Period six, again. My head is pounding at the end of a long day, in the middle of a long week. The last two weeks of school seem long to students, but I never thought they would seem so long now. With so much to do, I expected time to fly. Days like this one crawl by endlessly, as I repeat lessons two, four, or even six times in just a few hours. Only the students change, whirling through the library classroom as I try to catch up. Usually, I can keep pace, but today I am tired.
Four students sit at the table with me, their spiral notebooks open to a page about the censorship of rap music. They have read the page five times already. I have read it twenty times. I am weary, and so are they, the cycles of this class grown old and weary at the end of the year. I give them cursory instructions, and they sigh and begin to write in the notebooks.
I quickly return to the business from which my students interrupted me when the bell rang. I had been poring, absorbed, over their test scores. The intimidating WASL test, the test for which I was hired to prepare them, had been taken, graded, and returned to me, their teacher, before the students themselves. I do not like secrets much, especially from them, but in order to have all the information I scan the badly formatted Excel spreadsheet, searching for familiar names, hoping to discern happy futures for them from among the rows of letters and numbers.
For several minutes, I hunch into the paper, lost and unaware that the four students have long finished the task I assigned them. They gaze off in all directions, fidget, begin to flip open phones or doodle on the desk. I look up, distracted, and glance over their books. The answers are in disarray, and I see where they have gotten lost, mistakes that could have been avoided had they, as they deserved, had a teacher to help them. Ashamed, I put away the spreadsheet, once again worried by the statement I've accidentally made, ignoring the live students in front of me, the lesson of the day, to gaze at faraway standards, at the futures none of us control now. The test scores are important, I know, but they can be nowhere near as important to me, right now, as the hands, faces, and minds that earned them.
Thursday, June 14, 2007
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Perspective
It must be 80 degrees in the library classroom as I peer over at the clock, wishing away the minutes until I can coast down a series of hills to my doorstep. I have vowed not to drive my car to work on any more sunny school days, and so most of my afternoons these days end with a quiet ride through the Broadview neighborhood, sliding between the cemetery and a row of spacious backyards. Today, it is this cool, green place I am craving while I stare out at the hot, blue-white sky. 80 degrees in here, and I have even taken the proper precautions, pulling the shades down as far as I can bear, cracking the windows and leaving the doors open. It is unavoidable, and we begin to wilt in the heat.
"It's so hot," I moan, probably far more emphatically than any of my students.
"We're dying!" cry the Seattle students, shaking their heads and plotting what outfits they will wear (or rather, NOT wear) to counter the early heat wave. "We're going to burn up in here!"
We surely will roast, I am thinking, dreaming of the tall bottle of water with which I will ward off the rising temperature. A young Islamic girl, wrapped in a veil, long sleeves, and a floor-length, flowy skirt, raises her eyebrows at me.
"Seriously, folks. It's supposed to be 85 tomorrow!"
Another student, from Somalia, wakes up from his reading as I slouch listelessly across the laptop keyboard, teacher poise tossed aside like an unnecessary garment. I glance over the top of the screen to see him grinning.
"Oh!" he cries. "It's good, it's good, it's good, good, good!"
I begin to laugh in the hot, quiet classroom, where my diligent students deal with climate better than I. After a moment they ask why I am laughing, and I can't tell them why. I am laughing about perspective, the lesson I taught so carefully this morning but have forgotten now. I am laughing at myself, the whiny young teacher who can't bear to be cooped up inside during these last four weeks of school. I am laughing not with derision but with delight, delight for my students who waited patiently through eight rainy months and are now rejoicing in the sunshine.
"It's so hot," I moan, probably far more emphatically than any of my students.
"We're dying!" cry the Seattle students, shaking their heads and plotting what outfits they will wear (or rather, NOT wear) to counter the early heat wave. "We're going to burn up in here!"
We surely will roast, I am thinking, dreaming of the tall bottle of water with which I will ward off the rising temperature. A young Islamic girl, wrapped in a veil, long sleeves, and a floor-length, flowy skirt, raises her eyebrows at me.
"Seriously, folks. It's supposed to be 85 tomorrow!"
Another student, from Somalia, wakes up from his reading as I slouch listelessly across the laptop keyboard, teacher poise tossed aside like an unnecessary garment. I glance over the top of the screen to see him grinning.
"Oh!" he cries. "It's good, it's good, it's good, good, good!"
I begin to laugh in the hot, quiet classroom, where my diligent students deal with climate better than I. After a moment they ask why I am laughing, and I can't tell them why. I am laughing about perspective, the lesson I taught so carefully this morning but have forgotten now. I am laughing at myself, the whiny young teacher who can't bear to be cooped up inside during these last four weeks of school. I am laughing not with derision but with delight, delight for my students who waited patiently through eight rainy months and are now rejoicing in the sunshine.
Sunday, May 6, 2007
The Spider and the Saw
“Hey, did you ever see Saw II?” The question is not new, and I have not seen the gruesome horror flick since the last time this student asked me.
“No. Never.” I shake my head and scowl. I probably will never see any of the Saw movies, as they fall into a genre that seems to consist of gory violence heaped onto meager plots, carried out by flavorless characters who mostly die in the end, anyway. Of course, as I am not a consumer of horror movies, I cannot fairly move further than generalizations, but even without particulars I am repelled by covers, posters, previews, and the retellings to which I’m subjected the Monday after one of these gems hits the screen. Always the same wide-eyed awe at scenes of especial brutality. Always the same grimacing, writhing horror as they recall the sights to me, their faces and hands wrinkled up in distaste.
I have been baffled this year by the preoccupation of teenaged boys with this particular brand of violence. In a recent essay in Time, Richard Corliss discusses the effect that “R” ratings have on the teenage audience they mean to keep out:
“The MPAA needs the teen market. Tougher than most other national ratings boards on sexual images in movies, it's far more lenient when it comes to violence. In many countries, Saw was forbidden to those under 18. In the U.S., your 17-year-old could go and chaperone his younger siblings. The argument may be that sexuality is real and disturbs kids more than pretend maiming. But these ratings teach that sex is forbidden and killing is cool. They also tell the world that America is a place where violence rules.”
As this kind of exploitive violence begins to fill the screen—a medium that dictates in such a powerful way the conversations, priorities, and fascinations of our adolescents—I am increasingly skeptical of the teenage response: “Hey, don’t worry about it. It’s just a movie. We know it’s just a movie.” How can that much of that not affect you? And, if that is the case, I’ll be just as worried about the callousness that makes a fifteen-year-old capable of consuming violence without thinking.
Cut to yesterday afternoon, when I went to see Spiderman 3 with my family. For a long 140 minutes, we were wrapped up in a world of Good vs. Evil where, even when the sides were blurry or complicated, right could always be clearly sifted from wrong. A wonderful way to spend an afternoon, escaping into a place where the heroes stumble and fall and rise again, and where the only characters who are truly lost are those who choose to be.
As we left the theater, I bristled at the word “cheesy,” which I heard floating over Market Street from the crowds pouring out into the sunshine. Cheesy? I suppose so. As the shots twisted and turned between New York City skyscrapers, I may have thought that there were holes in this story, or that the pacing was uneven. Fine.
In the end, though, I am unable to mock Spiderman 3 for its shortcomings. The overwhelming voices of pop culture today are screaming that manipulation and violence are the only means to success, and that a giant stack of cash is as good as it gets. The top-grossing films among young people generally end with pools of blood and nameless victims. When I see the grotesque values implicitly and explicitly peddled to teenagers, I can’t help but applaud a mainstream blockbuster that tackles friendship, forgiveness, and unscrupulous ambition. If one of my ninth-grade boys for once leaves a theater considering how forgiveness is related to friendship, then I am willing to forgive far more clumsy storytelling than that. Spiderman 3 was meant to have a record-breaking opening weekend. For my part, I hope that it did.
“No. Never.” I shake my head and scowl. I probably will never see any of the Saw movies, as they fall into a genre that seems to consist of gory violence heaped onto meager plots, carried out by flavorless characters who mostly die in the end, anyway. Of course, as I am not a consumer of horror movies, I cannot fairly move further than generalizations, but even without particulars I am repelled by covers, posters, previews, and the retellings to which I’m subjected the Monday after one of these gems hits the screen. Always the same wide-eyed awe at scenes of especial brutality. Always the same grimacing, writhing horror as they recall the sights to me, their faces and hands wrinkled up in distaste.
I have been baffled this year by the preoccupation of teenaged boys with this particular brand of violence. In a recent essay in Time, Richard Corliss discusses the effect that “R” ratings have on the teenage audience they mean to keep out:
“The MPAA needs the teen market. Tougher than most other national ratings boards on sexual images in movies, it's far more lenient when it comes to violence. In many countries, Saw was forbidden to those under 18. In the U.S., your 17-year-old could go and chaperone his younger siblings. The argument may be that sexuality is real and disturbs kids more than pretend maiming. But these ratings teach that sex is forbidden and killing is cool. They also tell the world that America is a place where violence rules.”
As this kind of exploitive violence begins to fill the screen—a medium that dictates in such a powerful way the conversations, priorities, and fascinations of our adolescents—I am increasingly skeptical of the teenage response: “Hey, don’t worry about it. It’s just a movie. We know it’s just a movie.” How can that much of that not affect you? And, if that is the case, I’ll be just as worried about the callousness that makes a fifteen-year-old capable of consuming violence without thinking.
Cut to yesterday afternoon, when I went to see Spiderman 3 with my family. For a long 140 minutes, we were wrapped up in a world of Good vs. Evil where, even when the sides were blurry or complicated, right could always be clearly sifted from wrong. A wonderful way to spend an afternoon, escaping into a place where the heroes stumble and fall and rise again, and where the only characters who are truly lost are those who choose to be.
As we left the theater, I bristled at the word “cheesy,” which I heard floating over Market Street from the crowds pouring out into the sunshine. Cheesy? I suppose so. As the shots twisted and turned between New York City skyscrapers, I may have thought that there were holes in this story, or that the pacing was uneven. Fine.
In the end, though, I am unable to mock Spiderman 3 for its shortcomings. The overwhelming voices of pop culture today are screaming that manipulation and violence are the only means to success, and that a giant stack of cash is as good as it gets. The top-grossing films among young people generally end with pools of blood and nameless victims. When I see the grotesque values implicitly and explicitly peddled to teenagers, I can’t help but applaud a mainstream blockbuster that tackles friendship, forgiveness, and unscrupulous ambition. If one of my ninth-grade boys for once leaves a theater considering how forgiveness is related to friendship, then I am willing to forgive far more clumsy storytelling than that. Spiderman 3 was meant to have a record-breaking opening weekend. For my part, I hope that it did.
Wednesday, May 2, 2007
New Seasons
“Hey, Ms. D,” a student greets me as he walks in a few minutes after class has started.
“Welcome,” I reply, glancing up from the lesson I’m teaching.
“Sorry I’m late.” He sits down quietly, gets out his binder, and begins to work on his independent project. Just like that. No coaxing or cajoling. He just starts writing.
I stare at him for a moment in unmasked curiosity, but he is too busy to notice. He apologized for being late. He never apologizes. In fact, he usually begins on the defensive, entering the room and saying, all in one breath, "ImnotlateIhaveapassdontmarkmelate!" Today he apologized.
“No worries. Thanks for being here.” I return to the lesson; he bends his head toward the paper in concentration. I understand after a few minutes. He was not apologizing for being late. Or not ONLY for being late.
I think back to five hours before, when he was in my first class, of an irritating interaction with him that ended with a wordless stare from the front of the room. I have often found this silence a better—and safer—correction than anything I can say. Now, he is working quietly, a model of politeness and generosity. This is his apology.
The sun is shining again in the library, while my students read busily. We have reached a rare equilibrium, that comfortable place where I can trust them to work hard and they can trust me, in return, not to bother them too much. There is a time for direct instruction, for those lectures and announcements at the front of the room, but this is not it. For a moment, I am silent, free to enjoy the return of light.
The routines of life here at Ingraham—perhaps as a teacher, in general—allow me to appreciate fully, as I never have before, the seasonal nature of life. Before this, years have been divided into artificial sections by activities. I had Cross-Country Season, AP Test season, College Application season, Playing-Frisbee-on-the-Lawn-Behind-Hill-Hall season, SMC Application season, Frappucino Season, and (as an accountant’s assistant) tax season. Like real seasons, these had their routines, things I could expect as the times returned each year. Unlike them, however, these seasons were not constant through the changes of my life. As I left high school, jobs, and finally college, I left behind the seasons that had marked my life.
Now, I have new artificial seasons, which divide life into Summer and School. Summers are short and unpredictable. The long school year, on the other hand, stretches through three seasons, carrying the earth from summer through autumn, winter, spring, and back again to summer. Each day, between 7:00 and 7:20 AM, I turn north off of Greenwood and greet the sun in a new place in the sky, hanging eagerly over the Cascades in the early morning. Daylight savings affords me extra sunrise drives, extra hours when the sunlight spills golden down the eastward-facing hallways in the school, reflecting in gilded pools on the linoleum. My five weekly apples get expensive and mealy in time for me to purchase oranges, then grapes, strawberries, bananas. And the year spirals around on itself. Winter, miraculously, turns to spring again while we go through the rituals of our days together.
This pendulum is so symbolic, for me, of the relationships I have developed with my students. I had once believed that student-teacher relationships were static, for better or worse, decided by circumstances very early in the year. I now know that, like the length and temperature of days, there are cycles, patterns, to each one. Just like any other relationship, we have our ups and downs. We make mistakes and jokes. We hurt and apologize. We forgive. We forget. We laugh again.
This student, now diligently reading across the room, has traveled from cruel to kind in under six hours. Neither version of him was false. There are days when I leave school delighted, and others when I wish I never had to return. Every afternoon, however, I know that I will return the next morning. We will have to solve our problems, get to know one another, understand when to speak and when to remain silent. There is no escape, and for that I am daily thankful. The hard days will not last forever. They may not even last a whole day.
“Welcome,” I reply, glancing up from the lesson I’m teaching.
“Sorry I’m late.” He sits down quietly, gets out his binder, and begins to work on his independent project. Just like that. No coaxing or cajoling. He just starts writing.
I stare at him for a moment in unmasked curiosity, but he is too busy to notice. He apologized for being late. He never apologizes. In fact, he usually begins on the defensive, entering the room and saying, all in one breath, "ImnotlateIhaveapassdontmarkmelate!" Today he apologized.
“No worries. Thanks for being here.” I return to the lesson; he bends his head toward the paper in concentration. I understand after a few minutes. He was not apologizing for being late. Or not ONLY for being late.
I think back to five hours before, when he was in my first class, of an irritating interaction with him that ended with a wordless stare from the front of the room. I have often found this silence a better—and safer—correction than anything I can say. Now, he is working quietly, a model of politeness and generosity. This is his apology.
The sun is shining again in the library, while my students read busily. We have reached a rare equilibrium, that comfortable place where I can trust them to work hard and they can trust me, in return, not to bother them too much. There is a time for direct instruction, for those lectures and announcements at the front of the room, but this is not it. For a moment, I am silent, free to enjoy the return of light.
The routines of life here at Ingraham—perhaps as a teacher, in general—allow me to appreciate fully, as I never have before, the seasonal nature of life. Before this, years have been divided into artificial sections by activities. I had Cross-Country Season, AP Test season, College Application season, Playing-Frisbee-on-the-Lawn-Behind-Hill-Hall season, SMC Application season, Frappucino Season, and (as an accountant’s assistant) tax season. Like real seasons, these had their routines, things I could expect as the times returned each year. Unlike them, however, these seasons were not constant through the changes of my life. As I left high school, jobs, and finally college, I left behind the seasons that had marked my life.
Now, I have new artificial seasons, which divide life into Summer and School. Summers are short and unpredictable. The long school year, on the other hand, stretches through three seasons, carrying the earth from summer through autumn, winter, spring, and back again to summer. Each day, between 7:00 and 7:20 AM, I turn north off of Greenwood and greet the sun in a new place in the sky, hanging eagerly over the Cascades in the early morning. Daylight savings affords me extra sunrise drives, extra hours when the sunlight spills golden down the eastward-facing hallways in the school, reflecting in gilded pools on the linoleum. My five weekly apples get expensive and mealy in time for me to purchase oranges, then grapes, strawberries, bananas. And the year spirals around on itself. Winter, miraculously, turns to spring again while we go through the rituals of our days together.
This pendulum is so symbolic, for me, of the relationships I have developed with my students. I had once believed that student-teacher relationships were static, for better or worse, decided by circumstances very early in the year. I now know that, like the length and temperature of days, there are cycles, patterns, to each one. Just like any other relationship, we have our ups and downs. We make mistakes and jokes. We hurt and apologize. We forgive. We forget. We laugh again.
This student, now diligently reading across the room, has traveled from cruel to kind in under six hours. Neither version of him was false. There are days when I leave school delighted, and others when I wish I never had to return. Every afternoon, however, I know that I will return the next morning. We will have to solve our problems, get to know one another, understand when to speak and when to remain silent. There is no escape, and for that I am daily thankful. The hard days will not last forever. They may not even last a whole day.
Sunday, March 4, 2007
Grace vs. Three Tries
“Oh, good news! The District is pre-registering you all for the WASL!”
Such declarations, no matter with how much enthusiasm I introduce them, invariably bring groans of angst and rage from my Academic Reading students. Perhaps they have forgotten that “Academic Reading,” even though it looks excellent as an elective on their transcripts and even though their teacher explains that “reading is an essential part to living a full and successful life,” is primarily a preparation for the Washington Assessment of Student Learning, or WASL. Most of them are eleventh graders and have taken the test already. They do not relish the thought of returning again to a room full of sophomores and revisiting the test that threatens to keep them in high school indefinitely.
“Wait, we have to take it again?” one student jokes.
There it begins, an onslaught of questions about the test, which will take many minutes to untangle. I hope that this is a testimony of the focus of their learning, that they are becoming lifelong readers and writers and that the test will merely be a blip in a year full of such pursuits.
“Hold on,” one girl interrupts, as I explain the testing schedule for the seventh time. “What if we don’t pass it this time?”
None of them have verbalized this fear yet, though it certainly keeps me awake at nights. I look at all of them, waiting expectantly for some loophole that will whisk them and their diplomas magically off to college in eighteen months. I understand why we must have standards, understand the dangers of inflated diplomas and backsliding schools, though perhaps they do not. Still, I wish I had a better answer.
“You can take it during the summer. At the WASL college. You know, summer school.”
They don’t like this, but they seem to grasp the gravity of the situation.
“But what if we don’t pass it again?” another student sighs. She quickly realizes the answer, and gasps, “Senior year? We have to take it again senior year!”
“Three more tries!” I cry optimistically. “You can get there. Just don’t panic! And the good news is…”
“…the District is pre-registering us!” someone finishes, imitating my excitement.
“Exactly. Now, let’s take the practice test. Always practice.”
They get to work, and I try to imagine that their pencils move more fluidly than they did a few months ago. Certainly some of them have gained confidence, which will be a valuable ally as they approach the fearsome exam. Perhaps, like little Davids, the sundry pebbles of reading and writing skills they have learned this year will be enough to conquer the Goliath test.
This test invariably takes me back to thoughts of grace. These students have three tries to complete this requirement before their graduations are delayed. What if I had only three more tries to become proficient in love, to master forgiveness, to achieve grade-level patience? How marvelous does this endless supply of grace, this new-every-morning-faithfulness, appear as I continue to work in a place where chances for success are few, and too many failures can alter forever the course of their lives. How thankful I am that I can learn the same lesson again and again, in the circuitous paths of my life, each time seeing more, rubbing away at the fog of insecurity, fear, and pride to reveal the clear windows of truth. How precious does this grace appear...
Such declarations, no matter with how much enthusiasm I introduce them, invariably bring groans of angst and rage from my Academic Reading students. Perhaps they have forgotten that “Academic Reading,” even though it looks excellent as an elective on their transcripts and even though their teacher explains that “reading is an essential part to living a full and successful life,” is primarily a preparation for the Washington Assessment of Student Learning, or WASL. Most of them are eleventh graders and have taken the test already. They do not relish the thought of returning again to a room full of sophomores and revisiting the test that threatens to keep them in high school indefinitely.
“Wait, we have to take it again?” one student jokes.
There it begins, an onslaught of questions about the test, which will take many minutes to untangle. I hope that this is a testimony of the focus of their learning, that they are becoming lifelong readers and writers and that the test will merely be a blip in a year full of such pursuits.
“Hold on,” one girl interrupts, as I explain the testing schedule for the seventh time. “What if we don’t pass it this time?”
None of them have verbalized this fear yet, though it certainly keeps me awake at nights. I look at all of them, waiting expectantly for some loophole that will whisk them and their diplomas magically off to college in eighteen months. I understand why we must have standards, understand the dangers of inflated diplomas and backsliding schools, though perhaps they do not. Still, I wish I had a better answer.
“You can take it during the summer. At the WASL college. You know, summer school.”
They don’t like this, but they seem to grasp the gravity of the situation.
“But what if we don’t pass it again?” another student sighs. She quickly realizes the answer, and gasps, “Senior year? We have to take it again senior year!”
“Three more tries!” I cry optimistically. “You can get there. Just don’t panic! And the good news is…”
“…the District is pre-registering us!” someone finishes, imitating my excitement.
“Exactly. Now, let’s take the practice test. Always practice.”
They get to work, and I try to imagine that their pencils move more fluidly than they did a few months ago. Certainly some of them have gained confidence, which will be a valuable ally as they approach the fearsome exam. Perhaps, like little Davids, the sundry pebbles of reading and writing skills they have learned this year will be enough to conquer the Goliath test.
This test invariably takes me back to thoughts of grace. These students have three tries to complete this requirement before their graduations are delayed. What if I had only three more tries to become proficient in love, to master forgiveness, to achieve grade-level patience? How marvelous does this endless supply of grace, this new-every-morning-faithfulness, appear as I continue to work in a place where chances for success are few, and too many failures can alter forever the course of their lives. How thankful I am that I can learn the same lesson again and again, in the circuitous paths of my life, each time seeing more, rubbing away at the fog of insecurity, fear, and pride to reveal the clear windows of truth. How precious does this grace appear...
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
The Snowman
The day has been short, as most days after these snowstorms have been. Classes are reduced to a meager 35 minutes, an awkward amount of time that is just enough that I have to plan something meaningful, but not enough for the students to focus on it. The memory of a pleasant Tuesday, spent basking in front of a woodstove in the company of friends, is not fixing this Wednesday. By fifth period, I am in a hectic mood, juggling the tasks of teaching with the tasks of stretching, twisting, and cramming the material of the last week into a few days.
It is into this fell mood that one of my students unwittingly stumbles. Though he comes to class sporadically, he is quiet and amiable and I am glad to see him here today. I know little about him, except that he loves chicken and passes most of his time with video games. He looks up from the book he has been non-committally reading and stares at the laptop computer on the table.
The laptop, perhaps as a concession for the lack of desk, chair, bulletin board, clock, overhead projector, and other classroom amenities, was granted to me by some mysterious district funding early this year. It is a Dell, speedy but unreliable, riddled with enigmatic error messages and random "breaks" from the nextwork connection. Still, the laptop is brand new, and as such it is a revered object for all of us. My student now watches it intently, and I follow his eyes.
"What are you looking at?" I finally ask.
"The laptop. Does it play DVDs?"
"Yes. They all do. All of the new computers."
He smiles, a rare occurrence, and looks back at his book for a moment. Only a second later, he looks back at me.
"Hey."
"Hmm?"
"Can I play a DVD on your computer?"
I raise my eyebrows pretentiously and shake my head without giving it much thought. We are too busy for DVDs I have not seen. Anything could be on that DVD. Of course not.
"Probably not. We have class to do today."
He looks back at me skeptically, then at the other students, who are reading next to him, but he wisely remains quiet. "If we have time? At the end of class?"
"We'll see," I answer primly.
Class passes by in all of its reading glory, and I cling to the feeling of frantic hurry. We have to fill every moment reading, because we have already lost FIVE DAYS to the capricious weather. I finish reading Jerry Spinelli's Stargirl, which we have been reading for months, and ask them questions about the end of the book. Oddly enough, their input dies down several minutes before the end of class. The patient student brightens.
"Can we watch it now?"
I am out of excuses and, amazingly, out of activities. "What is it? Will this get me in trouble? Is it appropriate for class?" My questions are naive, perhaps, but I have to ask.
"It's just a movie I made yesterday," he hesitates, then adding. "It's what I did on the snow day."
"What is it?" I repeat.
"We... we knocked down a snowman. It's just two minutes. Please?"
I have never seen him so interested in anything, and I am curious, so we put in the DVD, dubiously titled "Snowman Gets Owned." I can't get the sound to work on the laptop, so we watch a silent film of my student and his neighbor. It is edited, with repeated clips and slow motion scenes of the two boys, building, jumping on top of and against, and finally tackling a giant snowman. I can tell he is proud of it, proud to show his work to this small class, proud of the giggles he recieves from his classmates.
I am humbled by my skepticisim, properly rebuked for my arrogance. Again I ponder the balance between academics and community, the balance I saw so clearly in college and again struggle with here in high school. So easy to feel too busy to listen, too busy to pause, too busy to laugh. The lesson was important, but perhaps not the only important thing. Where is the equilibrium, a classroom in which students are both challenged and safe, learning new skills and honored for their gifts?
The bell rings as the credits roll, and students head for the door. "Hey," I call after him. "That was nice work. Thanks for bringing it." He shrugs, seventeen again and shy of success and retrieves his masterpiece with a smile.
It is into this fell mood that one of my students unwittingly stumbles. Though he comes to class sporadically, he is quiet and amiable and I am glad to see him here today. I know little about him, except that he loves chicken and passes most of his time with video games. He looks up from the book he has been non-committally reading and stares at the laptop computer on the table.
The laptop, perhaps as a concession for the lack of desk, chair, bulletin board, clock, overhead projector, and other classroom amenities, was granted to me by some mysterious district funding early this year. It is a Dell, speedy but unreliable, riddled with enigmatic error messages and random "breaks" from the nextwork connection. Still, the laptop is brand new, and as such it is a revered object for all of us. My student now watches it intently, and I follow his eyes.
"What are you looking at?" I finally ask.
"The laptop. Does it play DVDs?"
"Yes. They all do. All of the new computers."
He smiles, a rare occurrence, and looks back at his book for a moment. Only a second later, he looks back at me.
"Hey."
"Hmm?"
"Can I play a DVD on your computer?"
I raise my eyebrows pretentiously and shake my head without giving it much thought. We are too busy for DVDs I have not seen. Anything could be on that DVD. Of course not.
"Probably not. We have class to do today."
He looks back at me skeptically, then at the other students, who are reading next to him, but he wisely remains quiet. "If we have time? At the end of class?"
"We'll see," I answer primly.
Class passes by in all of its reading glory, and I cling to the feeling of frantic hurry. We have to fill every moment reading, because we have already lost FIVE DAYS to the capricious weather. I finish reading Jerry Spinelli's Stargirl, which we have been reading for months, and ask them questions about the end of the book. Oddly enough, their input dies down several minutes before the end of class. The patient student brightens.
"Can we watch it now?"
I am out of excuses and, amazingly, out of activities. "What is it? Will this get me in trouble? Is it appropriate for class?" My questions are naive, perhaps, but I have to ask.
"It's just a movie I made yesterday," he hesitates, then adding. "It's what I did on the snow day."
"What is it?" I repeat.
"We... we knocked down a snowman. It's just two minutes. Please?"
I have never seen him so interested in anything, and I am curious, so we put in the DVD, dubiously titled "Snowman Gets Owned." I can't get the sound to work on the laptop, so we watch a silent film of my student and his neighbor. It is edited, with repeated clips and slow motion scenes of the two boys, building, jumping on top of and against, and finally tackling a giant snowman. I can tell he is proud of it, proud to show his work to this small class, proud of the giggles he recieves from his classmates.
I am humbled by my skepticisim, properly rebuked for my arrogance. Again I ponder the balance between academics and community, the balance I saw so clearly in college and again struggle with here in high school. So easy to feel too busy to listen, too busy to pause, too busy to laugh. The lesson was important, but perhaps not the only important thing. Where is the equilibrium, a classroom in which students are both challenged and safe, learning new skills and honored for their gifts?
The bell rings as the credits roll, and students head for the door. "Hey," I call after him. "That was nice work. Thanks for bringing it." He shrugs, seventeen again and shy of success and retrieves his masterpiece with a smile.
Monday, January 1, 2007
But I Have Promises to Keep
The woods are lovely, dark and deep
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
Robert Frost is on my mind as I trudge through eighteen inches of new snow at the Lake Wentatchee YMCA camp, where I am staying with the Bethany Community Church youth group over New Years'. Silent woods surround me, grey and black, barren trees conferring together on the pale, glowing ground of snow, mysterious woods calling with almost audible voices. But the plastic sled I drag behind me reminds me that I have a task to complete, that I must stay on the path and save wandering in snowy woods for another night. I am going to the woodshed.
"How did you sleep?" I asked a fellow youth leader at breakfast this morning.
He yawned and responded, "Oh, not good at all. I was up all night, keeping the fire going in our cabin. It was worth it, though," he nodded, smiling with satisfaction. "We were warm this morning. You?"
I grimaced at the memory of waking up to a below-freezing temperature inside my insulation-free cabin, pulling on icy jeans in my sleeping bag. "We were a little colder."
"Did you let the fire go out?"
"I... well, I was expecting... yes," I muttered. Excuses were plentiful. Yes, I spent many years in homes with wood heat, learning all the principles of not touching hot stoves and hauling split wood onto the porch, but at age eleven my responsibilities had ended there. I knew nothing about fires--how could I be expected to make one last through the whole night?
Excuses aside, the cold-morning truth was that I had gone soundly to sleep after I shoved a log into the woodstove at midnight, and did not wake until I could see my breath in the dim light of dawn. I, and no one else, had let the fire go out.
Like Frost's wanderer, I now have a promise to keep--I have promised four high school girls that they will pass a better night, and wake to a warmer morning. I pull the sled along the path and weigh it down with logs and kindling. I return to the empty cabin and carefully arrange the many sizes of wood, blowing and fanning the flames, gaurding the hot iron box as if were the only test of my responsibility, my adulthood, my love for these students.
I wonder who was waiting for the forest-loving traveler, what promises he had to keep, and if he regretted leaving the snowy woods behind him? As I sit near the warmth of a glowing fire and listen to the crackle of burning wood, knowing that people I love will be warm in the morning, I have no regrets.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
Robert Frost is on my mind as I trudge through eighteen inches of new snow at the Lake Wentatchee YMCA camp, where I am staying with the Bethany Community Church youth group over New Years'. Silent woods surround me, grey and black, barren trees conferring together on the pale, glowing ground of snow, mysterious woods calling with almost audible voices. But the plastic sled I drag behind me reminds me that I have a task to complete, that I must stay on the path and save wandering in snowy woods for another night. I am going to the woodshed.
"How did you sleep?" I asked a fellow youth leader at breakfast this morning.
He yawned and responded, "Oh, not good at all. I was up all night, keeping the fire going in our cabin. It was worth it, though," he nodded, smiling with satisfaction. "We were warm this morning. You?"
I grimaced at the memory of waking up to a below-freezing temperature inside my insulation-free cabin, pulling on icy jeans in my sleeping bag. "We were a little colder."
"Did you let the fire go out?"
"I... well, I was expecting... yes," I muttered. Excuses were plentiful. Yes, I spent many years in homes with wood heat, learning all the principles of not touching hot stoves and hauling split wood onto the porch, but at age eleven my responsibilities had ended there. I knew nothing about fires--how could I be expected to make one last through the whole night?
Excuses aside, the cold-morning truth was that I had gone soundly to sleep after I shoved a log into the woodstove at midnight, and did not wake until I could see my breath in the dim light of dawn. I, and no one else, had let the fire go out.
Like Frost's wanderer, I now have a promise to keep--I have promised four high school girls that they will pass a better night, and wake to a warmer morning. I pull the sled along the path and weigh it down with logs and kindling. I return to the empty cabin and carefully arrange the many sizes of wood, blowing and fanning the flames, gaurding the hot iron box as if were the only test of my responsibility, my adulthood, my love for these students.
I wonder who was waiting for the forest-loving traveler, what promises he had to keep, and if he regretted leaving the snowy woods behind him? As I sit near the warmth of a glowing fire and listen to the crackle of burning wood, knowing that people I love will be warm in the morning, I have no regrets.
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