One Hundred Girlfriends

He is tall with unruly black hair. He doesn't speak or make eye contact. He's been in the US for a year but I can barely coax a word out of him. When I do, it is a whisper. He gazes at me imploringly when I test him. I tell him to just say the words on the screen. I sit beside him and reassure him after each question. 

I arrange a meeting with Vietnamese speakers, but he barely speaks to them either. I lose sleep. Why doesn't he have more English after a year here? Is he a selective mute? Is there a language delay? He changed schools three times in 7th grade. His mom indicates that he may stay only one semester here. I ask her to not change schools. 

I make conversation cards and practice with him. He dutifully reads the words and fills in the blanks. "Hi ----, how are you?" "I am ____. And yourself?" 

 It is weeks later when I have my small group of newcomers make slides that I glimpse his personality. And guffaw. 

The assignment is to make a slideshow with six statements about yourself - some true, some false. His second statement reads, "I have 100 girlfriends." On the next slide, the big reveal is... "False. I am too lazy. I have to learn English first and then I will get a girlfriend." 

I breathe a sigh of relief. I can work with this. It will take coaxing and teaching and love, but I will get him. How else is he going to achieve that dream? 

In January, I happily report that I've gotten him! He makes eye contact with me and asks me questions. And though he never talks my ear off, my teacher sense knows he's good. His mom has reached out to me repeatedly with gratitude, and the family is planning to stay in our feeder area for high school. 

And my boy has gotten his wish. He walks through the halls and eats lunch with and sits in class with... like 100 girls. He's a chick magnet! They FaceTime each other at night. I cannot imagine what they talk about, but it is not important. He is here. He is connected and he is gaining English. My teacher heart sings.

Fire Breather

Papa Bear swooped in to save the Skinny Defenseless cub from Dragon Breath.

So I blew on him too. I huffed and puffed my all-day-teaching coffee breath all over him. I hope his house is shuddering tonight. He lives in a precious place where belief does not match reality. Where his kid's tears matter more than those of anyone else's kids.

I live in that gingerbread house down yonder. By day I sit at my desk and drink second rate coffee. Lots of it. I sit behind said desk, cracking my whip for the children to work and breathing on them should they get too close. I'm a super hero who isn't afraid to mix my genres and am positively fearless when it comes to my metaphors.

But I digress. Back to Papa Bear...

He swooped in when Poor Defenseless got caught and called out. Now Poor Defenseless became not only that but also acquired the virtues and title of Innocent Perfect Sweet Kindness. Papa Bear asserted that he knows her well enough and she would never bully another kid.

(Hahahahahahahahahaha. Parents, we all know our kids would never do ---. Fill in the blank. FYI: Your kid would do it. Sorry. This isn't a happy ending fairy tale. Tonight I serve up the under-represented witch's perspective.)

So Innocent was crying, and I nearly was with heartache for the bullied girl and anger at that Big Bear lumbering onto my turf and throwing his shirt-tucked-in, I'm a big-important-in-this-district-hardass around. Nailing me to the wall with, "Couldn'ta been my kid. Are you sure it was bullying? I don't use that word lightly."

Well, Papa Bear, she was not playing nice and perfect. To the point where bullied girl went home crying. I hope Innocence cries tonight. I hope she thinks. And Papa Bear, I hope you heard me say that your hard-on is not welcome in this house. I hope you heard me say step off and let the girl cry. Let her reflect on what she did. Let her come talk to me if I was wrong. Let her talk to the girl who went home crying because of her actions. I can sleep in my just-right bed tonight. And Papa Bear, if my words didn't give you pause, I hope my coffee breath stopped you in your tracks.

The Hustle

I slam into my day, rushing to get the dishes put away, breakfast made, materials gathered to hustle out the door. I clock the drive to school, eat breakfast while inputting essay grades, answering kids' questions, hugging our Russian student, high-fiving our needy over-sized Gentle Ben boy, overseeing the construction of a retirement card for a colleague... The day is off to the races before the bell rings.

I am not present for any of it.

It is a day of hurry-scurry, helter-skelter, task-to-task. I progress from one item on the list to the next. The quality is not there. I love my students, I love my colleagues, but I'm not giving them my best. Always at the back of my mind when we're conversing is all the students with whom I haven't yet conferenced, the stacks of papers I need to grade, the emails I need to send, the retirement party I need to schedule, the dates I need to coordinate.

I am not present.

Then I scurry home, running errands along the way. I squeeze in a workout to be followed by a hurried dinner and more hurry to... what? To what end am I hurrying? The adage is true: The hurrier I go, the behinder I get. It is driving me crazy that I don't have their tests ready to return to my students tomorrow, but... I have not taken time to breathe today. I want to breathe. I want desperately to live. Fully. To be present. To take the time to scrub my dishes and enjoy cleaning them. I want to do yoga tonight. I want to enjoy the lesson prepping I have yet to do. I even... even... want to read the students' tests and enjoy their creativity in the last section where they write a story.

Where is the time for this quality?

I think I have to give it to myself. I am the boss of me. I make the decisions on this ranch. And they are worth it. My students. They are worth the time that it will take to give them quality feedback and appreciation. I am worth it.

So... the watchword of this week is... breathe. S-p-a-c-e.

Scurry no more!

And more flowers for me. Bow to the Queen's Crown, taken near Capitol Peak in July.

That Time of Year

It's that time of year. That grateful time, the time of reaping all we've sown. The kids are awesome. I ask them to write a sentence using the word "genuinely," and Ellis writes, "I genuinely appreciate Ms. TT teaching me reading and writing."

I have fought so hard with these kids this year! I have despaired of EVER getting through to them, of ever having them see that this - this intervention - is in their very best self-interest. Every day, they are showing signs that they now see the light. They are taking charge, putting themselves in the driver's seat with their reading and writing. (And loving their teacher, which goes a long way to repair the ego they battered earlier this year.)

Today we curled up around the lava lamp for read aloud. I got two pages into it and we side-tracked for a discussion of adoption and foster care and all the issues that lead to parents making the decision to not raise their own children. It was deep and close and caring.

One other nugget for the days next year when I have the new, untrained ones... Parents and teachers of middle schoolers, I direct your attention to this...

I let slip yesterday that, because of a schedule snafu, one student had spent an hour one-on-one with me in my office. My news was met with a chorus of "How come she got to do that?"

Aren't these adolescents supposed to be wresting their independence from us? They are not. Not anymore than we want to be free of them. I'm already sad about the year ending.

Yeah, I'm a loser. But I'm a grateful loser.

Eye-Opener

They come into my office one-by-one
these struggling readers
referred to me by teachers
who have related their
battle stories

unmotivated
LaZy
Trouble-maker
PUNK

They come into my office
one-by-one
and they perform
No, they transform
for those 20 minutes
they become students again
slicked-up and straight-backed
doing their darndest to answer my questions

Some can't sit still to save their lives
some can't answer my comprehension questions to save their lives
but they try
they have new hope
for that 20 minutes they see
a new teacher
a new opportunity
and to a one
one-by-one
their egos respond
the best in them shines
they have hope
they give it their all

That resiliency
that capacity for hope
is inspiring ...
yet sad

Because when my 20 minutes is up
they leave
Over my head in my office hangs
their hope
their inspiration
their assiduity
Over my head hang
the question marks

Can we?
How?
Will we?

Dumb Dog

Dumb dog, why are you following me?

Mostly just his big puppy eyes follow me around - to see if I'm catching him at his various misdeeds. But he's been kicked around and neglected like orphan Annie's dog. And people think he's dumb. But, those same sneaky eyes have finally started to meet mine when we're working in small group.

His mom is crazy, his dad long-absent. School is a grind for him, a place where he fails, where he doesn't get the unwritten rules - much less the written ones. He is craving safety, craving acceptance, craving a place where he can succeed. He would never say that, but we teachers, we can read it. And I can give him that. I am working hard, thinking hard, advocating and fighting hard to keep minds open about him, to keep people believing in him. So that WE can give him that. A guaranteed education that he can access.

And then, on my other battle front, I am teaching him that a teacher is not always Teacher. We are not flat placards of lesson plans and discipline. We understand, we listen, we see flashes of insight and pull, pull, pull, dredge the depths of brains. Begging for more, helping to shape thoughts, to find words, to think, to self-advocate, to understand.

And he is getting there. He is so close. He is opening up, he is attempting. He is becoming a student. He might even be beginning to believe that he can, he could, he just might... succeed.

Stupid

Stupid. They don't use words, but they say, "you're stupid." They snicker every time he answers a question. They roll their eyes, sigh, get impatient. He believes them. I almost begin to believe them. He is new to me. I wonder what he has done to earn this reputation, this reaction. I ache for him. Today he made a beautiful inference while we were reading in small group. They didn't hear it. I heard it. I told him I heard it.

Hear me: Stupid you are not, kid!

7 - 2 = 4??

I've forgotten how to subtract. Or something akin to it. I know this phenomenon. I've witnessed it in my students countless times when I introduce a complex new process, e.g. long division. Suddenly, kids who've been subtracting beautifully since the 2nd grade forget they ever even knew how. Their brain is spread too thin trying to grasp the whole divide, multiply, subtract, bring-it-down process of long division.

That is me in this new job. I've forgotten basic things. I am a space cadet, a walking hazard to the planet. I double book myself for meetings, I respond to parents in ways I've never responded before, I forget things. And I realize that it is happening and then second guess myself all the more. Eejah. It is horrible.

I know what it is - I am overwhelmed right now, my poor little neural energy tapped right out - but it doesn't help my feelings of utter inadequacy.

I benchmark this spot because I know that someday I will regain my old automaticity. I will get my groove back. I will be the teacher and reading specialist that I once was: organized, with-it, there for kids and parents and other teachers, a trusted resource. For now... 1+1 = 2, 2+2 =4.

I think.

Endurance Events: Not Just for Triathletes Anymore

I slept for 12 hours yesterday. I was exhausted. Cindy hit the nail on the head with her comment; interviewing this last week was the Ironman of my professional world. It was a whirlwind. From Thursday, May 29th until Friday, June 6th my life consisted of phone calls, flights, and interviews. I had to be "on." And I was. Have you ever felt like you're a walking ball of electricity? I was crackling with ideas and teaching philosophy and kid stories. I was like a middle schooler on Mountain Dew. Buzz, buzz, buzz.

I still did workouts, but once I got the phone calls, I stopped chasing the odd minutes - or hours - that would bring me to my pre-ordained workout time. It simply was not possible. At one point, I'd driven 55 minutes to a trailhead, only to have my phone ring. "Since you're in town, would you be willing to interview at 1:00 today?" Instead of my planned 6-hour hike, I did a 45 minute run (starting elevation 7600 feet = huff and puff), and drove straight back home to get ready.

No one, of course, does this kind of electricity-hecticity alone; suffice it to say I have the best family, friends, and (*sniff*sniff*) set of colleagues a guy could want.

The job I've landed. Will rock. From the moment I saw the posting, I knew. It's me. It's part teaching, part teacher-leadership. I've been doing this kind of mix for the past five years in my current district. I'd been watching CO teaching postings since April (though I couldn't start applying until May because of the red tape in applying for my license - grrr) and I'd seen nothing like it. I was convinced that it did not exist in CO, so when I saw it, woof - my heart leapt. I immediately emailed my references and asked them to tweak my letters of recommendation for this job - THE job - as I referred to it. I wrote and re-wrote my cover letter, had my Sweet (smart, talented, beautiful) Sister help me revise it, and sent it off with fingers crossed.

I got the call May 29th, flew out May 31st, interviewed June 3 & 5, got the job June 6th. Smiles.

Mixed in were calls and an interview for another job - for which I can now cancel my 2nd interview, teaching, writing sub plans, working out, keeping family and friends posted, and ... woof, isn't that enough? I think I earned my Friday Night Freedom and Saturday Sleep.

But now. I have found the one. I will work with kids, I will research reading strategies and apply brain-based research in my classroom, I will team-teach with other professionals, I will analyze the needs of the teachers and the students, and I will be elbow-to-elbow, nose-to-nose with them becoming better teachers and readers.

I am happy about this position.

Nourish

I fought her in fourth grade. She struggled with Reading, Math, Science, Social Studies and me. She stole things, she lied, she alienated her peers.

She stockpiled food. The granola bar and apple I’d give her for breakfast would later be spied in parts – pieces stashed in her locker, her coat pocket, her backpack, her desk. She came to school hungry. She came dirty, tired, cranky, and with toothaches. She in no way could be termed “ready to learn.”

I fed her, yes. I ignored her smell, yes. I gave her pencils and books, stickers and hugs. But make no mistake - I pushed her, yes. Sometimes to tears. She’d leave my room to go to the counselor, to cry. I begged the speech teacher to continue to see her, if only to give her a reprieve from me. To give her another outlet, someone who could be softer, who didn’t feel compelled to teach her, who didn’t see so clearly and believe so dearly that education was her only ticket out.

I fought her in fourth grade.

Now she is in eighth grade, her locker across from my room. She unfailingly greets me when we pass in the hallways, she has joined my book club. She confides in me about her period and boys, her sister, her grandma, and – once in a while – her dad.

This girl I fought in fourth grade. I think she knows. I pushed her, yes. I ignored her smell, yes. I even fed her. But what I really wanted all this time was to nourish her.

Tears in Her Mascara

An adolescent girl walks into my classroom.

She is positively devastated. Her eyes are red and puffy, her nose is running. She dabs carefully at her eyes with her Kleenex so as not to smudge her mascara.

I pull her aside and quietly ask her what's wrong.

She can barely speak, and when she finally does, the tears begin again. "First... at lunch... Alison spilled her chocolate milk on my mashed potatoes. But she paid for it and I got a new one so that's all right." *Sniff* Sniff*

"But then just now in the computer lab, I failed my reading test. And everyone was laughing at me."

TT: "What did they say?"

Tears: "They said I should just relax. That I could take it again in three days."

Oh, for the grown-up, makeup wearing, crying-over-spilt-milk, sweet ones...

Mersault

I swam this morning. Through an agonizing shoulder ache that had me stopping every 100 yards to stretch, that had me doing touch turns instead of flipping. I had to remove myself from Coach and Dolores's lane so I could baby it, but I kept on going. Believing. Hoping...

I meet Mersault in my classroom, stare across the table at him, watch him in perplexed wonder. He is the "hero" from Albert Camus' absurdist novel, The Stranger. He chooses nothing, cares for nothing, tells me "Nothin'" in answer to 90% of my queries. The other 10% are met with shrugs. All actions happen around him. He has no memory, has no past, takes no responsibility for what is done him. He lives school in the passive tense.

This kills me. I know this kid. I have known him since 4th grade. He struggled back then, but we had a relationship. Now - at least by his lights - we don't. He's headed down a bad road. I want to shake him and wake him, say "Take charge of your life, kid!" Instead I cajole, lecture, jolly him along, praise every little attempt - and grind my teeth because the attempts are too few and far between.

Like Mersault, his discomfort leads him to act out. Like Mersault, he shoots a man because he is too hot. The man he shoots is himself. In the foot. In the future.

I want to put him on trial like Mersault. To be judged by his peers, to have to listen. I want to force him to reflect. To see.

This I am wrestling with. I have no happy ending. No solutions to propose except the slow, painful one of consistently staying my course. Of offering him an education every day, of drawing my line in the sand of how much I'll let him disrupt the education of others.

I kept on swimming this morning. Through the pain. I did a lonely 2700 yards in a lane of my own. But I stayed the course. With 500 yards to go, it finally gave. My shoulder loosened up and I hopped back in with Coach and Dolores. I considered it a victory.

Could there be a happy ending yet for my Mersault?