumba at present. Last Monday, I enjoyed sweating as I undertook cardio kickboxing. Before me was a wall mirror and behind a dispersion of middle aged women--mostly teachers--engaged in uppercuts and sidekicks. Having enjoyed this experience, I decided I would partake again on Monday. I woke up and taught 7th grade language arts (I was expecting 8th, but apparently that was a false impression). The day went well, with minor incidents and students mostly on task.
Returning home, I refused to let myself depart ridiculously early for the zumba class. Leaving at a more "appropriate" time, I headed towards a neighborhood I had been to many times before, and I began my search for the elementary school. Watching street names carefully, I could not locate my turn. My clock continued to tick and the radio voices blurred together as I began to fume in my frustration. I wondered what I would do if I actually found the school. Would I actually join the class late? Probably not, and yet I wanted to satisfy my desire to find the school at least. I became angry, and angrier still at my anger. I thought, this could be an opportunity to pray for this neighborhood. I uttered a sentence before winding by "Jolly Rd" and felt that some sick joke was occurring.
I then determined to return closer to home and go for a run at a lake I hadn't run at since summer. I pulled in the parking lot, took off my coat, and headed for the trail sans mp3 player. With the of my huffing and the dull and wet colors of Minnesota spring around, I gave full reign to my musings. I quickly disposed of my frustration over not finding the class, instead turning my thoughts to teaching. My arms were pale as the wilted white oak leaves below and my hands were flushed as I considered my situation. I berated myself for not being thankful for the opportunity of employment as a sub, for being so choosy in which kind of teaching jobs I accepted, for refusing to do special ed or para work. I soon had rounded a large section of the lake, and turned towards a second--wondering if there was one lake or two. As I approached forks, I continuously veered left in my counter-clockwise direction, unsure how far I had gone and would go. My sense of distance and time both dissolving like the snow which melted all around.
I know not how many miles I ran, but with each step, each choice to go further, I felt that I was doing some sort of penance, for anger, for ingratitude, for unfaithfulness. I thought of how eagerly I accepted a job babysitting on Friday, knowing it would replace a substitute teaching experience. I thought of the unemployed in this nation and I thought of the growing obesity, of the junk food I saw my students constantly eating. And I ran, climbing hills, catching glimpses of the bordering serpentine lake--still unsure whether it was indeed one lake or three. I yielded my musings to God and to the physical strain, finally able to recognize where I was again--previously having had all trees and snow and leaves meld into indistinct forms. About 3/4 of a mile before the end of my run, I saw a man standing with his bike on the trail. I tried to avoid his gaze as I passed, and he whispered, "there's a bald eagle in that tree." Turning and still running in place, I looked up. I recognized the form, though its bald head was hidden in it's wings. I thought of the hawk I often see perched on the same street lamp on 610 East right before the 252 exit. Today I had glanced it after my frustrated driving, and I felt something like redemption.
I continued to my car, veering off for a cool down walk onto the dock, the melting lake revealing cigarette buts and beer cans below. At the end of the dock I gazed at the tiny bubbles forming where ice met recently melted water. I walked back to my car, wondering at those who sat motionless in their cars contemplating the lake under a hazy sky, wondered if they were looking for redemption, and rolling down my window, I drove home.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
The Rise and Fall of the Substitute Teacher
Don't walk out of here looking defeated. I tried to encourage myself as much as possible after a first grade teacher witnessed me standing in the middle of an art room, surrounded by a whir of first graders in various stages of putting on coats, cleaning (or rather NOT cleaning) their spaces, and chattering happily to each other. It was time for them to go to the bus and they were not ready. A couple hallways and minutes later, I asked the same teacher for some clarification on bus duty and she, after joining me outside, practically took over the duty as I watched teachers and students avoid the puddle dominating the sidewalk and choose between walking through mud-saturated grass or ice-saturated snow.
Little did I know that that would be the first of many trials in substitute teaching last week. Classroom management. The two cryptic words which encapsulate so much for any teacher or student. As I think back to Thursday, the specific students and incidents blur together into the emotion of frustration and defeat. I was teaching art at a junior high school. All day, junior high boys made flat refusals to by instructions, swearing under their breath, dryly declaring that they don't care how their behavior affects their classmates, clenching fists and huffing, or swearing at me and turning quickly as if they could escape the consequences. As one class of 33+ filed out and the next filed in, the behaviors continued. Markers constantly thrown, students unyielding, talking-talking-talking, and always moving.
I left the school discouraged--especially since I knew I was returning the next day--and determined that I had to run. This emotional coping strategy has been with me since I was in junior high, and typically I have run to deal with anger, but having run also to mourn, fume, or lament. I walked into my house, immediately changed, grabbed my mp3 player and began pounding the pavement. My mp3 player uttered calm melodies, and I let them be calm--waiting about a mile before I switched it to The Gossip.
And as I ran, I mused. I thought of the discipline structure at the school--each part of the chain of consequences involved removing the student from the learning environment. Let's say that Fernando just can't keep a lid on his mouth and prefers to stand or wander rather than sit. Daily he is punished/disciplined by being removed from the learning--first for 30 seconds, then for 5 minutes, then to another classroom, and then finally removed entirely from the class. Each time, he gets further and further behind in his work and each time it is harder for him to catch on. The work becomes more difficult--decreasing his motivation to behave and increasing the negative behaviors. I picked up the pace as I saw the helplessness of this spiral. I thought of Fernando acting out in high school until he dropped out at sixteen--remembering the atrocious drop out rates in urban areas of my community. I then thought of my other students--the on-task students. Whether gifted or not, their pace of learning is constantly being affected by the outbursts of their fellow students. Having 33 students in a classroom, I may be trying to root out why a student is acting out by talking one-one-one with that student. During that time, one student asks me for a pass to the nurse, another to the bathroom, another has a question on the assignment, and in the distance I see Michael and Tony throwing markers at each other. And I continued to run and to lament over this broken system. I lamented that I was tempted to spend more time subbing in the suburbs instead just because I have found the students more behaved and on task.
There is some redemption to this story. I had to go back to the school Friday--the last day before their spring break. Reflecting again on how I could be faithful to these students, I began to formulate a plan. I had read an anecdote on Thursday about oranges--sometimes the ones that look the most perfect are dry, flavorful, and stringy. And sometimes, it is the most despised of oranges that houses the most delicious fruit. I thought of my students and prayed that I would not be a respecter of persons--that I would not judge on appearances. I walked into the school hopeful. A couple staff recognized me and asked how I was or gave me surprised gazes because I had returned to that school.
I entered the classroom and planned. I used the white board to create visuals and opening activities to engage the students. I wrote up expectations and an agenda for the day. I thought of how I would introduce myself to sound more human and developed a reward structure for class behavior. By the end of second hour, I used accents with students (6th graders are so easily impressed) and gave some students the promised reward, knowledge of my first name, and they were again impressed. In some small way, I had a victory. I smiled when talking and spent extra time getting to know students rather than trying to intimidate them into better behavior. Maybe I should have called this the "Fall and Rise" rather than "Rise and Fall," however I know that I will have many more falls, and I'm okay with that.
Little did I know that that would be the first of many trials in substitute teaching last week. Classroom management. The two cryptic words which encapsulate so much for any teacher or student. As I think back to Thursday, the specific students and incidents blur together into the emotion of frustration and defeat. I was teaching art at a junior high school. All day, junior high boys made flat refusals to by instructions, swearing under their breath, dryly declaring that they don't care how their behavior affects their classmates, clenching fists and huffing, or swearing at me and turning quickly as if they could escape the consequences. As one class of 33+ filed out and the next filed in, the behaviors continued. Markers constantly thrown, students unyielding, talking-talking-talking, and always moving.
I left the school discouraged--especially since I knew I was returning the next day--and determined that I had to run. This emotional coping strategy has been with me since I was in junior high, and typically I have run to deal with anger, but having run also to mourn, fume, or lament. I walked into my house, immediately changed, grabbed my mp3 player and began pounding the pavement. My mp3 player uttered calm melodies, and I let them be calm--waiting about a mile before I switched it to The Gossip.
And as I ran, I mused. I thought of the discipline structure at the school--each part of the chain of consequences involved removing the student from the learning environment. Let's say that Fernando just can't keep a lid on his mouth and prefers to stand or wander rather than sit. Daily he is punished/disciplined by being removed from the learning--first for 30 seconds, then for 5 minutes, then to another classroom, and then finally removed entirely from the class. Each time, he gets further and further behind in his work and each time it is harder for him to catch on. The work becomes more difficult--decreasing his motivation to behave and increasing the negative behaviors. I picked up the pace as I saw the helplessness of this spiral. I thought of Fernando acting out in high school until he dropped out at sixteen--remembering the atrocious drop out rates in urban areas of my community. I then thought of my other students--the on-task students. Whether gifted or not, their pace of learning is constantly being affected by the outbursts of their fellow students. Having 33 students in a classroom, I may be trying to root out why a student is acting out by talking one-one-one with that student. During that time, one student asks me for a pass to the nurse, another to the bathroom, another has a question on the assignment, and in the distance I see Michael and Tony throwing markers at each other. And I continued to run and to lament over this broken system. I lamented that I was tempted to spend more time subbing in the suburbs instead just because I have found the students more behaved and on task.
There is some redemption to this story. I had to go back to the school Friday--the last day before their spring break. Reflecting again on how I could be faithful to these students, I began to formulate a plan. I had read an anecdote on Thursday about oranges--sometimes the ones that look the most perfect are dry, flavorful, and stringy. And sometimes, it is the most despised of oranges that houses the most delicious fruit. I thought of my students and prayed that I would not be a respecter of persons--that I would not judge on appearances. I walked into the school hopeful. A couple staff recognized me and asked how I was or gave me surprised gazes because I had returned to that school.
I entered the classroom and planned. I used the white board to create visuals and opening activities to engage the students. I wrote up expectations and an agenda for the day. I thought of how I would introduce myself to sound more human and developed a reward structure for class behavior. By the end of second hour, I used accents with students (6th graders are so easily impressed) and gave some students the promised reward, knowledge of my first name, and they were again impressed. In some small way, I had a victory. I smiled when talking and spent extra time getting to know students rather than trying to intimidate them into better behavior. Maybe I should have called this the "Fall and Rise" rather than "Rise and Fall," however I know that I will have many more falls, and I'm okay with that.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Quick Thinking
In order to be a successful substitute teacher, you must be able to think on your feet and make quick decisions. (Note that I am not necessarily declaring this as a successful substitute teacher.) Without quick thinking, a sub will not know what to do when a given activity completely flops, when the worksheets haven't been provided, when the student declares, "this is what we always do." As a sub, I must quickly flesh out parts of lesson plans that are vague or respond to unique behavior issues.
I have frequently mentioned the automated system that gives me jobs each day. If I hesitate in accepting jobs online, it is likely that they will quickly be snatched up by another sub. If decision-making is not instantaneous, there are plenty of other teachers eager for a job. I had been contemplating not subbing tomorrow. Not that I have anything to do tomorrow, I just didn't feel like it (I sound like my students now) and I knew that I had a full-time position for Thursday and Friday already. However, as stated previously, I've been meditating on faithfulness. So, since arriving home from my half day in an 8th grade science class, I've been refreshing the jobs page to see potential positions.
As I looked at the page, I saw two words "world languages," beckoning. Let me begin by saying that I am not bilingual. I have dabbled in a few languages (some Chinese lessons, three years high school Spanish, currently studying Czech) but I am fluent in English alone. This was the thought that came to me after the wave of attraction subsided from the words "world languages." Yet, it's a job. Feeling unqualified for this position, I began contemplating how this system works.
Substitute teachers can sub in more than their own subject area, as evidenced by my recent teaching in band, vocal music, engineering, science, and so forth. Teachers know that they aren't necessarily going to get a sub in their specified field. When I subbed for vocal music, the teacher was glad I was at least in the fine arts field rather than a generic elementary. Because my license is K-12, I can teach (and have taught) in an ordinary elementary classroom or in a very specific high school classroom. Teachers know this, and they plan accordingly--whether that means simplifying a lesson or generating a new lesson just for a sub. Because the purpose of the substitute is to ensure the continuation of the students' learning, teachers will and do seek out subs they know can get things done in their classroom, but this teacher had not asked anyone specific. The world languages teacher had the job posted onto the website . . .
As I looked at the world languages posting, I continually refreshed the page, partially hoping that someone would snatch up the job as a divine sign that I shouldn't take the job. Yet it remained, and I thought, at what other time would I have an opportunity to just try out a world languages class and see what it even is? So I did it. I clicked "Accept."
Cheers to substituting. This time tomorrow I will be arriving at home, having had a new experience in a "dual immersion language arts" middle school classroom.
I have frequently mentioned the automated system that gives me jobs each day. If I hesitate in accepting jobs online, it is likely that they will quickly be snatched up by another sub. If decision-making is not instantaneous, there are plenty of other teachers eager for a job. I had been contemplating not subbing tomorrow. Not that I have anything to do tomorrow, I just didn't feel like it (I sound like my students now) and I knew that I had a full-time position for Thursday and Friday already. However, as stated previously, I've been meditating on faithfulness. So, since arriving home from my half day in an 8th grade science class, I've been refreshing the jobs page to see potential positions.
As I looked at the page, I saw two words "world languages," beckoning. Let me begin by saying that I am not bilingual. I have dabbled in a few languages (some Chinese lessons, three years high school Spanish, currently studying Czech) but I am fluent in English alone. This was the thought that came to me after the wave of attraction subsided from the words "world languages." Yet, it's a job. Feeling unqualified for this position, I began contemplating how this system works.
Substitute teachers can sub in more than their own subject area, as evidenced by my recent teaching in band, vocal music, engineering, science, and so forth. Teachers know that they aren't necessarily going to get a sub in their specified field. When I subbed for vocal music, the teacher was glad I was at least in the fine arts field rather than a generic elementary. Because my license is K-12, I can teach (and have taught) in an ordinary elementary classroom or in a very specific high school classroom. Teachers know this, and they plan accordingly--whether that means simplifying a lesson or generating a new lesson just for a sub. Because the purpose of the substitute is to ensure the continuation of the students' learning, teachers will and do seek out subs they know can get things done in their classroom, but this teacher had not asked anyone specific. The world languages teacher had the job posted onto the website . . .
As I looked at the world languages posting, I continually refreshed the page, partially hoping that someone would snatch up the job as a divine sign that I shouldn't take the job. Yet it remained, and I thought, at what other time would I have an opportunity to just try out a world languages class and see what it even is? So I did it. I clicked "Accept."
Cheers to substituting. This time tomorrow I will be arriving at home, having had a new experience in a "dual immersion language arts" middle school classroom.
Monday, March 14, 2011
A poor prophet, but (hopefully) a better teacher
Here I sit: dressed, fed, and ready for the day. If only I was in this same condition an hour ago.
The last week or so, I have noticed a change in my sleep patterns. I have been going to bed early (around 10 PM), stirring around 3 AM, and often getting up with the first sub call around 5:30 AM. This has held even on days that my sub job does not begin until 7:45 or later. Over the weekend, I worked overnight asleep shifts at my other job, and the pattern of early waking continued.
This morning, I woke to my alarm at 6 AM, and I realized that I had yet to get a call from the automated system. Due to spring break in some districts, I figured there would not be jobs available, and resolved to allow myself to sleep longer. My first call came at 6:50 AM--a half day job in art! I pressed 2 to listen to the job again (lest my ears deceive me) and then accepted. Knowing it didn't begin until after noon, I thought I'd return to my slumber.
Ring went the phone six minutes later. High school science, half day, beginning at 7:30 AM. Looking at the clock, I realized it would be nearly impossible to look up directions to the school, make myself presentable, and get to the school on time. So I rejected the job while getting up.
My alarm goes off at 6 AM Monday through Friday so I can get myself ready in anticipation for an event such as the above. I have been thinking lately about faithfulness, and wanting to exercise it in all areas of my life. In particular, I have been thinking of faithfulness in regards to personal gifts. I know that I have been gifted in art and teaching, and I want to be faithful with those gifts. Yesterday I had been thinking about faithfulness in subbing as serving the students to the best of my ability in every classroom I enter. This morning, I felt unfaithful by not getting up and ready in anticipation for a potential job. Rather, I became a person of hopelessness, deceiving myself into the impossibility of getting a substitute job today. There were, however, opportunities to teach, even to teach a whole day. I will begrudge the situation no further, but be thankful for the opportunity to teach in my specialty area this afternoon.
The last week or so, I have noticed a change in my sleep patterns. I have been going to bed early (around 10 PM), stirring around 3 AM, and often getting up with the first sub call around 5:30 AM. This has held even on days that my sub job does not begin until 7:45 or later. Over the weekend, I worked overnight asleep shifts at my other job, and the pattern of early waking continued.
This morning, I woke to my alarm at 6 AM, and I realized that I had yet to get a call from the automated system. Due to spring break in some districts, I figured there would not be jobs available, and resolved to allow myself to sleep longer. My first call came at 6:50 AM--a half day job in art! I pressed 2 to listen to the job again (lest my ears deceive me) and then accepted. Knowing it didn't begin until after noon, I thought I'd return to my slumber.
Ring went the phone six minutes later. High school science, half day, beginning at 7:30 AM. Looking at the clock, I realized it would be nearly impossible to look up directions to the school, make myself presentable, and get to the school on time. So I rejected the job while getting up.
My alarm goes off at 6 AM Monday through Friday so I can get myself ready in anticipation for an event such as the above. I have been thinking lately about faithfulness, and wanting to exercise it in all areas of my life. In particular, I have been thinking of faithfulness in regards to personal gifts. I know that I have been gifted in art and teaching, and I want to be faithful with those gifts. Yesterday I had been thinking about faithfulness in subbing as serving the students to the best of my ability in every classroom I enter. This morning, I felt unfaithful by not getting up and ready in anticipation for a potential job. Rather, I became a person of hopelessness, deceiving myself into the impossibility of getting a substitute job today. There were, however, opportunities to teach, even to teach a whole day. I will begrudge the situation no further, but be thankful for the opportunity to teach in my specialty area this afternoon.
Saturday, March 12, 2011
Labrynths and Walkouts
Friday did not end with junior high band. I dashed home for lunch prior to heading to a high school to teach biology. I knew I was close as I began to see bumper-to-bumper parking along the city streets. I quickly joined suit and began walking towards the school. I could see by the white "15" above the nearest door that it was not the main entrance. Fifteen is quite a large number, and I began walking towards the increasing numbers, thinking I would be at the main entrance soon. I rounded a corner and continued to walk, spotting school brick on the next city block. Surely the school couldn't continue onto the next city block? It didn't, though it filled its own block and spread upward with its multiple floors. After striding past door 19, the main entrance came in sight. I found the main office and then my classroom.
The afternoon's nemesis was to be technology. I already knew that I had to show videos in the classes (not my favorite, but simple enough), and I saw that the DVD player was attached to the computer and I would need to sign in--or someone would need to--in order for me to project the DVD. I quickly called for assistance. After being redirected, a tech guy told me that I should use my login. Well, somewhere along the line, I never received my district login information (a task for Monday). After talking with him, he gave me what ought to be my login, and some hints as to the password. Striding across the room, I uttered a prayer, unsure whether I even knew the answers to the tech man's hints. As I was within arms reach of the computer, I heard a noise and swiveled my head. Lo and behold, the classroom teacher entered. She had been at the school in the morning and was departing for the afternoon. She signed in to the computer and gave me some further information prior to departing.
The classes were rather unremarkable. There were friendly students, to be sure, but the film was only able to hold their interest in waves. During my first class, a student asked me if I were a student-teacher. That same hour another student asked me if I was a "real" teacher. When she continued questioning and found out that I don't have a permanent teaching position aside from substituting, I think I negated my answer.
The next class, a rather talkative student reached out his hand to me and introduced himself. Not thinking, I introduced myself by my first name--as I typically do with adults who offer handshakes. He reacted immediately, complimenting my "real" name. The rest of the class was pretty ordinary, the aforementioned student did question me later in the class, wondering if I'd memorized all the student names. Apparently I had used enough of the names that I remembered from taking attendance to impress.
I went to the office prior to the last period--the teacher I was subbing for didn't have a last hour class. En route, I heard a student in the hall exclaim, "Man, my substitute today was a b****." I chastised him (hiding my substitute teacher badge as I passed). As I continued on, I heard utterings of a walkout among the students. By the time I got to the office, staff were communicating about students crowding outside. As I neared the school exit, I saw stern-faced staff, urging students to leave if they were going to and to not come back. One student uttered, "a lot of kids probably don't even know what we're doing." As I descended the stairs, I saw the alley before me crowded with students--as if on a pilgrimage. In the journey toward my car, I saw scattered groups of students as well as a police car circling the school. I'm not sure what spurred the walkout, but then again, I'm just a substitute.
The afternoon's nemesis was to be technology. I already knew that I had to show videos in the classes (not my favorite, but simple enough), and I saw that the DVD player was attached to the computer and I would need to sign in--or someone would need to--in order for me to project the DVD. I quickly called for assistance. After being redirected, a tech guy told me that I should use my login. Well, somewhere along the line, I never received my district login information (a task for Monday). After talking with him, he gave me what ought to be my login, and some hints as to the password. Striding across the room, I uttered a prayer, unsure whether I even knew the answers to the tech man's hints. As I was within arms reach of the computer, I heard a noise and swiveled my head. Lo and behold, the classroom teacher entered. She had been at the school in the morning and was departing for the afternoon. She signed in to the computer and gave me some further information prior to departing.
The classes were rather unremarkable. There were friendly students, to be sure, but the film was only able to hold their interest in waves. During my first class, a student asked me if I were a student-teacher. That same hour another student asked me if I was a "real" teacher. When she continued questioning and found out that I don't have a permanent teaching position aside from substituting, I think I negated my answer.
The next class, a rather talkative student reached out his hand to me and introduced himself. Not thinking, I introduced myself by my first name--as I typically do with adults who offer handshakes. He reacted immediately, complimenting my "real" name. The rest of the class was pretty ordinary, the aforementioned student did question me later in the class, wondering if I'd memorized all the student names. Apparently I had used enough of the names that I remembered from taking attendance to impress.
I went to the office prior to the last period--the teacher I was subbing for didn't have a last hour class. En route, I heard a student in the hall exclaim, "Man, my substitute today was a b****." I chastised him (hiding my substitute teacher badge as I passed). As I continued on, I heard utterings of a walkout among the students. By the time I got to the office, staff were communicating about students crowding outside. As I neared the school exit, I saw stern-faced staff, urging students to leave if they were going to and to not come back. One student uttered, "a lot of kids probably don't even know what we're doing." As I descended the stairs, I saw the alley before me crowded with students--as if on a pilgrimage. In the journey toward my car, I saw scattered groups of students as well as a police car circling the school. I'm not sure what spurred the walkout, but then again, I'm just a substitute.
Friday, March 11, 2011
Reading Left to Right
Well, it's happened, I thought, standing in dim light, overlooking the carpeted, tiered band room. The room and stage were empty--of noise, of students, and of light. No lesson plans. What am I going to do? I don't even know how long the classes are or which grades I'll have. I wracked my brain, grateful that I'd arrived extra early, pacing the room for inspiration, for something that would engage the students for a given hour but that would also be concrete, valuable strides forward in their music study. At 7:55 AM, a student walked in, and I feared that it was my first student of the day. He asked if I was the sub--it was then that I noted the crisp, white, freshly-printed pages in his hand. I eagerly took them--class lists AND sub notes. I was saved--somewhat. Two classes--7th/8th grade band and 6th grade band. 8 students in the former and 14 in the latter. I couldn't believe my eyes; I've become accustomed to thirty-student classes. I recheked to see if they'd missed something. They hadn't. That was truly the size of the classes. I soon found out why.
First hour, the students were slow to pull out their music and put their instruments together. The percussionists hardly even played--for which I learned to be grateful. The students were friendly, and I allowed a little off-topic banter though some talk I didn't know how to respond to. As I was helping a clarinetist identify the notes in her music, her friend--an inactive percussionist--declared, "I like your stomach." Dumbfounded, I didn't know whether to respond with some reassuring words regarding her body image or to engage in a conversation about the benefits of a healthy lifestyle. I chose no response as the wisest course, and I allowed my attention to be turned back to the music.
I continued to help decipher the notes for students, and I moved on to assist a trumpeter. At the beginning of the hour, we had chatted about Asia, particularly about Japan's earthquake and her trip to the United Arab Emirates. Now, the loquacious girl and I were singing through the rhythms on her music. She followed along with her finger--reading right to left. I showed her that the music read left to right and began singing it with her. I realized that not only was she memorizing the notes as we read (based on the annotation), she also couldn't tell the difference between a dotted quarter note and a half note. The trumpeter next to her was willing to finger through the parts, but refused to play a single note in the class--something his friend (an inactive percussionist) reported as regular course.
So class came and went. The students were pleasant--if not entirely on task--but soon it was time for the sixth graders to arrive. It was about 30 seconds before I realized I had runners on my hand. Back and forth across the fifty-yard span of the band room, one rummer continuously relayed objects from the back room to the stage. There were to be fourteen kids in my class and only eleven showed up. (Today was snow-day make-up.) Seven were percussionists. Simultaneously runners and percussionists. Stage to backstage. Back room to stairs to door to stage to backstage to seat across stage and repeat. When the feet were still, the drumsticks were not. I had four woodwinds (three clarinetists and one flutist). Two of my three clarinetists refused to play due to broken reeds. One proceeded to the back room and reported that the box of reeds was empty. The flutist would not play until after I helped her write out the "letters." I asked if she wanted me to help her with her notes. "No, I just want the letters." As I helped her, she commented, "You smell like powder."
Again unsure how to respond, I said, "Is that a good thing or a bad thing?"
"Powder smells good. It's a good thing. You know, like, baby powder. You smell like baby powder." She continued to marvel at me as I quickly wrote in her "letters" so that rehearsal could be continued. She wondered how on earth I knew what the notes were. Had the percussionists not been so eagerly prodding each other with their drumsticks and running laps, I might have taken the time to review the staff with her, you know F-A-C-E, et cetera, those things I remember learning in elementary school.
Halfway through the class, a percussionist ran to the back room and retrieved two reeds. I was flabbergasted, looking at the demure sixth-grader who had uttered a lie so boldly and so blank-faced.
The rehearsal was a challenge to say the least. One of my runners would run whenever my eyes weren't on him. From his chair to stage left. Center stage. Auditorium floor. Behind the steps. Behind the stacked chairs. Back stage. Amidst the curtains. I directed half of the "Hey Song" staring at him, keeping time, but cuing in no instruments. (Only one clarinetist and four drummers were playing anyhow--and the drummers without music.)
When I dismissed the students to put their instruments away, two of the girls that had remained silent the entire period went off. "I can't believe how disrespectful you guys are bein." And so on. At the end of the hour, a teacher/member of staff came in and redirected a student that had been launching himself over a mounted handrail. I'm not sure who this man was, but his presence made me feel inadequate.
I often wonder what the real goal of a substitute should be. Substitute teachers help kids learn through ensuring continuation of education when their regular educators are absent. Or at least, they should. Many bring in the perspective that if a sub got through the day and the kids are safe, that the day was successful. I disagree. This morning's experience (I went to a high school for the afternoon) definitely felt more like a "survive" instance than a "thrive" instance; however, I can sit at home peaceably, knowing that one loquacious seventh grader now knows that sheet music reads from left to right.
First hour, the students were slow to pull out their music and put their instruments together. The percussionists hardly even played--for which I learned to be grateful. The students were friendly, and I allowed a little off-topic banter though some talk I didn't know how to respond to. As I was helping a clarinetist identify the notes in her music, her friend--an inactive percussionist--declared, "I like your stomach." Dumbfounded, I didn't know whether to respond with some reassuring words regarding her body image or to engage in a conversation about the benefits of a healthy lifestyle. I chose no response as the wisest course, and I allowed my attention to be turned back to the music.
I continued to help decipher the notes for students, and I moved on to assist a trumpeter. At the beginning of the hour, we had chatted about Asia, particularly about Japan's earthquake and her trip to the United Arab Emirates. Now, the loquacious girl and I were singing through the rhythms on her music. She followed along with her finger--reading right to left. I showed her that the music read left to right and began singing it with her. I realized that not only was she memorizing the notes as we read (based on the annotation), she also couldn't tell the difference between a dotted quarter note and a half note. The trumpeter next to her was willing to finger through the parts, but refused to play a single note in the class--something his friend (an inactive percussionist) reported as regular course.
So class came and went. The students were pleasant--if not entirely on task--but soon it was time for the sixth graders to arrive. It was about 30 seconds before I realized I had runners on my hand. Back and forth across the fifty-yard span of the band room, one rummer continuously relayed objects from the back room to the stage. There were to be fourteen kids in my class and only eleven showed up. (Today was snow-day make-up.) Seven were percussionists. Simultaneously runners and percussionists. Stage to backstage. Back room to stairs to door to stage to backstage to seat across stage and repeat. When the feet were still, the drumsticks were not. I had four woodwinds (three clarinetists and one flutist). Two of my three clarinetists refused to play due to broken reeds. One proceeded to the back room and reported that the box of reeds was empty. The flutist would not play until after I helped her write out the "letters." I asked if she wanted me to help her with her notes. "No, I just want the letters." As I helped her, she commented, "You smell like powder."
Again unsure how to respond, I said, "Is that a good thing or a bad thing?"
"Powder smells good. It's a good thing. You know, like, baby powder. You smell like baby powder." She continued to marvel at me as I quickly wrote in her "letters" so that rehearsal could be continued. She wondered how on earth I knew what the notes were. Had the percussionists not been so eagerly prodding each other with their drumsticks and running laps, I might have taken the time to review the staff with her, you know F-A-C-E, et cetera, those things I remember learning in elementary school.
Halfway through the class, a percussionist ran to the back room and retrieved two reeds. I was flabbergasted, looking at the demure sixth-grader who had uttered a lie so boldly and so blank-faced.
The rehearsal was a challenge to say the least. One of my runners would run whenever my eyes weren't on him. From his chair to stage left. Center stage. Auditorium floor. Behind the steps. Behind the stacked chairs. Back stage. Amidst the curtains. I directed half of the "Hey Song" staring at him, keeping time, but cuing in no instruments. (Only one clarinetist and four drummers were playing anyhow--and the drummers without music.)
When I dismissed the students to put their instruments away, two of the girls that had remained silent the entire period went off. "I can't believe how disrespectful you guys are bein." And so on. At the end of the hour, a teacher/member of staff came in and redirected a student that had been launching himself over a mounted handrail. I'm not sure who this man was, but his presence made me feel inadequate.
I often wonder what the real goal of a substitute should be. Substitute teachers help kids learn through ensuring continuation of education when their regular educators are absent. Or at least, they should. Many bring in the perspective that if a sub got through the day and the kids are safe, that the day was successful. I disagree. This morning's experience (I went to a high school for the afternoon) definitely felt more like a "survive" instance than a "thrive" instance; however, I can sit at home peaceably, knowing that one loquacious seventh grader now knows that sheet music reads from left to right.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
A Slow Morning in the Library
It's spring break. Somewhere. I sub in multiple districts, and not all of the districts have the same spring break week. This means that subbing selections at present are paltry. Let's say only two metro area districts are on spring break right now. Let's also assume that I am not the only teacher in the metro area which is employed by multiple districts. Given the two above assumptions, we are left with a lot of subs that still want to work and less available postings. As such, I have only worked two half days subbing so far this week: music and 2nd grade. Yesterday I deliberately took off, today--undeliberately.
So I still got up a little after 6 AM and began a productive morning. This afternoon I am going to orientation for yet another district, so I had to print off some paperwork to fill out. Not owning a printer, I ventured to the library and was surprised to see a group of about 25 people waiting in the library's foyer. My disorientation was compounded by being accosted by a gentlemen who swore that he had met me somewhere before. I denied the aquaintance--truthfully--and then proceeded to check my watch. 9:57 AM. I was part of the crowd waiting for the library to open. So I joined the crowd and calmly watched the divider rise and the bookworms scramble through. It was quite anticlimactic really. I returned Jhumpa Lahiri's Unaccustomed Earth, printed the necessary forms (W-4, I-9, background check, direct deposit--the works) and then ventured to hunt down some Buechner.
Presently, I ought to return to my paperwork, so I am prepared for the 3.5 hours I will spend this afternoon in an orientation that will probably be strangely similar to four orientations I have already attended. I might sneak in a small knitting project and assess the tone of the meeting before pulling it out . . .
So I still got up a little after 6 AM and began a productive morning. This afternoon I am going to orientation for yet another district, so I had to print off some paperwork to fill out. Not owning a printer, I ventured to the library and was surprised to see a group of about 25 people waiting in the library's foyer. My disorientation was compounded by being accosted by a gentlemen who swore that he had met me somewhere before. I denied the aquaintance--truthfully--and then proceeded to check my watch. 9:57 AM. I was part of the crowd waiting for the library to open. So I joined the crowd and calmly watched the divider rise and the bookworms scramble through. It was quite anticlimactic really. I returned Jhumpa Lahiri's Unaccustomed Earth, printed the necessary forms (W-4, I-9, background check, direct deposit--the works) and then ventured to hunt down some Buechner.
Presently, I ought to return to my paperwork, so I am prepared for the 3.5 hours I will spend this afternoon in an orientation that will probably be strangely similar to four orientations I have already attended. I might sneak in a small knitting project and assess the tone of the meeting before pulling it out . . .
Monday, March 7, 2011
Elementary Music
Last night I agreed to pick up a roommate from the airport, mentally stashing the 2:08 PM arrival time. I was happy to do so, thinking this was yet another example of how lovely the flexibility of substitute teaching can be. I arrived home and pulled up the sub postings for Monday--disappointed to see a full day art position lasting till 3:30 PM. Still convinced my going to the airport was a wise choice, I changed my availability for today, and at 6:15 AM I accepted a half day teaching elementary music--unsure what was in store.
By the time I was in my car, I was grinning at the prospect. The classroom was white and bare. Some posters were scattered about, but the white tiles seemed to bleach the entire room with the exception of the bright orange and purple textbooks which glowed from their shelves. While surveying the room, I dialed the regular music teacher and received sub plans. I was to teach fifth, second, and fourth grade, utilizing those glowing textbooks which reminded me so much of my own elementary music experience.
My fifth graders were a perfect picture of the various ways 10-year-old's act while entering adolescence. There was the over-confident girl who happily sang out her parts and was quick to criticize others (this girl also complimented my hair and asked to touch it--her friend narrating that she did this to everyone she met). There were the awkward boys which were too bashful to sing, but they attempted to disguise this fact with unconvincing nonchalance--as if they were too cool to sing or stand next to a girl. After grouping, regrouping, and redistributing parts, I did get all the students to sing. I counted this only a partial victory. The boys, having lost the cool factor of noncompliance took on new rebellion by singing out the word "potato" as "poe-TAH-toe." I told them that this was culturally inaccurate (it was a Creole song), but decided I wouldn't push the battle beyond a few teacher looks. They were singing after all.
The second and fourth graders both had large portions of the class time wherein they were allowed to choose songs from their respective textbooks to sing. The second graders were quite curious about all the available songs and at one point chose a Chinese song. One of the boys raised his hand. I went over and knelt down next to where he sat criss-cross-applesauce. "This song reminds me of Kung Fu Panda. This song is Chinese, and in China they do karate and kung fu. In karate they use Chinese. I do karate, so I pretty much know Chinese." I may have jumbled his narrative a bit, but I can't say that's surprising considering the form of logic he used. The second graders were sweet, and the fourth graders were just as endearing.
My fourth graders came in with their recorders and sheet music. As they entered, I heard something that had yet to be uttered in my presence as a substitute teacher. "Yes! We have a sub today!" From what I gather, they were either ill-prepared for or nonplussed about playing their recorders. I introduced myself (unable to restrain a genuine grin) and told them we were doing "free singing" for the day. I walked through the procedure we would use for choosing and singing songs. Students asked if this meant everyone was doing solos. They were disappointed when I said we would be singing as a group; however, their excitement wasn't entirely deterred, for a student in the back exclaimed, "I like you already!" and another student seconded.
I was even more entertained as the fourth graders selected Christmas songs to sing--including The Twelve Days of Christmas. I don't think I've ever heard the song so happily before. During the following song, the regular music teacher entered and I relinquished the classroom. Still smiling, I brought my key and sub folder back to the main office and sang the entire drive home.
By the time I was in my car, I was grinning at the prospect. The classroom was white and bare. Some posters were scattered about, but the white tiles seemed to bleach the entire room with the exception of the bright orange and purple textbooks which glowed from their shelves. While surveying the room, I dialed the regular music teacher and received sub plans. I was to teach fifth, second, and fourth grade, utilizing those glowing textbooks which reminded me so much of my own elementary music experience.
My fifth graders were a perfect picture of the various ways 10-year-old's act while entering adolescence. There was the over-confident girl who happily sang out her parts and was quick to criticize others (this girl also complimented my hair and asked to touch it--her friend narrating that she did this to everyone she met). There were the awkward boys which were too bashful to sing, but they attempted to disguise this fact with unconvincing nonchalance--as if they were too cool to sing or stand next to a girl. After grouping, regrouping, and redistributing parts, I did get all the students to sing. I counted this only a partial victory. The boys, having lost the cool factor of noncompliance took on new rebellion by singing out the word "potato" as "poe-TAH-toe." I told them that this was culturally inaccurate (it was a Creole song), but decided I wouldn't push the battle beyond a few teacher looks. They were singing after all.
The second and fourth graders both had large portions of the class time wherein they were allowed to choose songs from their respective textbooks to sing. The second graders were quite curious about all the available songs and at one point chose a Chinese song. One of the boys raised his hand. I went over and knelt down next to where he sat criss-cross-applesauce. "This song reminds me of Kung Fu Panda. This song is Chinese, and in China they do karate and kung fu. In karate they use Chinese. I do karate, so I pretty much know Chinese." I may have jumbled his narrative a bit, but I can't say that's surprising considering the form of logic he used. The second graders were sweet, and the fourth graders were just as endearing.
My fourth graders came in with their recorders and sheet music. As they entered, I heard something that had yet to be uttered in my presence as a substitute teacher. "Yes! We have a sub today!" From what I gather, they were either ill-prepared for or nonplussed about playing their recorders. I introduced myself (unable to restrain a genuine grin) and told them we were doing "free singing" for the day. I walked through the procedure we would use for choosing and singing songs. Students asked if this meant everyone was doing solos. They were disappointed when I said we would be singing as a group; however, their excitement wasn't entirely deterred, for a student in the back exclaimed, "I like you already!" and another student seconded.
I was even more entertained as the fourth graders selected Christmas songs to sing--including The Twelve Days of Christmas. I don't think I've ever heard the song so happily before. During the following song, the regular music teacher entered and I relinquished the classroom. Still smiling, I brought my key and sub folder back to the main office and sang the entire drive home.
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