So school starts a week from Wednesday. Still not sure exactly how many students will walk through my door on Sept. 9, but it's likely going to be a day filled with excitement, anxiety, smiles, knots-in-stomach, and some chaos. This is my schedule (but likely to change a number of times... I guess that's how public education typically works):
2nd- 10th grade honors (will have about half of the freshmen I had last year!!)
3rd- 10th grade "collaborative team teaching" (not exactly sure what it entails, as no one in my school really knows either)
7th- 11th grade self contained (I was told that since I am organized and "have a lot of energy" I was assigned this class.)
8th- 1oth grade
9th- 10th grade
Tomorrow we pack up and depart Harlem for the Upper East Side. Although I am excited to leave my neighborhood (which so often marked by poverty, desolation, garbage, anger), I have to say I will miss it. I find myself randomly smiling here. Watching the kids running around playing on the street... Hearing the bookie in our building say, "Hey teach, how ya doin' teach?" every morning... I will miss these little things that bring genuine smiles to my face. I refuse to allow the few negative experiences overshadow the positive ones.
This morning, after grabbing my usual bodega coffee, I started walking up the stairs because our elevator is broken (surprise, surprise). I noticed an 80-something woman struggling against the railing. I asked her if I could lend her a hand, she said "oh yes, please, honey," (almost as if she was surprised I offered to help), so I gladly took her arm and walked her up to the 4th floor. The look on her face when we parted made my day. A simple gesture-- reaching out to another in need-- helped brighten her morning and mine.
And now, it's time to pack, box up my life here at 115th and Adam Clayton Powell Jr. Blvd., head to a new place, a new neighborhood to explore.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Friday, August 7, 2009
Belonging, or the value of not belonging
One of the only valuable graduate classes I've had at Lehman College (a CUNY school) was an English class that focused specifically on race, language, and power. (Unfortunately, all of my education classes are worthless and a waste of time.) One of our writing projects required us to critically examine the role race plays in our lives. Initially, I was concerned. Since teaching I had not devoted much thought or mental energy on how race and power function in my life.
So... in the middle of my first year teaching, I began to write a critical race narrative. I'm not sure I am happy with it. I'm not sure if I ever will be. But, if nothing else, it's an honest reflection. Here is an excerpt.
------
After my father learned my sister and I were going to be moving to the big city to teach in the Bronx, he started researching possible places for us to live. Upper East Side? Too expensive. Brooklyn? Too far. Harlem? Perhaps. On the 2 line. Washington Heights? A pain. Woodlawn? Woodlawn? Where’s that? Irish neighborhood, he replied, eyes glowing.
I asked my father why he mentioned Woodlawn in the mix of other neighborhoods and boroughs. “Woodlawn,” he said, “is a supposed sanctuary of safety and community in the middle of the Bronx.” It is isolated and bounded by Westchester County to the north, the Bronx River to the east, Woodlawn Cemetery to the south, and Van Cortlandt Park to the west. Not to mention it is a neighborhood of 8,000 people, many of whom are Irish immigrants. It suddenly made sense. My father seemed to find comfort in the idea of my sister and me living with Irish immigrants in a small tight-knit community, isolated from the poverty, violence, and despondency of Harlem. Did I find comfort in his proposition? Or, perhaps the more difficult question is, if I did in fact find comfort in it, why? What was driving that comfort? Being in a small community? Living with Irish people? The safety? Their whiteness? It is impossible for me to distinguish between the interconnected roles of race, language, community, and class to comprehend why I found comfort in the idea of Woodlawn. But, the lease had been signed. We were on our way to Harlem.
In the middle of the fall, my father emailed me about an afternoon visit he made to Woodlawn. Once again, the emails began flooding. Names of brokers, apartments for rent, names of restaurants, schools. You name it, my father had researched it. My sister and I rolled our eyes. “He just wants us to move in with a bunch of Irish lads so he can feel like he’s back in Ireland, living vicariously through us!” Who knows. Maybe the Guinness flows smoother and richer in Woodlawn’s plethora of Irish pubs. Slowly, however, by winter he had accepted defeat for the time being. We were staying put in Harlem.
In January, my parents visited the city for my mother’s New York State Bar Association meeting. On the Tuesday of their visit, I met them at my sister’s disaster of a middle school—MS 142—to watch her girls’ basketball team destroy another team. After the game, my father suggested we drive over to Woodlawn—it was only a mile away after all—for a pint. A Tuesday night, why not? We hopped in the car and drove out of the impoverished projects of Baychester, over the Nereid Avenue Bridge, into Woodlawn, the “oasis” of safety in the Bronx. Suddenly, I noticed something was different. Was it the cleanliness? No. The cars? No. The silence? Perhaps. The people walking around? Yes. White people walking. White people driving. White people entering and leaving corner stores. Where did all the Jamaicans go? (Oh, right. Living a mile away. In the projects. In poverty.)
The neighborhood divisions astonished me. To where did the incredible poverty disappear? Maybe it was all just a façade. I was astonished to see hundreds of white people all in one place in the middle of the Bronx. I felt like we actually belonged (juxtaposed to my sister’s girls’ basketball team and being one of five white people in the entire school after hours. Myself, my mother, my father, my sister, and her co-coach, another first year Teach For America teacher). Finally, I felt like I blended in somewhere.J.P. Clarke’s Pub seemed like the perfect joint on Katonah Avenue for an evening pint of Guinness. The place was empty except for a few older men sitting at the bar. The bar tender, a woman around 50, seemed excited to see us. “What can I do for you folks?” she asked with a strong brogue. “Pints all around? Out of Guinness, will Smithwicks do?” She smiled. We belonged.
I felt comfort sitting in J.P. Clarke’s with my parents and sister; I felt comfortable being in a community that reminded me of my own. People walking the streets saying hi to neighbors, helping each other with groceries. No arguing, no cursing, no hitting, no homeless people, no altercations. Woodlawn was quiet. Harlem is not. Could it be that I felt more comfortable in Woodlawn because the residents are white? Or, is it possible that Woodlawn’s sense of community and togetherness made me feel like I was in my comfort zone, and therefore reminded of home? Comfort. I often do not feel comfortable in Harlem because of the poverty and anger and despondency and litter. I feel comfortable in my school now. I feel comfortable as my students’ 5 foot nothing white, female, gay (unpronounced) English teacher. But, does that mean I belong here?
Fast forward to early February. On a sunny yet chilly Saturday, in a dire attempt to escape the poverty and bleakness of Harlem, my sister and I decided to venture north to Woodlawn after class. My father had raved about the Irish pubs and how nice the neighborhood is, so we figured it would be nice to stay out of the hood for a few more hours.
Backpacks full, scarves tied tightly around our necks, we walked along the west side of the Woodlawn Cemetery after taking the 4 train to the last stop. We were excited, I have to admit, to see a few white people walking around. I felt, once again, like I belonged. Like I wasn’t so much of an outsider.
We stopped at J.P. Clarke’s Pub because it was familiar to us. On this Saturday, unlike the Tuesday night in January, the place was packed. Rugby games aired on flat screens, soccer games playing in another corner. Upon entering the pub, heads turned. People got quiet, their voices hushed. Everyone in the pub was white. All spoke with thick brogues. Everyone was staring at us. “Do they think we’re underage or something?” I asked my sister, incredulously. “Is it because we have backpacks?” The same woman was bartending this particular afternoon, and I knew she recognized us. She walked right by us and asked two others what they wanted to drink. And then she moved on to another group. Then, instead of asking us what we wanted, she walked from behind the bar, right past us to the backdoor and had a cigarette. No other bartenders were working. My sister and I were confused. Why had she ignored us so blatantly? After she enjoyed her smoke, she came back inside and pretended not to see us. After another minute, my sister finally flagged her down with the “Hello!!??” look and wave. Finally, we ordered. But, the irritating actions on the bartender’s part didn’t stop. She then spent the next 4 minutes examining our NYS licenses under a light (apparently she didn’t remember we were there just a few weeks earlier? I was getting confused.) My sister raised her voice, “Don’t you see? My sister and I are twins!” She was not amused. I was offended. My name is Maura Brady. Is that not Irish enough? Apparently not. She scowled at us and finally served us our pint. My sister and I sat down, only to then be harassed by an inebriated Irish immigrant who thought all Americans acted like they were in the film American Pie. My sister and I decided to drink our pints quickly and leave. I was slowly starting to realize we weren’t welcome at J.P. Clarke’s.
While we walked down the street I started to notice that people looked at us funny. We were outsiders. Viewed as different, as foreign, as something “other.” Although we looked like the people in J.P. Clarke’s we were viewed as aliens and definitely different. We were not apart of the community in which they lived. We did not speak with brogues. We were not Irish Americans. The next bar we wandered into was empty with the exception of a man passed out drunk on the bar counter. Interesting. J.P. Clarke’s was full. This was bar empty. The bartender did not have a brogue and happily ordered us a few beers. “We serve everyone here,” she said. I smiled, masking the discomfort I felt.
Naively, I thought I would be welcome in a neighborhood based solely on the color of my skin. Was it possible that we did not belong in Woodlawn? Our whiteness made absolutely no difference to the residents of Woodlawn. We didn’t belong. Could it be that Harlem was more welcoming to us? It seemed that way.
We did not belong in Woodlawn because we were not a part of the Irish community of Woodlawn. Belonging, then, had nothing to do with my race or skin color; it had everything to do with culture and comfort and community. Everyone in J.P. Clarke’s was a part of the Woodlawn Irish American community. My sister and I were not. Therefore, we were not seen as fellow white people; we were viewed as intruders or outsiders. We posed a threat to the community and Irish culture they sought to preserve. We felt like pariahs.
Although I am one of only a handful of white people in an all-black and Hispanic high school, I do not feel like an outsider in the classroom. I feel embraced by my students; although they may see me as a white teacher, I am convinced that first and foremost they see me as their English teacher who wants them to excel and succeed and grow as thinkers, readers, writers, and individuals. The first day I stepped into my school for an interview I felt terrified—I felt as if I was naked walking through the halls because I was afraid all attention would be drawn to me because I was white. It took a few days but then I started to feel like I just blended into the walls as just another teacher. Now, I am comfortable in my own skin. Even though I am different, I belong in my school. I believe I belong in the classroom teaching my students, regardless of my race, class, sexual orientation, or gender.
So... in the middle of my first year teaching, I began to write a critical race narrative. I'm not sure I am happy with it. I'm not sure if I ever will be. But, if nothing else, it's an honest reflection. Here is an excerpt.
------
After my father learned my sister and I were going to be moving to the big city to teach in the Bronx, he started researching possible places for us to live. Upper East Side? Too expensive. Brooklyn? Too far. Harlem? Perhaps. On the 2 line. Washington Heights? A pain. Woodlawn? Woodlawn? Where’s that? Irish neighborhood, he replied, eyes glowing.
I asked my father why he mentioned Woodlawn in the mix of other neighborhoods and boroughs. “Woodlawn,” he said, “is a supposed sanctuary of safety and community in the middle of the Bronx.” It is isolated and bounded by Westchester County to the north, the Bronx River to the east, Woodlawn Cemetery to the south, and Van Cortlandt Park to the west. Not to mention it is a neighborhood of 8,000 people, many of whom are Irish immigrants. It suddenly made sense. My father seemed to find comfort in the idea of my sister and me living with Irish immigrants in a small tight-knit community, isolated from the poverty, violence, and despondency of Harlem. Did I find comfort in his proposition? Or, perhaps the more difficult question is, if I did in fact find comfort in it, why? What was driving that comfort? Being in a small community? Living with Irish people? The safety? Their whiteness? It is impossible for me to distinguish between the interconnected roles of race, language, community, and class to comprehend why I found comfort in the idea of Woodlawn. But, the lease had been signed. We were on our way to Harlem.
In the middle of the fall, my father emailed me about an afternoon visit he made to Woodlawn. Once again, the emails began flooding. Names of brokers, apartments for rent, names of restaurants, schools. You name it, my father had researched it. My sister and I rolled our eyes. “He just wants us to move in with a bunch of Irish lads so he can feel like he’s back in Ireland, living vicariously through us!” Who knows. Maybe the Guinness flows smoother and richer in Woodlawn’s plethora of Irish pubs. Slowly, however, by winter he had accepted defeat for the time being. We were staying put in Harlem.
In January, my parents visited the city for my mother’s New York State Bar Association meeting. On the Tuesday of their visit, I met them at my sister’s disaster of a middle school—MS 142—to watch her girls’ basketball team destroy another team. After the game, my father suggested we drive over to Woodlawn—it was only a mile away after all—for a pint. A Tuesday night, why not? We hopped in the car and drove out of the impoverished projects of Baychester, over the Nereid Avenue Bridge, into Woodlawn, the “oasis” of safety in the Bronx. Suddenly, I noticed something was different. Was it the cleanliness? No. The cars? No. The silence? Perhaps. The people walking around? Yes. White people walking. White people driving. White people entering and leaving corner stores. Where did all the Jamaicans go? (Oh, right. Living a mile away. In the projects. In poverty.)
The neighborhood divisions astonished me. To where did the incredible poverty disappear? Maybe it was all just a façade. I was astonished to see hundreds of white people all in one place in the middle of the Bronx. I felt like we actually belonged (juxtaposed to my sister’s girls’ basketball team and being one of five white people in the entire school after hours. Myself, my mother, my father, my sister, and her co-coach, another first year Teach For America teacher). Finally, I felt like I blended in somewhere.J.P. Clarke’s Pub seemed like the perfect joint on Katonah Avenue for an evening pint of Guinness. The place was empty except for a few older men sitting at the bar. The bar tender, a woman around 50, seemed excited to see us. “What can I do for you folks?” she asked with a strong brogue. “Pints all around? Out of Guinness, will Smithwicks do?” She smiled. We belonged.
I felt comfort sitting in J.P. Clarke’s with my parents and sister; I felt comfortable being in a community that reminded me of my own. People walking the streets saying hi to neighbors, helping each other with groceries. No arguing, no cursing, no hitting, no homeless people, no altercations. Woodlawn was quiet. Harlem is not. Could it be that I felt more comfortable in Woodlawn because the residents are white? Or, is it possible that Woodlawn’s sense of community and togetherness made me feel like I was in my comfort zone, and therefore reminded of home? Comfort. I often do not feel comfortable in Harlem because of the poverty and anger and despondency and litter. I feel comfortable in my school now. I feel comfortable as my students’ 5 foot nothing white, female, gay (unpronounced) English teacher. But, does that mean I belong here?
Fast forward to early February. On a sunny yet chilly Saturday, in a dire attempt to escape the poverty and bleakness of Harlem, my sister and I decided to venture north to Woodlawn after class. My father had raved about the Irish pubs and how nice the neighborhood is, so we figured it would be nice to stay out of the hood for a few more hours.
Backpacks full, scarves tied tightly around our necks, we walked along the west side of the Woodlawn Cemetery after taking the 4 train to the last stop. We were excited, I have to admit, to see a few white people walking around. I felt, once again, like I belonged. Like I wasn’t so much of an outsider.
We stopped at J.P. Clarke’s Pub because it was familiar to us. On this Saturday, unlike the Tuesday night in January, the place was packed. Rugby games aired on flat screens, soccer games playing in another corner. Upon entering the pub, heads turned. People got quiet, their voices hushed. Everyone in the pub was white. All spoke with thick brogues. Everyone was staring at us. “Do they think we’re underage or something?” I asked my sister, incredulously. “Is it because we have backpacks?” The same woman was bartending this particular afternoon, and I knew she recognized us. She walked right by us and asked two others what they wanted to drink. And then she moved on to another group. Then, instead of asking us what we wanted, she walked from behind the bar, right past us to the backdoor and had a cigarette. No other bartenders were working. My sister and I were confused. Why had she ignored us so blatantly? After she enjoyed her smoke, she came back inside and pretended not to see us. After another minute, my sister finally flagged her down with the “Hello!!??” look and wave. Finally, we ordered. But, the irritating actions on the bartender’s part didn’t stop. She then spent the next 4 minutes examining our NYS licenses under a light (apparently she didn’t remember we were there just a few weeks earlier? I was getting confused.) My sister raised her voice, “Don’t you see? My sister and I are twins!” She was not amused. I was offended. My name is Maura Brady. Is that not Irish enough? Apparently not. She scowled at us and finally served us our pint. My sister and I sat down, only to then be harassed by an inebriated Irish immigrant who thought all Americans acted like they were in the film American Pie. My sister and I decided to drink our pints quickly and leave. I was slowly starting to realize we weren’t welcome at J.P. Clarke’s.
While we walked down the street I started to notice that people looked at us funny. We were outsiders. Viewed as different, as foreign, as something “other.” Although we looked like the people in J.P. Clarke’s we were viewed as aliens and definitely different. We were not apart of the community in which they lived. We did not speak with brogues. We were not Irish Americans. The next bar we wandered into was empty with the exception of a man passed out drunk on the bar counter. Interesting. J.P. Clarke’s was full. This was bar empty. The bartender did not have a brogue and happily ordered us a few beers. “We serve everyone here,” she said. I smiled, masking the discomfort I felt.
Naively, I thought I would be welcome in a neighborhood based solely on the color of my skin. Was it possible that we did not belong in Woodlawn? Our whiteness made absolutely no difference to the residents of Woodlawn. We didn’t belong. Could it be that Harlem was more welcoming to us? It seemed that way.
We did not belong in Woodlawn because we were not a part of the Irish community of Woodlawn. Belonging, then, had nothing to do with my race or skin color; it had everything to do with culture and comfort and community. Everyone in J.P. Clarke’s was a part of the Woodlawn Irish American community. My sister and I were not. Therefore, we were not seen as fellow white people; we were viewed as intruders or outsiders. We posed a threat to the community and Irish culture they sought to preserve. We felt like pariahs.
Although I am one of only a handful of white people in an all-black and Hispanic high school, I do not feel like an outsider in the classroom. I feel embraced by my students; although they may see me as a white teacher, I am convinced that first and foremost they see me as their English teacher who wants them to excel and succeed and grow as thinkers, readers, writers, and individuals. The first day I stepped into my school for an interview I felt terrified—I felt as if I was naked walking through the halls because I was afraid all attention would be drawn to me because I was white. It took a few days but then I started to feel like I just blended into the walls as just another teacher. Now, I am comfortable in my own skin. Even though I am different, I belong in my school. I believe I belong in the classroom teaching my students, regardless of my race, class, sexual orientation, or gender.
Thursday, August 6, 2009
You call yourself a teacher?
Upon entering my first year teaching, I envisioned myself standing confidently and self assuredly in a classroom full of driven and motivated students who sought to excel academically and socially as world citizens. They would ask difficult questions. They would raise their hand. They would say “thank you.” They would reach out to their classmates if they needed help or assistance. I would be their teacher who was in charge of teaching them about great literature and challenging their young, growing minds to question the world and society around them. Isn’t this what all teachers of English literature and composition envision?
I was a teacher, wasn’t I? No. I wasn’t teaching kids, not yet. I was attempting to engage them. I was attempting to teach them vocabulary. I was attempting to teach them grammar and reading skills, but I was failing (and attempting to learn at the same time).
While attempting to teach, I took on so many roles, roles I never imagined overtaking-- a disciplinarian, a motivator, a stand up comedian, a counselor, a coach, an encourager. The problem was, I had no idea how to be all of these things while also trying to teach. For most of the year, I can’t say I was a teacher. I was a young woman who was valiantly attempting to teach and instruct and motivate and encourage and challenge and inspire.
I suppose I am learning almost entirely through trial and error, but isn’t that how one learns to teach? You try something. If you fail, you attempt to learn and grow and reflect on how to improve that attempt. If you succeed, you try to lean and grow and reflect on how to improve that success. This was one of the most challenging things for me this year: failing a thousand times. I can only hope I have learned from some of my failures so I fail a thousand minus one hundred next year.
Throughout much of my first year I struggled to find my place in the classroom; but, somewhere during that tumultuous yea, I learned that I was so much more than a teacher (or my attempt at one). I suppose that’s the beauty of teaching. You are never just a teacher. You are so much more than that, and most people cannot understand that until they are there, standing in front of a room of 34 often unwilling participants who would so much rather be out in the hall talking to friends. But that's high school, right?
I was a teacher, wasn’t I? No. I wasn’t teaching kids, not yet. I was attempting to engage them. I was attempting to teach them vocabulary. I was attempting to teach them grammar and reading skills, but I was failing (and attempting to learn at the same time).
While attempting to teach, I took on so many roles, roles I never imagined overtaking-- a disciplinarian, a motivator, a stand up comedian, a counselor, a coach, an encourager. The problem was, I had no idea how to be all of these things while also trying to teach. For most of the year, I can’t say I was a teacher. I was a young woman who was valiantly attempting to teach and instruct and motivate and encourage and challenge and inspire.
I suppose I am learning almost entirely through trial and error, but isn’t that how one learns to teach? You try something. If you fail, you attempt to learn and grow and reflect on how to improve that attempt. If you succeed, you try to lean and grow and reflect on how to improve that success. This was one of the most challenging things for me this year: failing a thousand times. I can only hope I have learned from some of my failures so I fail a thousand minus one hundred next year.
Throughout much of my first year I struggled to find my place in the classroom; but, somewhere during that tumultuous yea, I learned that I was so much more than a teacher (or my attempt at one). I suppose that’s the beauty of teaching. You are never just a teacher. You are so much more than that, and most people cannot understand that until they are there, standing in front of a room of 34 often unwilling participants who would so much rather be out in the hall talking to friends. But that's high school, right?
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
Parents, Parents, Parents
As Parent Teacher Conferences approached I wondered, How much do I tell parents? How little to tell them about their child’s behavior or progress? What problems to tell the mother? What things to tell—or not tell— the father? What if the parents hit their child?
I have a vivid memory of meeting with A’s mother on the first Parent Teacher Conference Day of the year. A was failing my class, not because he was not capable of completing the work or excelling on tests, but because he was lazy, plain and simple. His mother asked me why he was failing and I showed her all of his grades and missing work. A sank lower in his chair, his hood covering his eyes. I looked his mother in the eyes and told her her son was one of my brightest students with unlimited potential to excel in school. She looked back, dubious. She replied, “Oh, well, he’ll get it, don’t you worry.” Fearful of what might happen to A, I reiterated how talented he was but that we—she and I—just needed to figure out how to tap into his talent to so he could thrive. Again, a dubious look. How could she not see her son was incredibly bright? I wondered what went on at home that prevented A from showing his parents this. On his way out, A, his eyes averting mine, said, “Hopefully… I will see you tomorrow.”
I went home that night feeling awful. I had to tell his mother the truth, but I also feared I would be the reason why A’s father beat him that night. As his teacher, I, unknowingly, had the power to cause physical harm to him. I was a facilitator of that harm, and all because I was honest. However, what I feared most was that his mother did not believe me when I said her son was one of the brightest in the class. How could I see it and she couldn’t? I’ve known him for a mere 2 months. She’s known him for 15 years. There was so much wrong here.
No one ever told me how to handle parents on Parent Teacher Conference Day. Teachers at my school said, “Oh no parents never show up. You’ll be fine.” In my mind, that was not what I needed to hear. (Something like 40 of them ended up coming.) I needed to know how to deal with an indignant parent. I needed to know what to do if a parent led me to believe he or she would physically harm their child. I needed to know what to do if I was told I was a terrible teacher who was failing miserably. I needed to know what to do if a parent and her daughter and daughter's friend came in and yelled and screamed at me for 10 minutes incessantly. (Wait. Asking Kristin about that one...) No one could tell me, so I went into Parent Teacher Conferences with a thousand knots in my empty stomach, hoping to make it out alive and in one piece.
What was most astonishing to me on Parent Teacher Conference Day and Night was the parents who asked me for parenting advice. “Ms. Brady, what do you think we should do? Should we pull him out of school and put him in the job corps? The military? An alternative school? Ground him? Take away his phone, internet, i Pod? Kick him out?” As the questions came head on, all I could think was, Are you serious? I, a 23 year old who just graduated from college, am being asked how to raise a teenager? I still FEEL like a teenager sometimes. How could I possibly give advice to the parents of my students when I still felt like a kid in so many ways? Who was I kidding?
Teachers never sleep naked
This is another one of my favorite excerpts from Teacher Man. The first time I read it, I put the book down and laughed out loud. Teachers, you will, obviously, understand.
"Now speculate. When that teacher leaves the school every day what does he--or she--do? Where does he go?
You know. After school, teacher goes directly home. Carries a bag filled with papers to be read and marked. Might have a cup of tea with spouse. Oh, no. Teacher would never have a glass of wine. That’s not how teachers live. They don’t go out. Maybe a movie on the weekend. They have dinner. They put their kids to bed. They watch the news before they settle in for the night to read those papers. At eleven it’s time for another cup of tea or a glass of warm milk to help them sleep. Then they put on pajamas, kiss the spouse and drift off.
Teachers’ pajamas are always cotton. What would a teacher be doing in silk pajamas? And, no, they never sleep naked. If you suggest nudity students look shocked. Man, can you imagine some teachers in this school naked? That always triggers a big laugh and I wonder if they're sitting there imagining me naked.
Before they drift off, all those teachers, snug and warm in their cotton pajamas, think only of what they might teach tomorrow. Teachers are good, proper, professional, conscientious, and they’d never throw a leg over the other one in bed. Below the belly button the teacher is dead."
-Teacher Man page 189-90
It's perfect.
"Now speculate. When that teacher leaves the school every day what does he--or she--do? Where does he go?
You know. After school, teacher goes directly home. Carries a bag filled with papers to be read and marked. Might have a cup of tea with spouse. Oh, no. Teacher would never have a glass of wine. That’s not how teachers live. They don’t go out. Maybe a movie on the weekend. They have dinner. They put their kids to bed. They watch the news before they settle in for the night to read those papers. At eleven it’s time for another cup of tea or a glass of warm milk to help them sleep. Then they put on pajamas, kiss the spouse and drift off.
Before they drift off, all those teachers, snug and warm in their cotton pajamas, think only of what they might teach tomorrow. Teachers are good, proper, professional, conscientious, and they’d never throw a leg over the other one in bed. Below the belly button the teacher is dead."
-Teacher Man page 189-90
It's perfect.
Friday
I wrote this in February, which was probably the darkest and most difficult month of my first year. You'll see why.
*I have changed students' names to protect their privacy.
Friday
11 a.m., Friday
My phone vibrates
“Message”
About West Village
Dinner plans
I smile
Soft knock at my door
“Come in!”
“Hi, Ms. Brady, I am here
To make up the quiz,”
Anna Matos says through a smile
From ear-to-ear
With that toothy grin
The chaos of 3rd period washes
Under the cracks between the window and frame
Into the gray world outside
Into the highway traffic moving
Angrily and urgently and blindly
Into the uncertain distance
“Here, Anna, you’ll ace this.”
With the hand-off
My mind flashes back to 2nd period-
A lesson on
Spoken Word poetry
Rhythm, rhyme, repetition
Taylor Mali
Gemineye
Oveous Maximus
Nikki Giovanni
The power of words
Anna Matos, sitting two desks back
Fourth row
Stares out the windows
Through glazy
Empty
Wide
Brown eyes
Stoic
Unaffected by their words
Unmoved by calls for change
With each word, rhyme,
She drifts farther and farther
From reality
From her desk
She is somewhere else
So far from here-
In five minutes- no more- she hands
It back, confidently
“100?”
“Yep!” the smile masks her
Pain
“Anna, is everything OK? I
noticed you were a little down earlier”
She hesitates.
“Yea, Ms. Brady I am fine, really.”
“Are you sure?”
(I remember my own
high school days- evading teachers’
seldom attempts to reach out…)
“Actually. No, I’m not OK.”
In the next five minutes,
She pours out her heavy heart
All through a smile
A mask
A brilliant facade
An attempt to stay strong.
“Dad almost died...
Train accident…
Stroke…
Staples in his skull…
Detectives think …
Suicide attempt…
Can’t remember anything…
Doctors think
It’s a miracle…
He.
Didn’t.
Remember.
Me.”
Her words fade
And all I want to do is
Hug her and tell her she’ll be OK…
Someday.
My own spoken words seem
So infuriatingly empty
“I am so sorry” seems
To cruelly mock her sadness
She is 14.
She leaves.
Her smile seared
Into my muddled mind
I sit at a desk
Dinner plans long forgotten
Memories of my students’ pain
Expressed through their written words
Flash through my mind-
Juan, 7, watches his father murdered
Caroline loses friends to gang violence
Ruths’s brother shot and killed
Erica’s friend murdered- wrong place, wrong time
The list goes on and on…
And on and on…
Never again
Can I look at the world
Through blind eyes
I gaze outside-
Through glossy eyes
Through the
Windows obscured
By dirt and grime
And pain
And lost loved ones
And long forgotten memories
Of childhood innocence-
Into the gray
Mess moving so quickly, too quickly by
I take a breath
Close my eyes
In a valiant attempt
To escape the realities
Of a cruel world
Outside
I only hope
They can escape, too.
*I have changed students' names to protect their privacy.
Friday
11 a.m., Friday
My phone vibrates
“Message”
About West Village
Dinner plans
I smile
Soft knock at my door
“Come in!”
“Hi, Ms. Brady, I am here
To make up the quiz,”
Anna Matos says through a smile
From ear-to-ear
With that toothy grin
The chaos of 3rd period washes
Under the cracks between the window and frame
Into the gray world outside
Into the highway traffic moving
Angrily and urgently and blindly
Into the uncertain distance
“Here, Anna, you’ll ace this.”
With the hand-off
My mind flashes back to 2nd period-
A lesson on
Spoken Word poetry
Rhythm, rhyme, repetition
Taylor Mali
Gemineye
Oveous Maximus
Nikki Giovanni
The power of words
Anna Matos, sitting two desks back
Fourth row
Stares out the windows
Through glazy
Empty
Wide
Brown eyes
Stoic
Unaffected by their words
Unmoved by calls for change
With each word, rhyme,
She drifts farther and farther
From reality
From her desk
She is somewhere else
So far from here-
In five minutes- no more- she hands
It back, confidently
“100?”
“Yep!” the smile masks her
Pain
“Anna, is everything OK? I
noticed you were a little down earlier”
She hesitates.
“Yea, Ms. Brady I am fine, really.”
“Are you sure?”
(I remember my own
high school days- evading teachers’
seldom attempts to reach out…)
“Actually. No, I’m not OK.”
In the next five minutes,
She pours out her heavy heart
All through a smile
A mask
A brilliant facade
An attempt to stay strong.
“Dad almost died...
Train accident…
Stroke…
Staples in his skull…
Detectives think …
Suicide attempt…
Can’t remember anything…
Doctors think
It’s a miracle…
He.
Didn’t.
Remember.
Me.”
Her words fade
And all I want to do is
Hug her and tell her she’ll be OK…
Someday.
My own spoken words seem
So infuriatingly empty
“I am so sorry” seems
To cruelly mock her sadness
She is 14.
She leaves.
Her smile seared
Into my muddled mind
I sit at a desk
Dinner plans long forgotten
Memories of my students’ pain
Expressed through their written words
Flash through my mind-
Juan, 7, watches his father murdered
Caroline loses friends to gang violence
Ruths’s brother shot and killed
Erica’s friend murdered- wrong place, wrong time
The list goes on and on…
And on and on…
Never again
Can I look at the world
Through blind eyes
I gaze outside-
Through glossy eyes
Through the
Windows obscured
By dirt and grime
And pain
And lost loved ones
And long forgotten memories
Of childhood innocence-
Into the gray
Mess moving so quickly, too quickly by
I take a breath
Close my eyes
In a valiant attempt
To escape the realities
Of a cruel world
Outside
I only hope
They can escape, too.
Teacher Man
The day Frank McCourt died I picked up his memoir about teaching in the New York City public schools. I hoped I'd learn about him and perhaps also learn something about myself...
I was nervous, unbelievably hot, palms sweating with anticipation, fear and exhaustion. When the bell rang at 8 am, it hit me. I was a teacher. But, the problem was, I had no idea how to teach or what to expect or how to handle 160 teenagers, their hormones and emotions raging wild. A thousand thoughts raced through my mind: What was I thinking when I believed I could actually do this? Was I crazy? How will I survive this? What if they are terrible to me? What if I fail? And fail? And fail?
The second my first freshman—eyes wide and nervous—entered the door, tentatively, the questions disappeared and I realized there was going to be no time to be fearful or nervous. If they can tell I’m nervous, I’m done for. So, be confident, excited, firm. Here we go…
McCourt’s first chapter brought me back to my first days teaching. His words ring so true for me. He writes: Professors of education at New York University never lectured on how to handle flying-sandwich situations. They talked about the theories and philosophies of education, about moral and ethical imperatives, about the necessity of dealing with the whole child, the gestalt, if you don’t mind, the child’s felt needs, but never about the critical moments in the classroom. (16)
McCourt’s observation is so true. But, in the educators of teachers’ defense, how can they teach teachers how to deal with these critical moments in the classroom if every teacher, every classroom, every student is so wonderfully different? There is no guidebook to dealing with these unique issues, problems, and obstacles because one cannot possibly know how to deal with them until one has experienced it for oneself.
For weeks, I lay awake at night in my bed fearing how I would deal with certain situations—fights, racist or hateful comments, resistance from students or problems with co-workers—and I realized that Teach For America’s training, although well-intentioned, could never truly prepare me for that. I had no idea who I was in the classroom until I stepped foot into a room of 30 anxious, eager freshmen.
No one taught me how to deal with the fight between two 200 pound sophomores—both with serious behavioral and emotional issues—that nearly broke above my petite 5 foot 2 frame the second day of school. What was I thinking trying to get between Victor and Tyrone as both of them shot steam out of their ears? What if one of them lost it and lashed out powerful punches in the midst of their rage? I was not thinking any of this. My only thought: I will not tolerate this behavior in my classroom.
“Get out! Both of you!” They looked at me, as if thinking, “What is this short white girl going to do to us? She can’t do shit.” Again. “Get out! Victor! Tyrone! Go to the deans. You will not act this way in my classroom.” They left. On their way out I noticed they were laughing.
Were they testing me? Perhaps. Did I fail at handling the situation rationally and calmly? Of course. My heart rate shot up to about 200 beats per minute, my voice became loud, and I probably came off as panicky. But, I got them out of my room. Amid failure there was a glimmer of hope for me.
No teacher training program could have prepared me to deal with the shenanigans of the first few days, weeks, or even months of school. I was on my own to struggle, to fail, to learn. After all, how can anyone teach you how you’d react if a student, like one of McCourt's, threw his bologna sandwich halfway across the room?
For 5 weeks-- and about 19 hours each day-- last summer Teach For America taught me “how to teach”: unit planning by backwards design, lesson planning, scaffolding and differentiating, effective literacy instruction, etc., etc. This was not the teaching I’d need to know how to do just yet. I needed to how to stay afloat, how to remain calm when a student yelled “fuck you I won’t read this shit,” how to deal with making one thousand- no less- decisions every day (each one vastly different, of course).
How could anyone have taught me how to react when Victor and Tyrone went at each others' throats in the back of my classroom that sunny day on the 3rd day of September 2008? I could have pictured myself calmly and confidently walking over to phone the deans, but in reality, I had no idea. You can’t, not until you’re thrown right in.
Hello!
Hello friends and family! Now that it is summertime, I've had an ample amount of time to reflect on my first year of teaching. One regret I have is that I did not write nearly enough about my experiences teaching high school English-- my successes, failures, ups, downs, frustrations. So, my intention with this blog is to attempt to shed some light on what teaching in an urban high school is like.
I would love to hear your comments, advice, tips, similar experiences, etc. Or, obviously, anything you want to share with me.
I'm new to this whole blogging thing, so bear with me.
I would love to hear your comments, advice, tips, similar experiences, etc. Or, obviously, anything you want to share with me.
I'm new to this whole blogging thing, so bear with me.
The life of a high school English teacher, according to the late Frank McCourt
One of the most poignant sections of Teacher Man was when McCourt discusses his “life outside of teaching.” I was so captivated by his writing and his experiences because I could so vividly relate to him. And, not to mention, it is so true. He writes,
"If you asked all the students in your five classes to write three hundred and fifty words each then you had 175 multiplied by 350 and that was 43, 750 words you had to read, correct, evaluate and grade on evenings and weekends. That's if you were wise enough to give them only one assignment per week. You had to correct misspellings, faulty grammar, poor structure, transitions, sloppiness in general. You had to make suggestions on content and write a general comment explaining your grade. You reminded them there was no extra credit for papers adorned with ketchup, mayonnaise, coffee, Coke, tears, grease, dandruff. You suggested strongly they write their papers at desk or table and not on train, bus, escalator or in the hubbub of Joe's Original Pizza joint around the corner.
If you gave each paper a bare five minutes you'd spend, on this one set of papers, fourteen hours and thirty-five minutes. That would amount to more than two teaching days, and the end of the weekend.
You hesitate to assign book reports. They are longer and rich in plagiarism.
Every day I carried home books and papers in a fake brown leather bag. My intention was to settle into a comfortable chair and read the papers, but after five classes and 175 teenagers I was no inclined to prolong that day with their work. I could wait, damn it. I deserved a glass of wine or a cup of tea. I’d get to the papers later. Yes, a nice cup of tea and a read of the paper or a walk around the neighborhood or a few minutes with my little daughter when she told me about her school and the things she did with her friend Claire. Also, I ought to scan a newspaper in order to keep up with the world. An English teacher should know what’s going on. You never knew when one of your students might bring up something about foreign policy or a new Off-Broadway play. Your wouldn't want to be caught up there in front of the room with your mouth going and nothing coming out.
That’s the life of a high school English teacher." (Teacher Man, pages 187-188)
And... it is so true.
While reading, I could only picture myself doing exactly what McCourt says he did. It is rare that I am ever not thinking about teaching and everything I need to do for the next day in order to be prepared and help my students learn and achieve. There are always more papers to grade, more journals to read, more lesson planning to be accomplished, more studying and reading of literature and books I need to teach to my class, more parents to call, more observations of veteran teachers to conduct.
When I get home, I think about my students. I think about their successes and their struggles. I think about their lives and the difficult things they experience at such a young age. I rarely am detached from my job. In many ways, my inability to separate and distance myself from teaching during my first year inhibited me from seriously reflecting on how I was doing and what I needed to do in order to become a better teacher. I was so wrapped up in my job and my attempt to be the best teacher I could be that I lost sight of everything else in my life. I dove under September 1 and didn’t come up for air until June 26. Only then could I finally see clearly. That was when the true reflection began. After all, I could finally breathe again.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)