Kelly Love

If I had a nickel…

We all have opinions about what is discussed in the teachers’ lounge. Is it reflective consideration, mild chit-chat or disruptive gossip? I enjoy the other colleagues I dine with on occasion; they are professional and fun. I don’t eat there everyday, some days I need to be in my room to let students in/out. This is perhaps, unnecessary background to this next comment: another teacher joined us one day after conferences, surprised by how much personal information is so flagrantly shared by parents. Shocked by the fact that she now knows “TMI” (too much information) and that grades, academics, etc. were not at the forefront of parents’ minds, but their children’s heart and souls were. Her shock and awe just interrupted lunch, and gave me food for thought.

Conference days are long days anyway, and I’m not really sure what gets accomplished. The only way to really know a student and help them get where they need to go is through personal conversation, and the same with their parents. By the time a child reaches middle school, conferences are not the same as elementary, with its structured scheduling and file folders of student work, bursting at the seams by now.

What suprises many teachers is how much pure couseling/therapeutic work we encounter at conferences. We are not clergy or psychiatrists. We are not professionally trained to handle the weight of emotions that come with conferences. Parents who are worried about their child’s drug use, or lack of motivation, or that they’re not being challenged enough. As my teammate said, these parents are mourning their lost darling child. This age group is a thick, gooey, transitional time from childhood to young adulthood, and boy do those waters get goopy. Parents are facing their own aging process, too — they are not the young adult they once were, and are coming to terms with their own changes. Can you say “poison apple, dearie?” The archetypes abound!

And, if you work at a school with a variety of spoken languages such as I do, and wouldn’t change for the world, there is a translation issue. It’s hard to reassure a parent who speaks Swahili or Arabic that their child is having a hard time writing about anything else but their experiences in secular school or finding out where to upload an assignment. Even if English is their first language, a few students have never encountered a keyboard before, and feel lost and technophobic. At conferences, a parade of first wives and divorces and stepchildren and grandmas and adoptions and loss comes running across a clipboard and pen set. I just want to hug them all, and tell them it’s going to be okay, but I don’t always know that. I’m honest about their children, what I see, and let them know how much I respect their child, which I do. But while driving home, I hear about tax breaks for the wealthy, adults behaving like brats, and bad people doing bad things, and I just want to scream. Sometimes I do.

We all need that support, just someone to listen to us while we share our story. I wonder who’s going to listen to me when I am spun out? It really doesn’t matter. I hope I provided reassurance when needed, guidance when asked, and hope where there was little. You want to know their grades, too? Got that, too.

A good day.

The rooms looks pearlized by the December sun through the institutional blinds. A southern horizon beckons to for exhaust and freedom. Before I slip away from these respsonsibilities into that chilled light, I need to capture this thought: Today was a good day. My students were here, they wrote, they laughed, and they shared. It was a simple day. They followed through…and today in their eyes I could see “it,” – the thing, the thing that is what makes real people…start to form. Nothing shook our confidence. We found strength. It was a day of grace. Thank you.

In conclusion….

One buggaboo that boggles me is how to really explain to budding authors why it’s not stylistically adroit by ending any piece of writing with a statement such as “this is my story about and I hope you liked it” or “this is my paragraph assignment for today.” Yes, I do this, yes, I teach many lessons, model, set examples, etc., but why is this not an innate act? Perhaps that’s my real question: why do we communicate so differently, so awkardly, while we’re learning the craft of writing, than from our conversational tone?

Analyzing the act of writing itself perhaps provides an answer: young writers are disconnected from the flow of language, from the symbolic noise of speech to text in print (and I mean any type of “print” – digital or cellular). No one has ever lifted up the veil to show them that writing is talking…the toddler sitting on a mother’s lap, having “Itsy Bitsy Spider” meeting its tenacious but tenuous hold in a water pipe, or little piggies that must be counted to and from market, or other rhythmic, melodic speech patterns that exist in all languages and cultures, learns how to connect with humans in a most fundamental and sublime way. Those little piggies sure do work hard and create loving bonds as they wee-wee-wee all the way home.

So, I tried an experiment today: a mini-lesson that took all of five minutes, so it was truly a mini-lesson. Bite-sized. I explained to students that first, do not write those types of endings. Don’t. Sorry. Gotta give it up for style sometimes, folks. (I can forgive white shoes after Labor Day, but a girl’s got her limits!) I shared with students my insight into the development of language, and I pantomimed a phone call with my husband:

“Hey, sweetie, would you please unload the dishwasher? Oh, and thank you for listening to my phone conversation. The end!”

Or ending a text message: “Thank you for reading my text message. This text message was about this story. Then End! 3>!!!!LOLZ”

As a writer, we are in our moment, our thoughts, and we want to bring our readers there, too. Being intentional –do we choose obscurity, pop the bubble, or scratch the needle, or invite our readers in, is up to us. I guess I just want my students to experience that level of control in their voice.

Dear Readers, you may disagree with this blog posting and my stringent view of this stylistic misstep. This is my blog posting. Thank you for reading it. I hope you liked it. THE END!!!!

Pass/Fail

I am one of thousands of teachers who tried to reach for the brass ring of National Board certification this year. I had told myself repeatedly that if I didn’t pass my first time through, I was still in good company. I have heard between 50-70% of teacher do not pass their first time through. (That is quite a wide margin of rumor-mill error – I would like to confirm this, but to what end?)

On a sleepless Friday morning, a cold blue and white computer screen electronically handed me the news – I missed the mark by five points. One entry, number four, was scored the highest, but not weighted the same as the others. The one entry that really mired me was the one that to me, provides the most sour-grape bitter taste– teaching reading and writing. At first glance at the comments, the sting of not “knowing my students” or “not knowing how to teach writing/reading” are going to leave a mark, that’s for sure.

Well, I know I know my students. I know them inside and out. I know their hopes, dreams, worries, and abilities and potential. But articulating that? Perhaps not. If I can’t succintly surmise this big concept in the framework of the certification process, then perhaps I’m not the writer I thought I was, but more importantly, perhaps I’m not seeing my students as clearly as I thought.

This morning a student came in whose grandmother just passed away, asking for my help with an eulogic poem. She asked her grandmother’s children and friends to sum up her character in one word. The words shared by the family are powerful and just by reading those, I had a strong sense of who this woman was in life, and I wish I had met her. Perhaps it is not MY skill at being a teacher, but at being a listener, and a fellow human, and those who want my guidance will seek it, just as I seek knowing who they are. What is the essence of guidance? It can’t possibly be knowing a tired, worn path and trudging through it, like a trail horse who’s never going to gallop again, unless it’s just to get back to the barn. It can’t be reading the same script, doing a daily matinee and evening performance without nuance and change. I am not a robot.

Perhaps the essence of guidance is keeping the lamps lit, the shoes dry, and the gear in good repair. It’s having a roadmap, but also a compass, and GPS, too. But it’s also allowing students to explore on their own, find their own path, and mark new territories, because they will never come this way again. I will reflect once again on what it means to be a ‘master teacher,’ and play the guessing games on how others define it, too. This shouldn’t be a second-guessing process, but it is, and is for everyone I know. Not a single colleague has said they nailed it, they know it, and they get it. Those who passed are sitting on a big fluffy cushion of relief, but hopefully are still humble. Though I wish I was sitting at the big kids’ table too, I am not alone: http://teachersol.blogspot.com/2007/11/national-board-certification-moment-of.html

Secret Identity

: Unmasked…

Blog posting content accumulates in my writer’s head until it forms into a concept mass: current line of thinking and consideration–secret identities. The disclaimer is I know you know all about this, and that this is nothing new, and has been analyzed and probed about a million megabytes previously. But I still need to write.

There is this other dimension we all live in where we are not ourselves but also ‘meta” selves. Consider a Facebook chat or thread: we post comments, try to encourage others to think or smile, or challenge notions and ideologies. We must censure ourselves, watch our tone and meaning, and weigh carefully the ramifications of being potentially misunderstood. No wonder that so many play on-lines games or belong to chats where the quick response is almost as quickly forgotten and dissipates in the running stream of dialogue? The impermanence is deceptive. Just because the one drop of water cannot be distinguished from the rest doesn’t mean the river has gone. But we are driven to demarcate ourselves nonetheless, so be heard if even marginally.

Stop for a moment and think: how many times have you posted a comment to a news story? A Facebook post? How many screen names do you have? How many relationships do you have where you have never seen the other person’s face? In other words, how many (secret) identities do you have?

Lois Lane and Mary Jane Watson do not have the luxury of hiding behind a mask; this makes them a target and vulnerable. I imagine Mary Jane trolling MySpace behind her screen name “SpiderSquasher224” or Lois playing a MMORPG under the nom de plume, Kryptonite Killer. LOL, Lois, LOL indeed.

But humanity–hate to break it to you, but you are unmasked. Through those streaming chats every identity is exposed loud and clear. There are the bullies, the bigots, the peacemakers and the politics. There are angry, whining, intelligent and confused voices.

To my relationships with whom I have never actually met in person: thank you for the opportunity to know you in some way. Some of my most insightful epiphanies come from friendships that are 100% virtual. For those of you who use this medium to troll, harass, intimidate, or even simply discourage (discouragement is soul poison), pat yourself on the back and check-off “I know how to be a jerk” off of your life list and use this power for good, not evil. Even though the screen name is a drop, a mere blip of light, there is a human on the other side. Don’t lose your humanity in the sea.

Game on.

Great conversation the other day: student in my “struggling” reading comprehension group reminded me once again that many kids aren’t necessarily “bad” readers, but not motivatedto read. We had a few moments just to talk about what we were reading, a topic at hand, a bird-walk, so to speak, and he and I discussed a high-level, critical analysis about: games.

We talked about the genres and analyzed the varying classification of the wide variety of video/computer games. (The student sent me this link, by the way: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Video_game_genres) Recently, I had a conversation with my husband about this very same topic, in the context of deep critical analysis of World of Warcraft. I know – many of you (teachers) are scoffing or rolling your eyes. (By the way, eye rollers – grow up.)

What is fascinating to me is this question: why are we humans participating and practicing in the worlds that yield no results or product?

Or do they?

One Alpha game that has come on the scene in MineCraft. MineCraft scares the snot out of me, and I’m not sure why. Our Robot Overlords are busy working on enslaving human productivity and time to create Lego-esque worlds and kill zombies. When I can find the link to the article, one enterprising young man went as far as to create a world, a virtual world, that ran on its own “red dust” electrical power. Can you say “Mr. Anderson?”

Another virtual world is obviously Farmville. Millions of Facebook users work diligently on this (distopian) commune,

We all have burning questions, and it is job 1 for teachers to help students identify and recognize those questions and motivations. We are given low basal readers for checkpoints and reading strategy instruction. I have a certain amount of buy-in and fear. The fear comes from the thought of NOT adhering “with fidelity” to the “system” somehow any failure or lack of progress of my students will be squarely on my shoulders. Which, it would be. If I can honestly report that I kept the program in its inherent and intended form, then perhaps that will shield me from any negative results.

A term my husband has been using recently is “emergent behaviors.” The context he uses this in is the explained best just by thinking of ways that humans, animals, forms and functions do or create the unexpected.

The words that come to mind when thinking about the activities of these types of games far exceed the simple, violent FPS label:

1. Resource management

2. Professions

3. Product and Productivity

4. “Keeping up with the Joneses” mentality: Elitism and bragging rights (talk to anyone who’s flying around on a Onyxian Drake.

But what even scares me more is the next generation of “games,” and this puts the word “generation” in a different context. Both the same student and my husand informed me of this little AI darling, who is programmed to make moral decisions based on squishing, or not, snails: Milo, the Computer Boy.

Think I may be sick.

Now, I must also write this: While we are so busy creating fake boys and girls, and getting fake jobs, and getting fake results, we are neglecting our real boys and girls. Student informed me the other day: “Mrs. L, did you know the band member of KISS are Jewish?” Reponse: Yes, as a matter of fact I did. Follow up: “And did you also know they had to wear that make up to hide from Hitler during the war?”

Lost boys.

An e-mail yesterday informed the staff that big changes are coming for our schedules; apparently, the number of enrolled students has significantly exceeded the estimate, and there will be a big shift to our schedules, classes, number of students, etc. I appreciated the ‘head’s up, the flare, the notice, and the loud FORE before the incoming is lobbed toward my bare noggin.

But again, it’s not about me. My preparedness or planning is only as effective as its intrinsic flexibility and responsiveness. Sometimes, many times, I long for a normal, set schedule. My sons’ school district has had the same schedule since they started in kindergarten. For my older son, that is eleven years of consistency. No amount of reading intervention, no new programs, no surprises. There are blue days. And there are gold days. Blue days are music. Gold days are PE/Health. It alternates on Fridays. Teacher workshop days are on Fridays, adhering to NCLB requirements. That’s it. The district has maybe shifted boundaries once or twice in the past eleven years. Maybe.

Since I’ve been in my district/school, the schedule has been different each of the five years. The programs have changed almost quarterly. The data has been presented constantly, and yet now, the data I really need isn’t available from the state. So much for informing my instruction.

There is no magic needed here (as much as I would love to pull a rabbit out of a hat, or turn someone into a newt)–it’s simple. Kids need safety. They need boundaries. They need consistency. If we never show them that the world can be a safe place, a place to take risks that are creative, a place where the world will help care for them while they grow and thrive, a place where time to learn and time to play are one and the same, then why, oh why, are we so surprised when they don’t know what’s due? What’s missing? What’s lost? What’s forsaken?

But I’m not hopeless or helpless. Recognizing that a Wendy-archetype needs to step in, with her polite mannerisms and threaded needle to patch and mend what others tear may be required. And even though it’s far more fun to be Tinkerbell or Peter, someone’s got to make sure there’s an adherance to bedtimes and behaviors. I’m finding my adult voice again, and transitioning back home. Change in a schedule? Fine. In the meantime, I’ll be guiding the lost boys and girls to a home in their hearts, or at least trying my best. Even the skunk boy.

Satisfied.

How do I know I’m mad, indeed? Well, I keep coming back for more. I am tired, I am somewhat exhausted, and I smell smoke; a sign of potential burn-out. Too many voices in the forms of e-mails, tweets, blogs, push-back, cattiness and manic, agenda-fueled piracy. Leave me alone. I’m fading out and leaving only an enigmatic smile behind.

But lately I’ve been thinking that true satisfaction, smug, self-reliant satisfaction, is possibly the best option for sanity. Or survival.

The other day I just got so teary. Voices I respect are telling me I don’t have the right to be tired, or telling me I am not being professional if I’m feeling exhausted. I realize it’s ‘only October,’ but I need to find my reset button. I haven’t been teaching that long, to be sure. I am not a veteran or old war horse. This is only my fifth year; I counted up the number of students I’ve had, and it’s close to 800 collective souls. They came in waves of years, each class thinking they are the only ones who have tried a trick on me, or been disrespectful with their special, unique brand of sass, or proudly waved their illiteracy banner, or alliterate masthead, of “I hate to read! Ha! Now try to reach me! I’m falling through the cracks, and you can’t reach me…neener neener neener!”

Everyone is working their fannies off right now. And at the risk of sounding like an entitled, whiney, unprofessional teacher, there are many colleagues who would testify on my behalf that I have done and given more than my fair share. I have spent hours creating meaningful, relevant, and engaging curriculum–nights, weekends, planning time, mornings, vacations — you name it. I have neglected balance and health in my own life to ensure I am “prepared.”

It is with some sense of satisfaction that I can dutifully and happily report that all the hard work is paying off, that I am reaping the educational harvest I have sown. Lots of creative lessons, on-line, technologically integrated lessons, rubrics and checklists galore, along with the big questions and the targeted assessments.

So why the frown, clown?

The half-lit thought of change has crossed my mind. I don’t really want to teach anywhere else, though. What I do want is for you, my friends and colleagues, to tell me how you keep things fresh, avoid burn-out, and still maintain strong, foundational instructional practices for all students? I remind myself that even though that even though this may be my 786th student, this is Student #786’s first time in 8th grade.

We are all balancing families, friends, health, happiness, and hope. Maybe seeking satisfaction isn’t the answer. But a little more peace and creativity sure would help.

Waiting for Superman? Nah. Lois Lane already had a life before he showed up.

Mrs. Love's terrible, no good, very bad day.

Ah, human failings.

Why are the Japanese trying to invent/perfect a robot teacher? Perhaps to avoid teacher days like the one I had last Friday.

Changes in schedule, random bells, anxious students, pep assembly, discipline, and longer class times with no “bio” break for anyone, and falling apart, crackling, splitting headache…

I don’t really give a toot about the Oprahs, Bills, or Arnies. They have “people” who have “people” who take care of those things for them, and when their schedules don’t run as they desire, heads roll, I’m sure.

But when it’s my big mouth, my tension, and my attitude, who controls those but me?

And sometimes I just don’t have that control.

So, to all my students who not only pushed my buttons, but broke the safety glass and set off the alarms to do so on Friday, I still wish I had risen above, gone beyond, and taken the high road.

But I didn’t.

And I’m sorry.

Little Red Hen gets her feathers ruffled.

I’m not sure I really want the answer to this question, but: How do you balance sharing your creativity with maintaining some personal intellectual property/boundaries? This is not limited to teachers, either. All of us share, or don’t. The more spongy we are, the more we share without thought to our own resiliency or resentment levels.

This internal dilemma came up over the weekend. Let me be clear: No one in this scenario is wrong, or rude. Except for maybe me. These are my own reactions to a commonplace scenario that I put myself in, no one else. If you can relate or have another perspective, one I didn’t cover in this reflection, please – comment away.

With excitement and enthusiasm, I have created many mini-units, lessons, tested and tasted dozens of ways and means to get students engaged, and keep their motivation fresh. If other teachers are interested in these lessons, and ask, I share. Sometimes I share without asking.

But I found myself feeling a little resentful over the weekend: colleagues were requesting lessons, and wanting to know what resources were out there, and seemed annoyed with me for stating that many of the resources were mine in the making, and clarifying what was district provided. Now, this is also a case for misreading e-mails.I grew to hate e-mail over the weekend. Its limited razor-wire curt and cut communication did not help me say what I needed to say with good, old-fashioned face-to-face discussion. Resentment is the plaque that builds over the enamel of the soul, and doesn’t make itself a nuisance until the gums start to bleed. Resentment is the stalagmite on the cave ceiling (or is it the cave floor?) slowly building to meet the stalagmite in the middle of the hole. Resentment is sent in a millisecond through the electronic universe, clashing with hurt feelings and sore “send” fingers. This kind person asking about resources did not realize the resentment land-mine field she stepped in with me.

As I was sitting there wondering “what the heck was wrong with me,” I read one of my favorite bloggers, Teacher Tom. This post discussed his preschoolers’ reaction to the Little Red Hen, and a surprising one for him. The preschoolers thougtht the LRH should have shared her food, no matter how much she worked, poked, and prodded the other friends to do their fair share. I told my teenage son about this reacion this morning and his response: “The Little Red Hen is a jerk.”

I am the Little Red Hen.

But then I reflected – perhaps I am the bread.

No one likes the LRH because she is a scold and a nag. When I think I’m clearly stating boundaries (in order to floss the resentment away), perhaps I am just coming off as a jerk. There is definitely something of a “pay your dues” mentality amongst teachers, with the mantra, “If you don’t suffer and sweat as I did, you are not worthy of my esteemed creativity and genuis.”

I have taken hours and spent thousands on my professional development. I have spent hours reading books for my age group of students, and thousands on books for my classroom library. I have e-mailed, distributed, shared, and bound and binder-ed comprehension curriculum documents. And it got a little irksom when my perception distorted that others just wanted more of me, more than I was willing to give.

But bread is meant to be broken with friends; it tastes like sawdust when kept to oneself. Perhaps this is why the LRH is a jerk. “What do I really want?” is always the question: I want to be acknoledged that I bake good bread, that it takes time and effort, but I also want to enjoy it with friends. That’s what makes it nourishing.

To read about how preschoolers understand more about fairness than I do, please read:

http://teachertomsblog.blogspot.com/2010/09/fairness-and-democracy-in-action.html