I am not teaching to save children. They would be the first to tell you that. Rather, my "mission" (as it were) is to educate them...and hopefully make a difference along the way.
Institute has ended, and summer school has come to a close. I wish I could say I was 100% successful in my mission, but I can't. There is one student in particular, we'll refer to him here by the name of Sean, whom I recommended to be retained in the 5th grade. The worst part is, it is not entirely his fault. He made choices this summer that resulted in my recommendation: for instance, he did not follow directions, he refused to keep his head off the desk, and some days he was flat out defiant. However, when he walked in at the beginning of the summer, he knew that he could not recognize some letters of the alphabet, let alone read. He knew that the other kids were aware of his "special needs." He knew that he might get lost in the shuffle and stress of summer school. And I didn't do anything to prove him wrong.
Sure, I made flash cards for the letters of the alphabet and the consonant sounds he did not know--he just didn't show up when we were supposed to go over them, and I was not allowed to keep him after school for extra support. Unfortunately, that is where most of my effort stopped. I should have remediated worksheets for him. I should have made it clear that I want what is best for him, and to make efforts to ensure he was not humiliated by my extra attention. I could list a thousand things I should have done, but the point is: I didn't. Sean may have failed summer school, but in large part, it is because I failed him. I was not the teacher he needed me to be.
Whenever I think of Sean, I remind myself that I must find a balance...There were as many wonderful moments this summer as there were frustrating moments. Mainly, I think of Rodney--whose name has been changed here, just like Sean's, for protection. Rodney came into summer school at a third grade reading level. As one of our low readers, he was assigned to my small group for reading and literacy. (We had small groups for math/literacy every morning for an hour.) The first time our small group met, he asked, "Ms. Block, did you go to college?" I said I had. He looked at me with solemn seriousness. "Do you think I can go to college someday?" he asked. "Of course," I said. "Rodney, you can do anything you want as long as you work hard and put your mind to it." He smiled, and said his goal for the summer was to read chapter books.
I took the cue and found a chapter book for him to read throughout summer school. Since his difficulty with reading was mainly with comprehension, I also made him a reading journal so that he could write down the main idea of each chapter in the book. Rodney religiously came before school to work on his math or reading. When I tested his reading the last week of summer school, I could barely believe what he had scored. Rodney is now reading at the late fifth grade level. He grew approximately two years in reading this summer, mainly in comprehension.
When I talked to him the last day of summer school to tell him he passed to the 6th grade, he jumped up and hugged me. "Thank you, Ms. Block. Thank you so much." I told him that he did not need to thank me. After all, it was his hard work that had made this possible. "Yeah, but Ms. Block, you showed me that I could do it. You made me pay attention, and you taught me how to read better. That's why I'm thanking you." At the end of the day, we had an open house for parents to see the work their children had accomplished this summer. Both of Rodney's parents came to the event. The first thing on the agenda was for the students to share their goals with the class and parents. Rodney was the first student to go. "My goal is to go to college, just like Ms. Block did," he said. "And now I know that I won't just go to college because I am a good football player. I'm going to go because I'm smart. And I'm going to get there by working hard and paying attention in class."
When he looked at me in the back of the room and smiled, I fought back tears. For every failure, there is at least one success. This summer Sean and Rodney reminded me of that. As I embark on my two-year journey of teaching, I will never forget them or the other ten students in Room 315. Through the best and worst of times this summer, all of them reminded me that we must all find a balance.
I already miss them all...
Saturday, July 28, 2007
Friday, July 27, 2007
Holy Crap
Just counted.
Within 4 months (May-September) we will have moved 8 times.
E.I.G.H.T. T.I.M.E.S.
r/
Within 4 months (May-September) we will have moved 8 times.
E.I.G.H.T. T.I.M.E.S.
r/
Thursday, July 26, 2007
I Made This 3
Ok, so I said I wouldn't post again before Scotland. Guess I was wrong.
I covered my iPod with 3M Paint Protection Film I got from a guy who details cars.
Pretty cool. Almost scratch-proof with minimal added bulk.
I covered my iPod with 3M Paint Protection Film I got from a guy who details cars.
Pretty cool. Almost scratch-proof with minimal added bulk.
Monday, July 23, 2007
I made this pt.2
I put a custom paint job on my "jackhammer" headphones.
It's the logo for the League of Awesomeness.
If you don't know what that is, you're probably lame.
Or you should just head on over to zefrank.com/theshow
My next missive will probably come from across the Atlantic.
It's the logo for the League of Awesomeness.
If you don't know what that is, you're probably lame.
Or you should just head on over to zefrank.com/theshow
My next missive will probably come from across the Atlantic.
Saturday, July 14, 2007
It's All Up to the Raffle
Some classrooms at my school have three children, others have up to eight. Our classroom has twelve children. It really is all up to the raffle.
During our curriculum sessions, some folks share stories about their students. "They never act up!" some say. "They never talk!" say others. My classroom has the opposite issue.
Again--it's all in the raffle.
So we have twelve children, each with baggage, needs for attention, and a story. This blog is going to focus on one child, Lanisha, whose name has been changed here for protection.
Lanisha sticks out in classroom 315 like a sore thumb. She's about one foot taller than me, and due to height, is the largest person in our classroom. She is a beautiful child in her own way, awkward for her own reasons like all of us are. She rarely looks people in the eyes. Sometimes Lanisha has attitude, but it isn't attitude so much as it is insecurity. She is incredibly bright, but she has never been told that before.
This week, Lanisha was consistently late to school. We have math/literacy hour in the morning, where we break into small groups to meet individual student's needs. Lanisha would come in, sit down, and immediately get to work. On Wednesday, she wandered into our classroom almost an hour late, dripping with angst. When I had her for writing class that day after lunch, she continuously put her head down, and in return, I would continuously tell her (verbally and non-verbally) to pick her head up. None of these children can afford to fall asleep in class. Literally in two seconds, when I had turned to write on the board and turned back, Lanisha was asleep. I put my arm on her shoulder and she jumped up. The entire class broke into laughter.
"Lanisha, your name is going on the board," I said. "If you continue to put your head down, you will have to stay after school. Remember-if your behavior improves, I can always erase your name."
She ended up staying after school for 15 minutes. While she didn't act up again in my class, her day's angst resurfaced in the class after mine. Here we were after school, me with the timer, Lanisha still trying to fall asleep.
With a few minutes of her 15 left, I pulled up a chair next to her. "Lanisha, what happened today? Why did you have to stay 15 minutes after class?"
"I fell asleep in your class, because I was tired."
"Why were you tired?" I asked.
"Because my dad had friends over that were botherin' me 'till 4 a.m."
I told Lanisha that if she was tired during my class, she should raise her hand so that I could have her erase the board or pass out papers to get out of her seat and help her wake up. Then I said something she had either never heard or never believed:
"Lanisha," for the first time, she looked me in the eyes. "You are so smart." Tears began to stream down her face. "It is important that you stay awake in class so that you can learn even more and help me teach the other kids." She nodded, more tears streaming down her face, and I handed her a tissue. She gathered her stuff and went home.
The next morning, she came in late again. Instead of angst, she had brought attitude to school. She acted out the entire morning, which meant she had to sit silently by herself at lunch. I have her after lunch. When my students lined up to re-enter my classroom silently, I looked away for two seconds and Lanisha was gone. She had left the school building.
To follow procedure, I had to notify my faculty advisor, who notified the principal, who notified the police department. Lanisha was missing. Her mother left work to go home and look for her. Her siblings were worried sick. And as for me, I was so sick to my stomach that I don't know how I remained calm throughout my class period.
When an hour-and-a-half had passed, the phone in my classroom rang. Lanisha was home safe. After class, several students came up to me to tell me what happened. All of their stories matched up: a few kids in class had been making fun of Lanisha for the holes in her pants. Their words were so hurtful that Lanisha had been crying on the way to my class after lunch. That is what stung the most: she didn't leave school because she was mad and defiant. She left school because she was humiliated and didn't feel safe.
I wasn't sure I would ever see Lanisha again. But halfway through math/literacy hour on Friday, she came into class. I greeted her and said, "I'm so happy that you are here." I had made everyone writing folders for our class this week, and on Thursday I wrote each student a note on a post-it that they would see when they first opened their folder. Lanisha's said, "I really missed you in class today. Can we talk during writer's workshop?"
We talked in the hallway. "Lanisha, I missed you so much yesterday," I said, "and it's not just that I missed you. I was worried sick about you. What happened?"
"They were makin' fun the way back from lunch 'cause I had holes in my pants," she said.
"Did that hurt your feelings?" I asked. She nodded "yes". "I know that I have to be strict in class to make sure everyone learns, but I hope you know how much I really care about you, Lanisha. You are one of our smartest students, and class just wasn't the same without you." She began to cry. "I hope you know that I would never let that happen to you in my class. And if anything goes on outside of the classroom, whether it is at home or at school, that you need to talk about, please know you can come to me."
Lanisha was crying hard at this point, so I handed her a tissue. "So what are you going to do if this happens again?"
She looked straight into my eyes, tears still coming out of hers, and said, "I will come to you, Ms. Block, because you actually care about me." We waited a couple of seconds for her to collect herself, and then we re-entered the classroom.
On Friday afternoons, the two other teachers in my classroom and I draw a raffle ticket out of the basket for a prize. Students earn their raffle tickets with good behavior. This time, it was my turn to choose the raffle ticket...
"And the winner is...." I said, the classroom bursting with excitement, "Lanisha!"
I had drawn Lanisha's ticket. For a second, the class was silent. Then everyone jumped out of their chairs cheering for her. "Lanisha! You got it, girl!" Lanisha stoically rose from her chair, posing for the gun show. We handed her her prize bag, and she peeked in, careful to not expose it to the rest of the class. When the class was silent again, they lined up to go home.
Lanisha looked at me as she left the classroom, and smiled like I had never seen her smile before. It all really is up to the raffle, whether it's what students are in your class or whether they win a prize.
I couldn't be happier that Lanisha won the raffle, in both senses.
During our curriculum sessions, some folks share stories about their students. "They never act up!" some say. "They never talk!" say others. My classroom has the opposite issue.
Again--it's all in the raffle.
So we have twelve children, each with baggage, needs for attention, and a story. This blog is going to focus on one child, Lanisha, whose name has been changed here for protection.
Lanisha sticks out in classroom 315 like a sore thumb. She's about one foot taller than me, and due to height, is the largest person in our classroom. She is a beautiful child in her own way, awkward for her own reasons like all of us are. She rarely looks people in the eyes. Sometimes Lanisha has attitude, but it isn't attitude so much as it is insecurity. She is incredibly bright, but she has never been told that before.
This week, Lanisha was consistently late to school. We have math/literacy hour in the morning, where we break into small groups to meet individual student's needs. Lanisha would come in, sit down, and immediately get to work. On Wednesday, she wandered into our classroom almost an hour late, dripping with angst. When I had her for writing class that day after lunch, she continuously put her head down, and in return, I would continuously tell her (verbally and non-verbally) to pick her head up. None of these children can afford to fall asleep in class. Literally in two seconds, when I had turned to write on the board and turned back, Lanisha was asleep. I put my arm on her shoulder and she jumped up. The entire class broke into laughter.
"Lanisha, your name is going on the board," I said. "If you continue to put your head down, you will have to stay after school. Remember-if your behavior improves, I can always erase your name."
She ended up staying after school for 15 minutes. While she didn't act up again in my class, her day's angst resurfaced in the class after mine. Here we were after school, me with the timer, Lanisha still trying to fall asleep.
With a few minutes of her 15 left, I pulled up a chair next to her. "Lanisha, what happened today? Why did you have to stay 15 minutes after class?"
"I fell asleep in your class, because I was tired."
"Why were you tired?" I asked.
"Because my dad had friends over that were botherin' me 'till 4 a.m."
I told Lanisha that if she was tired during my class, she should raise her hand so that I could have her erase the board or pass out papers to get out of her seat and help her wake up. Then I said something she had either never heard or never believed:
"Lanisha," for the first time, she looked me in the eyes. "You are so smart." Tears began to stream down her face. "It is important that you stay awake in class so that you can learn even more and help me teach the other kids." She nodded, more tears streaming down her face, and I handed her a tissue. She gathered her stuff and went home.
The next morning, she came in late again. Instead of angst, she had brought attitude to school. She acted out the entire morning, which meant she had to sit silently by herself at lunch. I have her after lunch. When my students lined up to re-enter my classroom silently, I looked away for two seconds and Lanisha was gone. She had left the school building.
To follow procedure, I had to notify my faculty advisor, who notified the principal, who notified the police department. Lanisha was missing. Her mother left work to go home and look for her. Her siblings were worried sick. And as for me, I was so sick to my stomach that I don't know how I remained calm throughout my class period.
When an hour-and-a-half had passed, the phone in my classroom rang. Lanisha was home safe. After class, several students came up to me to tell me what happened. All of their stories matched up: a few kids in class had been making fun of Lanisha for the holes in her pants. Their words were so hurtful that Lanisha had been crying on the way to my class after lunch. That is what stung the most: she didn't leave school because she was mad and defiant. She left school because she was humiliated and didn't feel safe.
I wasn't sure I would ever see Lanisha again. But halfway through math/literacy hour on Friday, she came into class. I greeted her and said, "I'm so happy that you are here." I had made everyone writing folders for our class this week, and on Thursday I wrote each student a note on a post-it that they would see when they first opened their folder. Lanisha's said, "I really missed you in class today. Can we talk during writer's workshop?"
We talked in the hallway. "Lanisha, I missed you so much yesterday," I said, "and it's not just that I missed you. I was worried sick about you. What happened?"
"They were makin' fun the way back from lunch 'cause I had holes in my pants," she said.
"Did that hurt your feelings?" I asked. She nodded "yes". "I know that I have to be strict in class to make sure everyone learns, but I hope you know how much I really care about you, Lanisha. You are one of our smartest students, and class just wasn't the same without you." She began to cry. "I hope you know that I would never let that happen to you in my class. And if anything goes on outside of the classroom, whether it is at home or at school, that you need to talk about, please know you can come to me."
Lanisha was crying hard at this point, so I handed her a tissue. "So what are you going to do if this happens again?"
She looked straight into my eyes, tears still coming out of hers, and said, "I will come to you, Ms. Block, because you actually care about me." We waited a couple of seconds for her to collect herself, and then we re-entered the classroom.
On Friday afternoons, the two other teachers in my classroom and I draw a raffle ticket out of the basket for a prize. Students earn their raffle tickets with good behavior. This time, it was my turn to choose the raffle ticket...
"And the winner is...." I said, the classroom bursting with excitement, "Lanisha!"
I had drawn Lanisha's ticket. For a second, the class was silent. Then everyone jumped out of their chairs cheering for her. "Lanisha! You got it, girl!" Lanisha stoically rose from her chair, posing for the gun show. We handed her her prize bag, and she peeked in, careful to not expose it to the rest of the class. When the class was silent again, they lined up to go home.
Lanisha looked at me as she left the classroom, and smiled like I had never seen her smile before. It all really is up to the raffle, whether it's what students are in your class or whether they win a prize.
I couldn't be happier that Lanisha won the raffle, in both senses.
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
A Metaphor for TFA Institute (TM)
Aha!
I remembered.
Good thing it warrants its own post.
So I came up with a brilliant metaphor for the TFA Institute.
It's for sale to the highest bidder, should anyone be interested.
So here it is:
TFA is like the forging of a sword.
(ok, this statement is a simile. The whole thing is probably more accurately called a conceit... which sounds better too...)
First, the blacksmith selects the metal to be used for the sword.
Many pieces are reviewed, and the few that fit the rigorous standards required are brought into the shop.
Any one of these chunks of metal could be a sword, of this the blacksmith is sure.
The metal rods are shoved into the blazing hot furnace.
Once they're red-hot, the blacksmith removes them and pounds on them with a hammer.
Then it's back to the fire.
Inevitable, some of the pieces break and are set aside to form other quality goods.
The chunks of metal that survive the process become finely honed instruments that are exceptionally suited an effective in their purpose.
And that's how you make a college graduate into a teacher!
r/
I remembered.
Good thing it warrants its own post.
So I came up with a brilliant metaphor for the TFA Institute.
It's for sale to the highest bidder, should anyone be interested.
So here it is:
TFA is like the forging of a sword.
(ok, this statement is a simile. The whole thing is probably more accurately called a conceit... which sounds better too...)
First, the blacksmith selects the metal to be used for the sword.
Many pieces are reviewed, and the few that fit the rigorous standards required are brought into the shop.
Any one of these chunks of metal could be a sword, of this the blacksmith is sure.
The metal rods are shoved into the blazing hot furnace.
Once they're red-hot, the blacksmith removes them and pounds on them with a hammer.
Then it's back to the fire.
Inevitable, some of the pieces break and are set aside to form other quality goods.
The chunks of metal that survive the process become finely honed instruments that are exceptionally suited an effective in their purpose.
And that's how you make a college graduate into a teacher!
r/
All the news that fits... or something
Before you start reading, start my playlist over there on the right.
Go ahead.
I'll wait.
...
Aren't those purty sounds?
I thought so.
Let's continue:
I don't really feel like being that creative, so here are updates about life in the order in which I remember them:
Still pretty much a bum.
Trying to correct this.
See project idea below.
Meg and I got pre-approval for a mortgage.
I looked at a whole bunch of properties last friday.
Meg and I looked at the two best prospects.
And we may be making an offer on one as early as tomorrow.
So we're like, grown up and junk.
I should probably be pretty freaked out about this...
It'll come.
I should probably let her tell you, but Meg was accepted to Penn for her Masters in Edumacation through TFA.
Like there were any doubts. Pssh.
We randomly made friends with a couple we saw at a sushi joint in Center City last Wednesday. We saw them there as they were finishing and then ran into them at a superb gelato joint on the corner.
Anyways, they invited us to sit down.
We had a really long conversation.
Turns out we're pretty similar couples.
We exchanged communication protocol addresses and such.
So yeah. We made random friends in the city. Who knew?
(And they're non-tiffahs - yay!)
Coming soon to a blog near you, the sketch-a-day project!
...if I ever get started.
It's not like there's not lots of interesting things to sketch in the dorm room or anything.
Not the least bit clinical or squared off or anything.
Pretty sure I'm forgetting something, but this post is plenty long already.
r/
Go ahead.
I'll wait.
...
Aren't those purty sounds?
I thought so.
Let's continue:
I don't really feel like being that creative, so here are updates about life in the order in which I remember them:
Still pretty much a bum.
Trying to correct this.
See project idea below.
Meg and I got pre-approval for a mortgage.
I looked at a whole bunch of properties last friday.
Meg and I looked at the two best prospects.
And we may be making an offer on one as early as tomorrow.
So we're like, grown up and junk.
I should probably be pretty freaked out about this...
It'll come.
I should probably let her tell you, but Meg was accepted to Penn for her Masters in Edumacation through TFA.
Like there were any doubts. Pssh.
We randomly made friends with a couple we saw at a sushi joint in Center City last Wednesday. We saw them there as they were finishing and then ran into them at a superb gelato joint on the corner.
Anyways, they invited us to sit down.
We had a really long conversation.
Turns out we're pretty similar couples.
We exchanged communication protocol addresses and such.
So yeah. We made random friends in the city. Who knew?
(And they're non-tiffahs - yay!)
Coming soon to a blog near you, the sketch-a-day project!
...if I ever get started.
It's not like there's not lots of interesting things to sketch in the dorm room or anything.
Not the least bit clinical or squared off or anything.
Pretty sure I'm forgetting something, but this post is plenty long already.
r/
Saturday, July 7, 2007
Practice Beyond Perfection
The first week of teaching is over, and I have discovered one important, undeniable fact: I am nowhere near perfect at teaching. So when our sessions this week revolved around "practicing beyond perfection," all I could think of was, "Don't we need to worry about getting to perfection before we can practice beyond it?" Just a thought.
So...I practiced. I practiced writing my lesson plans. I practiced not getting enough sleep so that I could revise my lesson plans. I practiced teaching fifth graders. And in the midst of all of this, I practiced sanity.
Although, I'm not sure practicing sanity worked...because even when my students gave me the biggest attitude I have ever dealt with, even when they would not stop laughing during class, and even when one of them kept nodding off on Tuesday morning, I realized how much I love these kids. I love them, and I hardly know them. I'm not sure how sane that is.
For the past week, we have also practiced giving kids tests. We gave them diagnostics to see where they all are with reading, spelling, and math. We give them assessments after each lesson.
When we tested one student's reading, we also practiced fighting back tears and anger. His reading level is so low that we do not even have cards to test him. We're not even sure he can recognize all of the letters of the alphabet. And the most infuriating part is that he's in fifth grade! He is ten years old and he cannot even read on the first grade level. How did this happen?
Of course, not all moments of teaching are heartbreaking. On Thursday I realized my lesson on the main idea of a story had fallen flat, so I spent all night rewriting Friday's lesson plan to hammer in the concept. After talking to Bobbie, my insightful aunt and teaching hero, I decided the reason they weren't getting my lesson was because it didn't apply to anything in their lives. Why should they care about outer space when most of them do not get enough food every day? So I spent Thursday night writing sentences and paragraphs that included the kids' names. On Friday, as I was passing these out to students, smiles crossed their faces. One student raised her hand, "Ms. Block! You wrote about US!" I said, "Of course I did. I realized you guys don't care about outer space, and neither do I. What I care about is all of you, so that is what we are going to read about today." Needless to say, they learned how to find the main idea of a paragraph, and I learned the main idea of teaching: showing kids that you care.
I haven't been the only one practicing this week. Before lunch every day, I have had the class practice lining up in a certain amount of time. (Yes, I time them.) At the end of the class on Friday, one student asked if we were going to practice lining up again today. I said, "Of course! Can someone tell me what the fastest time has been this week?" Everyone yelled, "Twenty seconds!" "Oh! Raise your hands!" One student raised her hands and gave me the answer. "Exactly. 20 seconds. I think you can make it in 18 seconds today, what do you think?" "Yeah! Yeah!" "All right," I said. "Let's do this. Remember, you have to be perfectly quiet to line up." Silence. I dismissed people to line up.
This time, they made it in 16 seconds. "Congratulations! You all made it in 16 seconds!," I said. "I'll see you on Monday!" "Wait," said one student. "We won't see you again today?" "No," I said. "You have Ms. Munford and Mr. Connor next block." "But! But!" said several members of the class. "Oh, you'll have fun. Have a great weekend! I'll miss you guys!"
As all of them waved back to me, I realized that practicing to perfection and beyond--whether it's writing lesson plans or lining up for lunch--is not such a bad thing after all.
So...I practiced. I practiced writing my lesson plans. I practiced not getting enough sleep so that I could revise my lesson plans. I practiced teaching fifth graders. And in the midst of all of this, I practiced sanity.
Although, I'm not sure practicing sanity worked...because even when my students gave me the biggest attitude I have ever dealt with, even when they would not stop laughing during class, and even when one of them kept nodding off on Tuesday morning, I realized how much I love these kids. I love them, and I hardly know them. I'm not sure how sane that is.
For the past week, we have also practiced giving kids tests. We gave them diagnostics to see where they all are with reading, spelling, and math. We give them assessments after each lesson.
When we tested one student's reading, we also practiced fighting back tears and anger. His reading level is so low that we do not even have cards to test him. We're not even sure he can recognize all of the letters of the alphabet. And the most infuriating part is that he's in fifth grade! He is ten years old and he cannot even read on the first grade level. How did this happen?
Of course, not all moments of teaching are heartbreaking. On Thursday I realized my lesson on the main idea of a story had fallen flat, so I spent all night rewriting Friday's lesson plan to hammer in the concept. After talking to Bobbie, my insightful aunt and teaching hero, I decided the reason they weren't getting my lesson was because it didn't apply to anything in their lives. Why should they care about outer space when most of them do not get enough food every day? So I spent Thursday night writing sentences and paragraphs that included the kids' names. On Friday, as I was passing these out to students, smiles crossed their faces. One student raised her hand, "Ms. Block! You wrote about US!" I said, "Of course I did. I realized you guys don't care about outer space, and neither do I. What I care about is all of you, so that is what we are going to read about today." Needless to say, they learned how to find the main idea of a paragraph, and I learned the main idea of teaching: showing kids that you care.
I haven't been the only one practicing this week. Before lunch every day, I have had the class practice lining up in a certain amount of time. (Yes, I time them.) At the end of the class on Friday, one student asked if we were going to practice lining up again today. I said, "Of course! Can someone tell me what the fastest time has been this week?" Everyone yelled, "Twenty seconds!" "Oh! Raise your hands!" One student raised her hands and gave me the answer. "Exactly. 20 seconds. I think you can make it in 18 seconds today, what do you think?" "Yeah! Yeah!" "All right," I said. "Let's do this. Remember, you have to be perfectly quiet to line up." Silence. I dismissed people to line up.
This time, they made it in 16 seconds. "Congratulations! You all made it in 16 seconds!," I said. "I'll see you on Monday!" "Wait," said one student. "We won't see you again today?" "No," I said. "You have Ms. Munford and Mr. Connor next block." "But! But!" said several members of the class. "Oh, you'll have fun. Have a great weekend! I'll miss you guys!"
As all of them waved back to me, I realized that practicing to perfection and beyond--whether it's writing lesson plans or lining up for lunch--is not such a bad thing after all.
Tuesday, July 3, 2007
I made this
Here's a couple of things I've made recently. First, whole wheat pasta with a bit of olive oil, parm-romano, mozzarella and basil chiffonade accompanied by baked'n'grilled chicken and seared portabello slices Second, a couple of visual aids for Meg's class today. They're working on the long 'a' sound as in blue jay and train. Other than that, I'm kind of a bum. |
Sunday, July 1, 2007
"Welcome to our faculty, Ms. Block."
The auditorium is silent as we listen to our School Director, Ellen. It's Thursday afternoon, and we are exhausted. Even so, she has us hanging on every word.
"The first day I began teaching, a veteran teacher shared this quote with me, and it has become my mantra ever since," Ellen said. The quote pops up on the projector, and she begins reading: "Our greatest fear is not that we are inadequate, but that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that frightens us...Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you...And, as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our fear, our presence automatically liberates others."
She pauses, and I fight back tears. I cannot remember the last time I was this exhausted and inspired all at once.
Ellen looks back at us and says, "I cannot wait until Monday morning when a K-8 student comes up to me to ask who his or her teacher is, and I get to point at one of you...Please exit the auditorium. We have a surprise for you in the hallway."
We silently exit the auditorium, only to find our TFA faculty lining the hallways. "Thank you, Ms. Block," the first person says. "Congratulations, Ms. Block," says another. Ellen takes her place in line and shakes my hand, "Welcome to our faculty, Ms. Block," she says.
I'm faculty now. And on Monday, when a fifth grader asks Ellen who his or her teacher is, she will get to point at me.
"The first day I began teaching, a veteran teacher shared this quote with me, and it has become my mantra ever since," Ellen said. The quote pops up on the projector, and she begins reading: "Our greatest fear is not that we are inadequate, but that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that frightens us...Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you...And, as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our fear, our presence automatically liberates others."
She pauses, and I fight back tears. I cannot remember the last time I was this exhausted and inspired all at once.
Ellen looks back at us and says, "I cannot wait until Monday morning when a K-8 student comes up to me to ask who his or her teacher is, and I get to point at one of you...Please exit the auditorium. We have a surprise for you in the hallway."
We silently exit the auditorium, only to find our TFA faculty lining the hallways. "Thank you, Ms. Block," the first person says. "Congratulations, Ms. Block," says another. Ellen takes her place in line and shakes my hand, "Welcome to our faculty, Ms. Block," she says.
I'm faculty now. And on Monday, when a fifth grader asks Ellen who his or her teacher is, she will get to point at me.
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