The Best Laid Plans…

I took my students into the computer lab so that they could upload their book projects to the internet. But of course, there were "technical problems," which in this case means that the printer in the lab was down. Since they needed to print out a hard copy for me so that I can look them over and give grades.

Without the functioning printer, they had to save copies to disc, and now they'll have to figure out a time to get back into the lab, access the website, copy their text in, print the preview page (the thing I'm after), and bring it to me.

The end of the quarter is this Friday. Hopefully, the network printer will be on-line before then. In the meantime, I might have to just take their Word documents, which kind of defeats the whold purpose of the internet publication.

Frustrating.

Eeiny, Meeiny, Miney, Mo

Being absent from work requires teachers to turn over their classes to a substitute. You remember them, and how you used to try to have as much fun with them as you could. You had an advantage: you knew everything about the way that class was run, and the poor sub didn't, and you used this knowlede to try to pull something over on the sub. Don't you remember saying, "Mrs. Smith lets us…"

That's one reason I don't take much time off from work, even when I'm arguably sick enough to stay home. But another of the main reasons is that calling a sub from the pool of labor is a crap-shoot: you really don't know what you're going to get. In my experience, there are three general types of people who wind up working as subsitute teachers:

1. college kids who are earning a teaching credential, or a contract of their own, and are entering the profession.


2. retirees, either from teaching or from the private sector, supplementing their income in their platinum years.


3. people who have been able to earn a Bachelor's degree and pass the CBEST test, but who are, as a group, unemployable in the private sector for some reason or another. In short, misfits. Substitute teaching offers them one-day shots of filling a space, and then the opportunity of moving on: no responsibility, no accountability.

The system doesn't promote watching these people closely. The school is thankful to get someone, anyone "qualified," into that empty class. After that, their problem is solved. If the sub is a disaster, the teacher might fill out the form that exists for rating subs, but it's just filed away. I don't know of any case in which a sub's employment has been terminated for poor performance. We all know there are "background checks," but that's simply a search of legal records, not a personality/skills evaluation.

So if the sub cannot control a class of young people, or complete the lesson, or engages in inappropriate conversations with students, there's little in the system to catch it and screen them out. And there's little motivation to do it, anyway.

Again, it's only that one class of substitutes that I have a problem with. The first class, the young ones entering the profession, often have difficulty with classroom management as well. I know I did for a short while. So I understand that. And those in the second class usually make the best substitutes.

But the end result is the same: I try to find out who a good sub is, and request that person. That's no promise that I'll get her, but at least they will call her. But I still have to write a simple, explicit lesson plan that gets something accomplished and that just about anyone can apply, and that requires skill. And that's why it's work to take a day or two away from my class.

Bueller, Anyone?

Once in a great while (like once every other year, maybe) I'll take a day off from work.

I call it a "Mental Health Day." I can usually feel the need coming for a long time, and it usually happens in the second semester. Well, today is the day. It's been about a year since I took even a sick day, and I don't take many of those; about one sickness a year, and then it's one, maybe two days off. There are reasons to keep it brief: it's an expected professional courtesy to always leave a lesson plan for the substitute teacher, and it takes effort to write a good one (I'm not a "pop in the video tape" kind of guy: school is school, and they'll do something productive, thank you very much). And you never know who you're going to get as a sub or what mayhem will ensue while you're gone. The lesson has to be well-written (idiot-proof is literally the correct term here), complete with six or eight notes about individual students and contingency instructions for their behavior. So it takes quite a bit of effort in my profession to lie on the couch doped up on Day-Quil with Kleenez stuffed up one's nose. I keep an abundant supply of Alka-Seltzer Plus in my desk, and the coffemaker, my true friend, is always ready. Between the decongestant, analgesic, and caffeine, I can be pretty sick and still be at work & running things for myself, even if that means I'm behind my desk and they're doing bookwork and coming to me with questions. That can be infinitely easier than gambling on a sub & student behavior, and losing. Maybe more about substitute teachers later…

My students tell me "You're never absent." Maybe their other teachers are more sickly than I am.

I will use a sick day when I'm "no good to anyone, should be in bed" sick, and I'm grateful for the sick days that are provided in our contract, but I'm not sick today. I'm using a category in our contract known as "Personal Necessity." Three PN days are allowed every year, and the first two times it's invoked, the teacher doesn't need to give a reason for its use. I told my principal this morning that I was using a PN day. So I'm within the letter, and the spirit, of my contract. I don't feel any ethical conflict, because I'm not ethically compromised. The contract is clearly protecting the privacy of the teacher here, and "personal necessity" can have a broad definition, applied by the user.

I know some teachers who have all their sick days planned out. Obviously, they can't tell when they're going to be sick, so they're cheatng the system. With PN days available, I don't have to do that, so my conscience is at ease.

I left a lesson plan for the substitute teacher, and I know my students are fully capable of living without me, so I don't feel guilty about not being there, as I used to when I was a less-experienced teacher.

I'm sitting at home, doing some research online, relaxing, re-energizing. Funny how I just had a relatively slow weekend, but now that I'm taking a workday off, I feel immediately better. The psychological impact of getting out of the usual loop is strong.

Or maybe it's just the pleasure that comes from play hookey… : )

Relax, Observe & Let the Muse Whisper in Your Ear

When I was a new teacher, some days I'd be driving to work thinking, "What am I going to do today?!" in a semi-panic. Now, sometimes I think to myself, "Hmm, I wonder what I'm going to do today," deep in contemplation. That's what experience does for you.

Today, I needed a quick writing lesson. And since it's Friday, it needed to be something they could accomplish in one class hour, then clean up over the weekend. So I came in early this morning to think something up.

So what rabbit did I pull out of my hat? I took them out to the quad with pencil & paper, and told them to find something to describe in detail. It could be anything: a tree, a trash can, the vending machine. The ants crawling along the crack in the concrete. Whatever. Just get down to minute descriptions, and stay with one subject. Beat it to death with adjectives, similies, & sensory detail.

Kids really got into it. I had to separate a few kids who were tempted to talk instead of observe and write, but after I played the bowling ball to their pins, everything went swimmingly (I've always wanted to use that adverb do describe something. It probaby has a broader range of usefulness in British English; here, it's better saved for sarcasm, I think).

Well, one must experiment. This time, it worked.

Please Remove Your (Tinfoil) Hat

The first half of my fifth period class coincides with the middle school lunch, and it gets noisy enough outside that I typically close the door so I can lower my voice and we can hear each other.

A very sweet girl in that class is known to be a bit of a "ditz."

Halfway though this class, the bell rings that ends the middle-schoolers' lunch period, and three minutes after that, the it's pretty quiet again outside. Well, a couple of minutes after this is happens, the girl begins to roll her eyes up and to the sides, an expression of concentration on her face. Then she blurts out "Do you hear those voices?"

Maybe there still were voices outside, but I didn't hear any voices, and none of the other students heard any voices. She heard voices, though.

I just couldn't resist. I said, "No: what are the voices telling you to do?"

She scowled at me. Other kids laughed. She looked into the corners of the room again, and satisfied that the voices had gone, turned her attention to her work.

Precious.

Quote of the Week

Last week I'm teaching Robert Burns' poem "To a Mouse." I'm helping a group of kids in the back of the room understand a question I wrote, and it's a bit noisy while pairs of students discuss and answer their questions, and sneak in some socializing.

So a girl asks me why the poem is so difficult to understand, and I say something like "The poet wrote this about two hundred years ago."

She looks at me in surprise and exclaims, "The Pope wrote this?"

Of course everyone around her laughed, including myself.

I'm Ready For My Close-up, Mr. Demille

"Are we going to watch the movie?"

I wish I had a dollar for every time I've heard this in class whenever I've introduced a new novel. It usually takes this pattern:
"Is there a movie of this?"
"Are we going to watch the movie?"
"Hey, everyone: we're going to watch a movie!"

It takes about eight seconds for this conversation to morph away from the book in their hands and toward the idea of watching a movie in class. Now that's education.

Well, I got tired of it, so I decided to do something different.

After reading Steinbeck's Of Mice and Men, I told the class that we wouldn't be watching the movie. We'd be studying the movie. This statement was greeted with expressions of excitement layered with suspicion. So I passed out the three-page worksheet, explained the basics of storytelling using the genre of film vs. literature, and we were off.

Well, not really. They complained. They didn't like the idea that their pure, unadulterated pleasure of movie-watching was going to be interrupted by work. I was ruining the pinnacle of student existence: two or more days without any work to do, watching a movie. And it rarely depends on how horrible the movie is; the mere fact that it's a movie makes them deem it good. You would have thought I had torn up the Constitution right in front of their eyes. They didn't like this idea one bit, no Sir. I was actually going to require that they think as they watched the movie.

And the questions! Not just "How was the movie different?" but "Why did the film maker choose to eliminate this scene, or add that, or use this particular camera angle?" "How does the actor's interpretation of the character bring out personality traits that we know are essential to the telling of this story?" Like that.

The first day I paused the tape frequently, showing elements of camera work: the establishing shot, the high angle, the close-up, the pan. Editing techniques like cross-cutting & justaposition of elements. They were irritated because they wanted to watch a movie & I kept stopping to ask them to actually look at the art of film making. But by the end of the first day, they were watching the film critically, with an eye to the storytelling skill of the screenwriter, director, editors, score writers, and actors. They answered my questions, and took their own notes in the margin. They were given permission to think for themselves, to apply knowledge they already had to evaluate the same story and themes presented in a different medium.

On the second day they started making comments about how the music was key to establishing mood. I asked why music is important to film. They said "Because it's about emotions." I smiled and let the tape roll.

Two and a half days is a significant chunk of class time, considering everything I officially have to accomplish before the state testing (not to mention June). But I think this was time well-spent.

No News is Good News

I've been without the TV for nearly a month, and I'm still alive. Sleeping well. More work done in the evenings. More alert at work. All is good.

Psychologically, I'm okay (some people might disagree, but I'm just talking about the television here). Sometimes I think of shows I miss, mostly when students who are around me talk about television. But it's pretty easy to forget, actually.

You wanted me to go through withdrawls, didn't you? You wanted me to moan and groan about what was happening on Lost, or 24. But I really don't care.

You really wanted me to break down and have the set repaired, or better yet, to replace it with a big screen, flat panel vondermachine, so that you could justify your addiction by seeing me cave in.

Well, think again. I'm made of sterner stuff.

Wandering Out of the Vast Wasteland

Okay, so my television shorted out about a week ago after only eighteen years of trouble-free service.

Up to nowI have resisted the desire to get cable or to go with a big Entertainment System, but there are a few shows in particular that I like to watch, either for their entertainment value or because I learn something from them; but, truth be told, there are a lot of hours a week the thing is just running as wallpaper. The TV is on, and it keeps me company in the evening, while I'm on the couch with the laptop, either working, reading news & political sites, visiting sailing bulletin boards to chat with my friends, or just wasting time. I spend quite a few hours a week on line, just surfing around.

So I've decided to let the dead TV collect dust for a while, and observe what I do with the time. I've already noticed a few differences:

1. I'm sleeping more hours per night: I usually stay up 'til around midnight because there are shows on that I think I want to see. Thinking about it there really isn't anything important on David Letterman that I'd be missing. Now, I'm falling asleep about two to three hours earlier, so I'm feeling more completely rested when that alarm goes off at 5AM.


2. As a result, I get up right away instead of hitting the snooze and calculating how late I can stay between the sheets.


3. I've been getting out of the house earlier, and into my classroom 30–45 minitues earlier, sometimes right when the alarm system shuts down at 6AM, to get in a good solid hour of planning/preparing before kids start showing up on campus. One day last week, I use that hour to put together an entire lesson on Powerpoint that I gave the same day that enriched the novel study my juniors are engaged in.


4. I'm a bit more clear-headed during the day, esp. in the mornig (I'm not a morning person. I think this has actually helped).


5. I'm reading for pleasure a bit more. I used to sit on the couch with the TV remote in my hand, glance over at my bookcase and think that I'd like to spend a relaxed evening behind a book instead of in front of the idiot box; the other night, I actually did.

To be honest, I'm also viewing more movies in the evenings on my laptop, so my video addiction, if you can call it that, is still being fed to a degree. And a week really isn't a long time. But I haven't had any desire to take my tube to the repair shop yet, so for now, I'm going to let it remain blind and mute.

I'll be updating. I know you'll be waiting for my capitulation, just to justify your own television addiction. While you're waiting, why don't you pick up a book?

Pulling Strings, but not Punches

So I started off my 6th period class by telling each student what I liked or appreciated about his character or personality, and with encouragements to push him on to whatever his next level is, as I see it. Some of those students are in their 3rd year with me, and I know them well enough to have unique insights into them. Down each column of the room, student by student. Less than a minute for each person. That took the majority of the class period.

Then some of them wanted to tell me about what they appreciate about me, or the way I run my class, or the way I treat them. I didn't ask for anything like this, but I thought they had a right to their opinions, and it certainly was the right moment, so I sat on the edge of a table in the front of the room and let them have at me. Several students (more than I expected) had something complimentary to say, and as it go rolling, new hands went up as they took advantage of the opportunity.

It was a powerful moment. I received many unexpected insights, and a few responses that validated much of my approach to the student-teacher relationship, my expectations for deep thinking instead of busywork, my helpfulness to them in their task of learning, or my availability to them concerning their academic challenges or willingness to be a confidant to listen to their personal problems and offer advice. It was all very touching (poignant is the official vocabulary word). The one I cherished the most was the simple "You treat us like real people." Not everyone volunteered; maybe half the class. I looked each one in the eye when I thanked them

I wanted to break the bad news to them sooner, but I had to let them have their say, and that left just three minutes in the period for me to tell them that today would be our last meeting, and briefly explain the unpleasant truth about life that sometimes there operate powers beyond our control. I figured this way was better than telling them at the beginning of the period, giving a three-minute explanation of why, and then having forty minutes of awkwardness to get through. And part of it was selfish on my part: I was counting on having the rest of the year to say those things implicitily. With just one class meeting left, I had to use it to give that one thing to them. I saw no other way. When time is short, you tell the truth.

When the bell rang, no one moved, because our business together wasn't quite done. A few students asked if I had any room in any of my other junior classes, and I encouraged them to go staight away to their counselors (just twenty-five feet from my door) if they were serious about wanting to go to June with me. A handful did, and a couple of them actually walked out with new schedules.

About five o'clock, I'm in my room with another teacher, helping her edit an application essay for a summer seminar, trying to get my mind off the disappointment of the day and reconciling myself to the reality of my new situation, when one of the counselors popped her head in the open doorway and asked, "Did you hear?"

I thought she was referring to the loss of my class, so I shrugged my shoulders and scrunched up my mouth to express "Que sera, sera." She realized that I was behind the information curve, so told me that the AP was able to find someone else to take that sophomore class, and that my juniors weren't going anywhere but back to me on Monday.

You could have knocked me over with a horribly-written first draft essay. Of course, my first response was relief. Then laughter, at the now-unnecessary mental and emotional anguish I (and they) had gone through that day. Then appreciation for the dedication of our AP, who really went the extra mile after I came to him to explain my disappointment earlier in the day. He didn't have to do anything about it: his problem was solved the moment I said "If it has to be done, it has to be done" that morning.

So it will be business as usual on Monday, except that I will be bonded even more closely to those young people who walk over my threshold after lunch. There won't be any more emotionally comfortable pretending: we will know a particular truth about our experience together, a truth that has been spoken, and now cannot be unsaid, and cannot be denied. We like each other. They are my students, and I am their teacher.

And that ain't nothing.