brette

This teaching business is turning out to be a lot harder than it looks.  I’m not naturally a mean or authoritative person, and some of my (oh-so-perceptive) students have chosen to use that as an excuse to push any (and every) button they can.  I have at least one kid who already knows everything.  I have many more who would know everything, if they’d listen a bit–or perhaps if I taught them better.  And I have a few who need a bit more help, but with whom I could still make significant gains if only the rest of the class would stay under control while I helped them.  In that mix are a number of students who show me that they really want to learn, but they’re distracted and frustrated by the students who have told me that they really don’t.  I wish I could split up the chatterboxes, or bring them into the front row, but there aren’t enough corners of the room or seats in the front to hold them all.I can tell already that my unauthoritative nature is keeping almost all of my students from learning.  I need to fix this soon, before we waste any more time.  What makes me feel worse, though, is that I’m not one of the ones with crazy classrooms.  Kids aren’t fighting, walking around during class, swearing (too much), or anything like that.  They just aren’t paying attention, and they’re being distractions.  I’m not in one of the worst situations, which makes me think that it should be a little easier to get this under control.
Apparently, a number of corps members have already given up and gone home.  I can’t say that the thought hasn’t crossed my mind–I’m sure it has crossed everyone’s at some point.  But even though this has been a hard week, full of frustrations and tears and sheer exhaustion (and probably one too many cups of coffee), I did not make it this far to give up.

I did not come this far to give up on Teach for America.

I did not come this far to give up on my dream of making a difference.

I did not come this far to give up on proving to myself that I can take on such a huge challenge.
But, more importantly, I did not come this far to give up on my students.  I did not come this far to give up on my star student who needs me to push her, or the struggling students who want me to teach them division, or even the troublemakers who don’t want my help, but who will get it anyway.

Well, my first real day, anyway.  Yesterday, theoretically, was my first day as Ms. G.  But it was a special day–diagnostics and a memorial service kept us from doing any actual instruction, even simple introductions or rules and procedures.

But oh, where to begin??

Middle school kids are a special breed.  Academically, they are all over the place–the scores on my diagnostic ranged from a 0 (yes, a 0) to a 92%.  I had a roughly even proportion of “Miss, I don’t get it!” to “Miss, this is boring!“  I gave them a worksheet with some practice problems at the bottom.  By the time I suggested that they try the problems on their own, one girl had finished and another needed me to teach her to divide.  I’m pretty sure that one girl completely slept through the entire class.  Either she was completely exhausted or she really does a good job of playing dead.  I also had one boy stick pencil lead in his skin.  Why?  I have no idea.

Clearly, differentiation–for both remedial practice as well as extended work–is an issue.  So is classroom management.  Then again, so is writing an interesting lesson plan and sticking to it.  And not using “big words,” like cumulative, or diagnostic.

In the end, nothing went terribly.  No fights, breakdowns, or shouting.  I actually had some students yell “Shh!!  Miss has something to say!”  But at the same time, nothing went terribly well, either.

There’s a lot to work on, and not a lot of time to work on it.  I need to pick my battles and figure out the best way to proceed (and, I hope, succeed).

This reminds me, though, of one of the reasons I decided to do this teaching gig:  the prospect of a challenge.  A real challenge.

I don’t mean to say that I’ve never worked hard before–to the contrary, I think I’ve worked very hard over the last few years.  And it’s not that I’ve never encountered things that weren’t easy for me.  But to be honest, school was never all that difficult.  And I’m pretty confident that, given an ample amount of time (and, perhaps, motivation), I can figure out almost anything I’m asked to do.

This, however, is unlike anything else I’ve ever done before.  I’m expecting it to be extraordinarily difficult, for it to test everything I’ve got.  I think it’s something that I can do, but not something that will be easy for me to do.

This is my opportunity to really prove to myself what I’m made of.  The only scary thing is that there’s a wohle lot more riding on this crazy adventure than just my own ego.

But tomorrow?  Tomorrow is a brand new day.

Over the last few days, we’ve been listening, talking, thinking, and learning a lot about being teachers.  As I learn about unit plans and lesson plans, classroom management skills, rules and consequences, TAKS objectives and literacy assessments, it is becoming more and more real to me:  I am a teacher.  And in a few days, I will have a room of my own.  My room.

My classroom.

That is somewhat of a novel concept for me.  I’ve often thought about standing by a chalkboard and explaining things to my students–what I will say, what jokes I will use.  I’ve thought about the one-on-one conversations that we’ll have before or after class.  I’ve thought about grading homework and tests.  I’ve even thought about getting involved with (or getting THEM involved with) extracurricular activities.

But I’ve never really considered where this will actually happen.  I’ve pictured cafeterias and hallways, school entrances and lockers, but never what my space will be like in all that.

My classroom will be a pleasant place.  It will be positive and encouraging, but also a serious place of learning.  I will have groups of mathematicians, who will open their minds and try new things.  ON the walls will be posters:  some nerdy, some inspiring, some with rules and consequences, maybe even some artwork.  Our Big Goal will be prominently displayed.  Maybe I’ll even hang pictures of people and things that are important to me:  my family, the band, and the Tower.  My students will shake my hand and greet me as they enter my classroom.  They will sit down and work on a review problem from the previous day.  I will present clear, organized, rehearsed lesson plans.  They will ask thoughtful questions.  Most importantly, they will learn math, and learn to love math.

Or something like that, anyway.

I realize that this Euclidian utopia is a statistical improbability, but with some hard work and perseverance, perhaps I can find a close approximation.  I just hope I won’t need Euler’s method.

“Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate.  Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.  It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us.  We ask ourselves, who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented and fabulous?  Actually, who are you not to be?  Your playing small does not serve the world.  There’s nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won’t feel insecure around you.  We were born to make manifest the glory that is within us.  It’s not just in some of us; it’s in everyone.  And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same.  As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.”
-Marianne Williamson

Right now, my deepest fear is that I am inadequate.  Who am I to be a wonderful, amazing, effective teacher?  Who am I to change children’s lives?  Who am I to close the achievement gap?

Who am I not to be?

This gap is amazing.  It is wide, and it is deep.  It has many causes, as well as many perpetuating circumstances.  And somehow, I have been charged to close it.  I have been charged to change children’s lives, to inspire them to learn and to go to college.  I have been charged to teach them math as no one has taught them before.  I have been charged to compensate for years of inequity, poverty, and neglect.

I don’t know anything about my students’ lives.  I don’t know what it’s like to be Hispanic or African-American, or what it is like to grow up in a low-income community in Houston.  I don’t know what it’s like to be in middle school now, nor do I know what it’s like to not be a successful student.  There are also a lot of things I don’t know about teaching–how do I inspire my students?  How do I get them to pay attention?  How do I explain basic concepts?  And how on EARTH do I make significant gains in their academic achievement?

I suppose that the only way to approach this is just like any good scientist would:  Let’s take what I know and the tools that I’ve been given to figure out what I don’t know, including the answer.

I do know that this is a problem that must–and, more importantly, CAN–be solved.  It is ambitious, yet feasible.  I do know how to listen, and how to open myself to understanding who they are and where they come from.  I do know how to work hard (though I also know that I will now be required to work harder than I ever have before).  I do know how do math.

There are also many tools available to me:  other corps members, older corps members, various mentors at Institute as well as throughout the next to years.  I have books and binders and the internet.

What I need now is to open myself, to let myself fall into the wealth of resources and knowledge floating around here and to drink in as much as possible.  I need to accept my imperfections and be honest with myself about them.  They are not things to be hidden, but rather things to be exposed and improved.  I need to build my net so that something will catch me when I stumble.

A huge task sits before me.  But I am brilliant, gorgeous, talented, and fabulous.  I am powerful beyond all measure.  I will let my own light shine.

The infamous institute has begun.

I’m not sure what, exactly, I expected. This is part summer camp, part playing grown-up, and part teacher training. There’s a lot of energy, and a lot of passion. I’m a little amazed at how many people are here, learning to teach, ready to go change the world. I’m pretty sure that I can learn as much from them as from anyone else.

Moody Towers are a lot like Jester at UT…only worse. No fridge, no microwave, and no sink in the rooms. Ancient showers. Signs to remind college students to flush. Mediocre food. Pull-out beds.

And yet, that doesn’t stop us from believing in this cause and from fighting the good fight.