Self-Doubt

So I guess we took a blogger vacation. Didn't really take any other vacations, so I guess that's something?

Lately I've been wondering if I'm really any good at "what I do." It seems that I can't seem to keep organized, or start on something until the deadline looms big enough to threaten a nervous breakdown.

I wonder why I have such problems, when I don't think I did before. Is it that I lack a schedule of deadlines dictated to me? Am I missing the support and resources that I grew accustomed to during college? Is that just an excuse? Or does it mean that I'm not a great as I hoped I was and it was all a product of my environment?

Is my miserable job as good as it gets? Can I blame it for all my ills or do I need to own up to my exhaustion being something I just need to suck it up over?

It's been months now of being sick and tired of being sick and tired. What can I change to fix this?

I'm all questions. No answers.

r/

On the Front Lines

Movies such as Dangerous Minds and Freedom Writers depict white teachers (white female teachers) as heroes who go into inner-city schools and tame angst-ridden teenagers who stopped caring. They wear their pearls and learn how to dance to rap music. Education researchers will tell you that these images fulfill the "teacher myth"--or the apotheosis of white teachers in urban schools. However, there is the "teacher myth"--and then there is the reality.

The reality is that urban schools cannot be reduced to mere images in Hollywood films. The building in which I teach would never make the cut. My students are too real for superficial characterization. And the teachers will readily admit they are no gods.

Yet there is something contagious about the (com)passion so many teachers exhibit for their students and their profession. One teacher in particular, Ms. A., has been an inspiration to me since the first day of school. After teaching Special Education for eight years in four different states, she is the epitome for working relentlessly. She constantly serves as an advocate for her students--legally, professionally, and personally. When a student misses too many days, she checks up on him/her. When a student is struggling with behavior or academics, she is the point person. And when a student has spent his entire academic career slighted by teachers and a crippled education system, she steps up and challenges him. This 8th grade student began the school year on a third grade reading level and, after the magic of Ms. A, scored Proficient on the PSSA in Reading. He now reads on a high school level.

I share a room (technically 1/2 of a classroom) with Ms. A, and have seen her at her best and worst moments. She is one of the few teachers who are not afraid to laugh and cry with students, share triumphs and defeats with coworkers, and continuously increase her effectiveness. Just when I start to lose steam, I look across the room and am reminded of why I am here.

There may never be a movie about Ms. A. Her life is not glamorous enough. She does not wear pearls, dance to rap music, or curse at her students to make a point. But she is real. And when I think of heroes, she is the first person who comes to mind.

Reconciliation

Things I miss:

• Having passion for politics
• The simplicity of college life
• My once unfounded confidence that things would work out
• The illusion of safety
• Pure idealism

It's only been a year (or less than a year) since these things were a part of my every day existence, but now they seem a lifetime away...

Appreciation

The past few months have flown by, leaving me exhausted--and to a large extent--speechless. It's amazing how so much can happen in such little time.

One year ago, I was gearing up for college graduation. My largest concerns were my David Hume final (I still don't know how I pulled that one off), and whether my graduation sash would arrive on time. Looking back, those things seem so futile.

I would say that my experience in Philadelphia, as both a teacher and a person, has given me perspective. But even that is an understatement...I'm not really sure how to describe it, but one particular parent meeting gave me more insight than should be possible in twenty minutes.

Last week was Teacher Appreciation Week, which is kind of a mixture of Valentine's Day and the 12 Days of Christmas--depending on how you look at it. Teachers were showered with kudos, cards, gifts, and food. While these gestures were nice, they merely brushed the surface. It wasn't until a CSAP meeting for a first grader that I was reminded of how important this work really is.

Shakera is a kind-hearted first grader, outgoing enough to hug me when I walk into the room, but shy enough to hide that she can't read. Her mother enrolled her in tutoring, so I have been working with her twice a week since October, to little avail. Then a month or so ago, I had her break down words and realized the root of her problem: she decodes words backwards.

Her classroom teacher and I referred her to CSAP--the Comprehensive Student Assistance Program--to ensure she was getting the extra support she needed. Even these interventions did not help much. We decided to take her to the next tier-recommending her for special education. Some might look at this as giving up, but the truth is, this is too important for pride. Shakera needs as much support as possible to ensure she does not get even farther behind.

To recommend students for special education, a meeting with the teachers, parents, school counselor and special education coordinator must take place (this is commonly referred to as the "Permission to Evaluate meeting"). Shakera's mother came in, and we discussed the interventions we have had throughout the year. After we had finished, her mother was completely silent. Then she tried to speak, but couldn't.

A few moments passed, and she said, "Shakera is me as a child. I never learned how to read. I spent my entire life feeling stupid and like a waste, and I never wanted my children to go through that..." Tears started streaming down her cheeks. "I don't know if you know this, but I'm a high school dropout. Ninth grade and I still couldn't read. I'm trying to go back for my GED now, but it's hard...My daughter in kindergarten has been helping me at home. It doesn't make Shakera feel any better."

She took a few moments to wipe her tears, then she said, "Thank you. Thank you all of you. It is so nice to hear that you love my daughter enough to help her get the gift of reading...A gift that I never got as a kid."

It might be easier to read this story than it was to be in that room, to see Shakera's mother sitting at a table of educators, representing (without choice) the system that failed her. I wish I could eloquently state how these moments expose reality, how--though seemingly small--they change and effect my life in ways I never knew was possible. But it would just come out as calculated, and merely measured for effect.

The closest I can come to this is a William B. Yates quote: "Tread softly, because you tread upon my dreams." We cannot take our paths lightly, no matter what profession we choose. We never know whose dreams may be tread upon, or simply overlooked.

Photo Call!

Here's some pictures for y'all:
First, the show that opened last week and closes this week:

Rag and Bone

And this is an example of some of the stuff we do at The Theme Factory:

St Marys

Enjoy!

The Process (Part Blargh)

So apparently part two of the process is that you get totally slammed by a high school musical, during which you lose over 30 hours of working time to snow, schedule conflicts, and general asshattery.
Step three is losing your home to violence. I'm not going to air the details here, if you don't know already, you probably know how to send us a message for the story.
Step four is living in a place where you're always struggling to still be behind at everything, including the show that you so terribly want to do justice to by producing a carefully considered design with justifications and perfectly orchestrated load in that is entirely stress free.
Step 4.5 is where one of the jobs you wanted to do explodes into a deluge of stress that forces you to quit on a job for the first time ever.
Step five is where your day job buckles down for a huge job that balloons into overtimeville, keeping you too tired to catch up or really do much of anything outside sleep, eat, work and stress about the work you're not doing.
Step six you load in the show you almost designed with little forethought and spend the better part of two weeks in 13+ hour days.
Step seven is where you take a breath, then realize that all the stress you thought you'd put behind you is really a hydra of sorts where the one major stress splits into many smaller but still collectively overwhelming stresses that knock the wind out of you once again.

Puzzled, revisited...

I used to think

life was a

c a r e f u l l y

constructed

P-U-Z

Z-L-E

You know-

the kind that comes

[in a box]

with a picture for

guidance.

p.e.o.p.l.e.

places

events

would come together

(to make the picture)

and I would be…

complete.

FINALLY.

Well,

someday.

Now I’m not sure what to

{ { { t h i n k } } }

All I know is that if life is

-in fact-

a PuZzLe,

to say its pieces are

“rough around the edges”

is an

under-

statement.

An ode to the Thursday Bus

You sit there
always late
as my hair turns to ice
and my mood to despair
as the opposing buses pass
one
two
three
I wonder which will come first
death's icy grip
or the Thursday 54

p.s.

Rest assured, not all days are as dark as that last blog post implies...

untitled

Walking into my school
is like taking a step back to
50 60 even 70 years ago.

You see,
my students still live in a time when they are
s e p a r a t e
but unequal,
when books are a myth,
when red lines keep them
in chains
in fear
and invisible from the rest of society.

Walking into my school
it's as if the civil rights movement never happened.

My kids have heard that some man once
HAD A DREAM
Trust me--
they've heard the speech. seen his picture.
But they have
never
learned that they, too, can dream.

They know the difference between white and black.
White is power.
Black is powerless.
White is wealth.
Black is poverty.
White kids go to good schools in good neighborhoods.
Black kids go to bad schools in the ghetto.

They've told me this much.

I wish I could say that my school broke all the stereotypes you've heard.
That I could say,
"At my school, we have a library."
"At my school, our children are taught to think, not to do."
That
"At my school, a 13-year-old boy who goofs off in class is actually
challenged
by his teacher through academics
instead of thrown into a meeting with administrators who tell him that if he keeps it up,
he's going to prison."

Most of all, I wish I could say,
"At my school, children are taught to
h o p e
instead of living up to society's misinformed expectations."

But I can't.

Just like I couldn't have
50 60 even 70 years ago.

Through the Looking Glass

When I applied to Teach for America, I was given a bumper sticker that says, "In Two Years, You Won't Recognize Yourself."

It's only be six months and I already think that is an understatement.

Student Snapshot

Stephan is seven years old. His uniform is always wrinkled and missing parts. He has a sense of humor that shouldn't come so naturally to a second grader, but somehow he is almost always smiling. Almost-unless he is hungry.

You see, Stephan is one of the children that society hides so well. Living within the red lines of West Philadelphia, he is non-existent to the outside world. His father, for the most part, is out of the picture. His mother works around the clock, even with her extreme case of sickle cell anemia. This schedule (that some would call neglect, though his mother has no ill intent) leaves his nine-year-old sister as the head of the household. She makes dinner when there is money for dinner, which is not often enough. Mostly, Stephan and his sister rely on the free breakfast and lunch at school.

However, this week Stephan and his sister did not come to school for three days. Ms. A (my partner-in-crime who shares our half of a classroom) called home to find out about their absences. All of the numbers we have for his mother were disconnected, and his father did not answer. The only person left to call was his paternal grandmother, who was confused about which Stephan Ms. A was talking about. (Apparently, Stephan's father-also named Stephan-has named all of his sons after himself.)

Once things were straightened out, the truth was revealed-Stephan and his sister had not been to school because their mother is in the hospital. With no adults home and no money for public transportation, the pair was physically and financially unable to make it to school.

Yes, even the School District of Philadelphia's policies seem to overlook children like Stephan. In an effort to cut funds, the SDP decided to change who qualified for bus service. Instead of living 8 blocks (1 mile) from school, children are now required to live at least 12 blocks (1.5 miles) from school. And since Stephan and his sister live only 11 blocks, they do not qualify for free bus service.

Two burning questions come to mind: 1) How have Stephan and his sister been able to eat for the past several days? and 2) Exactly how long will we allow these children to be invisible?

A Constant Battle

Violence is prevalent on the streets of Philadelphia, particularly around my school. Located at 52nd and Lancaster, the school is on the northern end of Murder Alley--a nickname for 52nd Street north of Market. Our children come from these streets, these families, and this violence.

Yet, it is never them that I fight. It is only the ridiculous school policies and politics that I am constantly battling.

The past month-and-a-half have been spent fighting, at least in a figurative sense. Fighting for heat in my closet-sized classroom, for light in the Special Education room, for more space so that the children who need foundational skills can actually focus and learn. I've fought for the falling ceilings to be repaired, for the multi-purpose room (which turns into the neighborhood night club on weekends) to be a safe place for our children.

I've been battling discrimination from certain staff members based on the color of my skin. I've battled Stewart's newly found mental illness and tantrums--not to mention pushing for him to get the mental and physical health treatment he needs.

Most recently, I have been fighting to get books for my children who are 2, 3, and 4 years behind in reading. Yes, as the reading specialist I do not have books to teach literacy. And when you look at the street violence and the fact that policymakers look at male literacy in 3rd grade to determine how many prisons to build, having no books is repulsive. Even criminal.

It seems as if the cards are stacked against my students--not because they choose this or their parents choose this, but because school politics disregard the reason we are here in the first place: to teach each other and to learn.

The true challenge is to transform my anger into hope for change. There is so much potential. We just have to act now. My children can't wait much longer...