A little glimpse of an afternoon in Miss Sullivan’s circus:
Student one: Crafting a big sign that reads “Jay Tee is MAN” tapping it on the wall and sitting with his legs in a butterfly looking at his creation.
Student two: Balling up paper and throwing it at my feet.
Student three: Reading out loud with me every time I turn my back to him.
Student four: Listening and following along as I read.
Student five: Gazing across the room at student six, the girl he “loves”
Student six: Pulling out chunks of her weave.
Student seven: Holding his hands in front of his face and counting his fingers out loud, with no idea that anyone is looking at him like he is crazy.
Student eight: Throwing a piece of fuzz up in the air and catching it.
Student nine: Moving chair directly behind me as I write on the board so when I turn around she is less than a foot away, with her ears plugged by the way.
Student ten: Laughing in his wheelchair because the class is out of control.
Student eleven: Suspended and sitting at home because he punched someone in the face.
Student twelve: Sitting at home because her mom and mom’s boyfriend punched another one of my student’s moms in the face.
Student thirteen: Coloring me a sign that says “I love Sarah”
Student fourteen: Counting down the 14 days of school until SUMMER!
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Friday, May 16, 2008
From an article I read:
Who will tell the people? We are not who we think we are. We are living on borrowed time and borrowed dimes. We still have all the potential for greatness, but only if we get back to work on our country.
I don’t know if Barack Obama can lead that, but the notion that the idealism he has inspired in so many young people doesn’t matter is dead wrong. “Of course, hope alone is not enough,” says Tim Shriver, chairman of Special Olympics, “but it’s not trivial. It’s not trivial to inspire people to want to get up and do something with someone else.”
It is especially not trivial now, because millions of Americans are dying to be enlisted — enlisted to fix education, enlisted to research renewable energy, enlisted to repair our infrastructure, enlisted to help others. Look at the kids lining up to join Teach for America. They want our country to matter again. They want it to be about building wealth and dignity — big profits and big purposes. When we just do one, we are less than the sum of our parts. When we do both, said Shriver, “no one can touch us.”
I don’t know if Barack Obama can lead that, but the notion that the idealism he has inspired in so many young people doesn’t matter is dead wrong. “Of course, hope alone is not enough,” says Tim Shriver, chairman of Special Olympics, “but it’s not trivial. It’s not trivial to inspire people to want to get up and do something with someone else.”
It is especially not trivial now, because millions of Americans are dying to be enlisted — enlisted to fix education, enlisted to research renewable energy, enlisted to repair our infrastructure, enlisted to help others. Look at the kids lining up to join Teach for America. They want our country to matter again. They want it to be about building wealth and dignity — big profits and big purposes. When we just do one, we are less than the sum of our parts. When we do both, said Shriver, “no one can touch us.”
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Terrible Tuesday Strikes Back
It’s one of those days as “Terrible Tuesdays” so often seem to be. I had a bad day with my class and then everything else in life seems to be reflected in this dark shadow. Dramatic I know, but that’s just the way it is sometimes. I feel bad about my class, not teaching them enough, not being able to control them. I feel like I am not living up to TFA standards, I wonder how and if I will ever be good at this. I feel like if I leave after two years I won’t be satisfied with the job I did and feel guilty for coming in and out of this broken system so quickly as if I am giving up on it. Am I wasting my talents here? Could I be better used in a different way? This is a crazy journey and I just have to keep holding on.
We got our standardized test results back last week. I don’t have anything to compare it to, so really I don’t know what to think. I was disappointed that some of my students didn’t do better, when I know that they are smarter than they showed. But I was also happy with the scores many of my kids came out with.
And after all….It is nice to hear quality leaders complimenting TFA:
"People were saying, 'Don't expect growth the first year,' " Mr. Vallas(RSD Superintendent) said. "We saw growth the first year." Mr. Vallas attributed many of the improvements in testing to the new teachers. "The biggest contributing factor was the quality of the instructors," he said. Classes are smaller, many of the teachers are youthful imports brought in by groups like Teach for America, principals have been reshuffled or removed, school-hours remedial programs have been intensified, and after-school programs to help students increased."
ADAM NOSSITER (NY Times) Changes at New Orleans Schools Bring Gains in Test Scores
We got our standardized test results back last week. I don’t have anything to compare it to, so really I don’t know what to think. I was disappointed that some of my students didn’t do better, when I know that they are smarter than they showed. But I was also happy with the scores many of my kids came out with.
And after all….It is nice to hear quality leaders complimenting TFA:
"People were saying, 'Don't expect growth the first year,' " Mr. Vallas(RSD Superintendent) said. "We saw growth the first year." Mr. Vallas attributed many of the improvements in testing to the new teachers. "The biggest contributing factor was the quality of the instructors," he said. Classes are smaller, many of the teachers are youthful imports brought in by groups like Teach for America, principals have been reshuffled or removed, school-hours remedial programs have been intensified, and after-school programs to help students increased."
ADAM NOSSITER (NY Times) Changes at New Orleans Schools Bring Gains in Test Scores
Sunday, May 11, 2008
Para mi Madre
A mother of three adoring daughters.
Who is devoted to her family and friends.
A follower of Christ.
Who is fun and compassionate.
A lover of the outdoors, a good book, and happy hour with her girlfriends.
Who is generous and thoughtful.
A beautiful spirit that shines to those are her.
Who has made sacrifice after sacrifice for her family.
A teacher, cook, and caring friend.
Who is beautiful inside and out and works hard and is loved so very deeply.
HAPPY MOTHERS DAY:)
Who is devoted to her family and friends.
A follower of Christ.
Who is fun and compassionate.
A lover of the outdoors, a good book, and happy hour with her girlfriends.
Who is generous and thoughtful.
A beautiful spirit that shines to those are her.
Who has made sacrifice after sacrifice for her family.
A teacher, cook, and caring friend.
Who is beautiful inside and out and works hard and is loved so very deeply.
HAPPY MOTHERS DAY:)
I don't think we will ever be even.
The Lanyard
Billy Collins
The other day I was ricocheting slowly
off the blue walls of this room,
moving as if underwater from typewriter to piano,
from bookshelf to an envelope lying on the floor,
when I found myself in the L section of the dictionary
where my eyes fell upon the word lanyard.
No cookie nibbled by a French novelist
could send one into the past more suddenly—
a past where I sat at a workbench at a camp
by a deep Adirondack lake
learning how to braid long thin plastic strips
into a lanyard, a gift for my mother.
I had never seen anyone use a lanyard
or wear one, if that’s what you did with them,
but that did not keep me from crossing
strand over strand again and again
until I had made a boxy
red and white lanyard for my mother.
She gave me life and milk from her breasts,
and I gave her a lanyard.
She nursed me in many a sick room,
lifted spoons of medicine to my lips,
laid cold face-cloths on my forehead,
and then led me out into the airy light
and taught me to walk and swim,
and I, in turn, presented her with a lanyard.
Here are thousands of meals, she said,
and here is clothing and a good education.
And here is your lanyard, I replied,
which I made with a little help from a counselor.
Here is a breathing body and a beating heart,
strong legs, bones and teeth,
and two clear eyes to read the world, she whispered,
and here, I said, is the lanyard I made at camp.
And here, I wish to say to her now,
is a smaller gift—not the worn truth
that you can never repay your mother,
but the rueful admission that when she took
the two-tone lanyard from my hand,
I was as sure as a boy could be
that this useless, worthless thing I wove
out of boredom would be enough to make us even.
Billy Collins
The other day I was ricocheting slowly
off the blue walls of this room,
moving as if underwater from typewriter to piano,
from bookshelf to an envelope lying on the floor,
when I found myself in the L section of the dictionary
where my eyes fell upon the word lanyard.
No cookie nibbled by a French novelist
could send one into the past more suddenly—
a past where I sat at a workbench at a camp
by a deep Adirondack lake
learning how to braid long thin plastic strips
into a lanyard, a gift for my mother.
I had never seen anyone use a lanyard
or wear one, if that’s what you did with them,
but that did not keep me from crossing
strand over strand again and again
until I had made a boxy
red and white lanyard for my mother.
She gave me life and milk from her breasts,
and I gave her a lanyard.
She nursed me in many a sick room,
lifted spoons of medicine to my lips,
laid cold face-cloths on my forehead,
and then led me out into the airy light
and taught me to walk and swim,
and I, in turn, presented her with a lanyard.
Here are thousands of meals, she said,
and here is clothing and a good education.
And here is your lanyard, I replied,
which I made with a little help from a counselor.
Here is a breathing body and a beating heart,
strong legs, bones and teeth,
and two clear eyes to read the world, she whispered,
and here, I said, is the lanyard I made at camp.
And here, I wish to say to her now,
is a smaller gift—not the worn truth
that you can never repay your mother,
but the rueful admission that when she took
the two-tone lanyard from my hand,
I was as sure as a boy could be
that this useless, worthless thing I wove
out of boredom would be enough to make us even.
Saturday, May 10, 2008
A heartbreaker.
One of my favorite students who also is one of my worst behavior problems let me hug him yesterday. It was one of those hugs that you can tell the other person just needs. You wrap your arms around and they just seem to melt – their shoulders relax and they feel comfortable with you. He never lets me hug him. If I ever try he either wiggles away laughing or worse if he is mad he will violently spin around hitting at my arms or stomping at my feet. No matter how many times my kids get mad, roll their eyes, tell me they hate the class, they don’t care what I say, or for me to get away from them I think they all know that I am on their team. I love them and care about them as students and as people. I don’t think any of them could or would want to make an argument to the contrary. When I gave the student the hug he was telling me about how his mom is on house arrest. Not a surprise to me since I did take a trip to the police station last week for him, his brother and cousin.
I walked out of school, in a hurry, heading to a meeting at the Teach For America office. When I got to the parking lot there was a bus, but the busses had already left an hour before so I knew something wasn’t right. Walking toward the bus it wasn’t hard to recognize the students wearing light blue shirts instead of the royal blue of our school uniform. They hollered my name a waved with smiles on their faces. The bus driver said she stopped at their place three different times and no one came out to pick them up. She needed to go to her next job so we began dialing all the numbers we had. Disconnected, no answer, does not accept incoming calls and finally there was a hello. A cousin, a four-year-old cousin, answering the phone at the house they stay at after school. After a few questions it was determined that no his parents could not come to the phone because they were not home. His twin brothers were home, but they couldn’t get on the line either – they are only one. Let me clarify this for you – this was a four year old at home babysitting two twin one year olds. So I began asking my student some questions;
Who is home when you get home from school? – my 4 year old cousin, the one year old twins and my little brother. How old is your brother? – 1. Three 1 year olds are at the house every afternoon? – yeah. What time does your mom get home? – 10 at night. Where is your auntie? – at work too. Are there any adults at your house? – at 10 when we go to sleep. What do you eat for dinner? – they leave us stuff to microwave or we make something. What do you make? – cereal or sandwiches. So everyday there are 7 of you home? – yeah sometimes 8.
My 9 year old is the oldest out of seven kids home from 4-10pm: 9, 7, 6, 4, 1, 1, 1. Can one-year-olds eat sandwiches? No wonder why they never do their homework. No wonder why he is angry. He is not a kid. He is a 9 year old forced to be an adult. So I hug him, I tell him how brilliant he is, I don’t give him an excuse for his behavior, but I let him walk it off in the hall where he isn’t bothering anyone, I come to school everyday, and I absolutely never quit because I can’t abandon him. And I hug him again.
The three kids were excited to crawl in the back of a police car. I wanted to cry, but I smiled anyway. They showed me the computer and asked the police officer lots of questions. They decided they all wanted to be police officers. I hope the next time they are in the police car they are in the front seat driving, not in the back. I drove to the police station. I was scared; there is something wrong when you feel that unsafe at a police station. I thought I might get jumped making my way through the abandoned cars in the back alleyway up to the trailer where I was directed. People stood outside and starred at me. I didn’t fit in, I felt nervous. I knocked on the door, no answer. The others waiting told me between their angry curses that they were in there I should knock again. I did and a man opened the door a crack – I told him I was coming to be with the students they just picked up from Fannie C. He said, “who you?” I told him I was their teacher and he shut the door. A few seconds later another man stuck his head out and said he found the mother and they were at the house. I went home.
The next morning I came in to the office to see a mug shot of their mother that one of the administrators had pulled up online and printed off. And now according to my student she is home from jail, but on house arrest. But she can still leave to go to work. So I asked so now who stays home with you and your cousins after school? –nobody, we still stay by ourselves.
I walked out of school, in a hurry, heading to a meeting at the Teach For America office. When I got to the parking lot there was a bus, but the busses had already left an hour before so I knew something wasn’t right. Walking toward the bus it wasn’t hard to recognize the students wearing light blue shirts instead of the royal blue of our school uniform. They hollered my name a waved with smiles on their faces. The bus driver said she stopped at their place three different times and no one came out to pick them up. She needed to go to her next job so we began dialing all the numbers we had. Disconnected, no answer, does not accept incoming calls and finally there was a hello. A cousin, a four-year-old cousin, answering the phone at the house they stay at after school. After a few questions it was determined that no his parents could not come to the phone because they were not home. His twin brothers were home, but they couldn’t get on the line either – they are only one. Let me clarify this for you – this was a four year old at home babysitting two twin one year olds. So I began asking my student some questions;
Who is home when you get home from school? – my 4 year old cousin, the one year old twins and my little brother. How old is your brother? – 1. Three 1 year olds are at the house every afternoon? – yeah. What time does your mom get home? – 10 at night. Where is your auntie? – at work too. Are there any adults at your house? – at 10 when we go to sleep. What do you eat for dinner? – they leave us stuff to microwave or we make something. What do you make? – cereal or sandwiches. So everyday there are 7 of you home? – yeah sometimes 8.
My 9 year old is the oldest out of seven kids home from 4-10pm: 9, 7, 6, 4, 1, 1, 1. Can one-year-olds eat sandwiches? No wonder why they never do their homework. No wonder why he is angry. He is not a kid. He is a 9 year old forced to be an adult. So I hug him, I tell him how brilliant he is, I don’t give him an excuse for his behavior, but I let him walk it off in the hall where he isn’t bothering anyone, I come to school everyday, and I absolutely never quit because I can’t abandon him. And I hug him again.
The three kids were excited to crawl in the back of a police car. I wanted to cry, but I smiled anyway. They showed me the computer and asked the police officer lots of questions. They decided they all wanted to be police officers. I hope the next time they are in the police car they are in the front seat driving, not in the back. I drove to the police station. I was scared; there is something wrong when you feel that unsafe at a police station. I thought I might get jumped making my way through the abandoned cars in the back alleyway up to the trailer where I was directed. People stood outside and starred at me. I didn’t fit in, I felt nervous. I knocked on the door, no answer. The others waiting told me between their angry curses that they were in there I should knock again. I did and a man opened the door a crack – I told him I was coming to be with the students they just picked up from Fannie C. He said, “who you?” I told him I was their teacher and he shut the door. A few seconds later another man stuck his head out and said he found the mother and they were at the house. I went home.
The next morning I came in to the office to see a mug shot of their mother that one of the administrators had pulled up online and printed off. And now according to my student she is home from jail, but on house arrest. But she can still leave to go to work. So I asked so now who stays home with you and your cousins after school? –nobody, we still stay by ourselves.
Friday, May 2, 2008
Why?
Why do they disrespect me?
Why do they listen when I yell?
How can they say these awful things to each other?
Do they know that hard work is what will get them places?
Why do they not stop fighting when I am in the middle of it?
Why don’t they seem to ever feel ashamed of their own actions?
How can they say they hate the stupid class and then give me a hug five minutes later?
Why is it always someone else’s fault?
Why does the problem have to be solved through physical contact?
Do they have any idea that I completely changed my life to teach them?
Why do they act like everything is indispensable?
Why do they feel the need to damage everything?
Do they know that I use my own money to buy them these rewards?
Do they think I am rich?
Do they have any idea how young they are?
And most importantly...
Do they know that they are brilliant?
Why do they listen when I yell?
How can they say these awful things to each other?
Do they know that hard work is what will get them places?
Why do they not stop fighting when I am in the middle of it?
Why don’t they seem to ever feel ashamed of their own actions?
How can they say they hate the stupid class and then give me a hug five minutes later?
Why is it always someone else’s fault?
Why does the problem have to be solved through physical contact?
Do they have any idea that I completely changed my life to teach them?
Why do they act like everything is indispensable?
Why do they feel the need to damage everything?
Do they know that I use my own money to buy them these rewards?
Do they think I am rich?
Do they have any idea how young they are?
And most importantly...
Do they know that they are brilliant?
New York Times
My roommate is FAMOUS!
http://www.nytimes.com/2008/04/30/us/nationalspecial/30orleans.html?_r=2&pagewanted=1&hp&adxnnlx=1209553894-kBMmJhntU19xCI600h88Cw&oref=slogin
http://www.nytimes.com/2008/04/30/us/nationalspecial/30orleans.html?_r=2&pagewanted=1&hp&adxnnlx=1209553894-kBMmJhntU19xCI600h88Cw&oref=slogin
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