teach – Teacher Truth

Blue Moon

There was a blue moon last night, or so my weather app tells me. A blue moon, by definition, is the second full moon in a single calendar month. They don’t happen very often, hence the old saying “once in a blue moon.” In fact, this particular blue moon is the last one we’ll see for two years, according to the same knowledgeable app.

It’s also about how often I’m happy in my job anymore, once in every couple of years.

This past week, though, was one of those blue moons. I didn’t get to experience it last year, because we were all still teaching remotely and many of our students didn’t come back in person at all last year, even after the school doors reopened. I didn’t get to experience it for the previous two years, because I was the new teacher in the school and didn’t know anyone.

The phenomenon I’m talking about is the return of former students. It started a couple of days before the first day of school, when my sweet Caroline stopped by with her mother on their way out of the building after meeting with her new teacher. I had her in my class two years ago, and she’s a little taller, but other than that hasn’t changed a bit. They went out of their way to come say “hello” to me in my Harry-Potter-like classroom under the stairs. I gave her a distance hug, because I’m still not supposed to squeeze the stuffing out of her as I would like, as we’re, once again, donning our masks so we can be together.

Then, there was a “Hi, Mrs. Baker!” that floated in from the stairs as a boy paused in his ascent to his third-grade classroom. I wouldn’t have recognized the boy because he was much taller, he’d lost his Anakin Skywalker padawan braid, and his grin was hidden behind his mask, not to mention that I hadn’t seen him at all in a year and a half. But I would have recognized that voice anywhere. “Oh, Sean!” I almost cried. “It’s been so long since I’ve seen you! How have you been? How’s your family?” I could see his eyes crinkle with a grin above his mask as he patiently answered all of my questions. “It’s so good to see you!” we called to each other, and he went on his way with a waive.

After that, there were a half-dozen or so different false starts, with children looking like they were about to bolt forward for a hug and then remembering we’re not supposed to do that anymore. One girl finally broke through her self-restraint and actually followed through, grabbing me around my waist, her head now reaching my shoulders. I even had some “I wish I was still in your class!” shouts in the hallways and outside on the playground.

When I asked my new, current students what they liked best about first grade at the end of the day on Friday, amidst the “recess” and “P.E.” answers I was shocked when one student said “being here with you.” Several others followed suit after that, whether genuine or from the herd mentality that frequently happens in a first-grade classroom, I don’t know. It doesn’t matter.

This is what I need to remember to get me through the coming school year. This is what is important. It’s not whether my lessons go according to plan. It’s not whether I’ve completed my asynchronous PD. It’s not about complying with all the time-wasting demands from upper administration who have forgotten what it’s like to be on the front lines in the classroom, or maybe never knew.

It’s about this, the relationships I have with my students, both past and present. It’s about letting them know I care and that they are loved. That’s what makes me happy in my job.

What Fresh Hell

Like I imagine most teachers have had to do for their districts, I have recently had to respond to an unusually large number of surveys. What is working? What isn’t? What would you like more information about? What is your number one concern? And like most of the teachers in my district, I answered that I am highly concerned about student engagement. We’ve lost so much valuable time with our students that we want to make the most of what we have.

I can’t speak for the other teachers, but I’ll bet when they answered in a similar manner, at least some of them were thinking like I was: this is a fishing expedition for ideas for professional development. Maybe they could give us some real-life examples of techniques that have worked to engage students. Maybe they could give suggestions for connecting better with families and motivating parents to make sure their children are logging in every time there is an online class. Better yet, maybe they could arrange a make-it/take-it (for those of you who don’t know, that’s where you make some type of craft or project to take with you that you can turn around and use in your classroom).

What we got at my school today during PD was anything but helpful. It started with our instructional specialist presenting us with slides naming “hooks” that we could use to get our students’ attention, then assigning the teachers to breakout rooms where WE were responsible for coming up with our own examples of each type of hook to share with the rest of the faculty. That was not particularly helpful except to get us thinking about what we already knew and reiterating it to each other.

Then came the plunge to a depth of torture previously unknown to me. My new boss has started coming into our classrooms on a weekly basis and just hanging out for quite a while, taking her observation notes on her device and regularly interfering with the learning I’m trying to cultivate. I say “interfering,” not to be mean, but as an accurate description. Every single time she has entered my classroom, my principal has stepped in, undoubtedly thinking she is helping, and completely undermined the very thing I was trying to teach a particular student. However, that’s a whole other story for another time.

As if that weren’t bad enough, the instructional specialist announced today that now she and the principal and the paras and the title teachers and the SPED teachers and any other adults who happen to have the time to roam the hallways of our school now have an open invitation to just walk in to our classrooms unannounced whenever and observe us to see how “engaged” our students are. The instructional specialist and principal were positively giddy when unveiling the signs they had made for the teachers to complete and hang outside our classroom doors, specifying the behavior to look for, and welcoming one and all to come #OBSERVEUS. They’ve even made comment sheets for the observers to fill out and turn in.

We, in the meantime, have been told to figure out what we’re going to do to get our kids to “buy in” to this new campaign. No, I’m not joking. We were actually told to do that. We weren’t told HOW to do that, just to do it.

Our reward? Besides, of course, somehow magically coming up with the solution to student engagement on our own, for every piece of feedback returned on a certain teacher, that teacher gets to go drop a Plinko coin and win a prize. We were told this prize is intended to make us feel “appreciated” for all of the things we do to meet the needs of our students.

Funny, I don’t feel appreciated. I feel like crying. Who would add this to the already (I hate to use this word anymore) unprecedented amount of stress and workload teachers continue to experience in the nightmare of this pandemic? Furthermore, am I the only one who thinks her students will be a lot more focused and engaged without unannounced visitors dropping in and staring at us, waiting for us to perform like a well-trained circus act? And is it just me, or has anyone else noticed that we were just “professionally developed” without actually being taught anything? Nothing was developed here except my stress level and anxiety.

To what new level of hell have they dragged us down today?

No Thanks Necessary

It’s that time of year. Christmas has come and gone. Santa has left his gifts. The wrapping paper is strewn all over the floor, and it’s time to write those thank-you notes.

I have made some observations about my current school that I hesitate to mention, because I don’t want this to come out wrong, and it could so easily. Then why attempt it, you may ask. I believe it is very telling. I wonder whether it is only indicative of the neighborhood in which I teach, although I’ve taught in high-poverty, low socio-economic, Title I areas before. I also wonder whether it’s a sign of changing times.

One of the observations is the role of the Parent-Teacher organization within the school. All of my other places of employment have had PTOs that are focused on making their school better for their students and supporting teachers in any way they can to help bring that about. At one school, granted within close proximity to a country club neighborhood, I would go so far as to say they spoiled their teachers.

Upon every teacher’s birthday, that person was treated to all sorts of goodies by the parents of the students in that room. I was so fortunate one year to have particularly grateful parents who, not only brought me a beautiful bouquet of my favorite flower, but also brought breakfast and lunch to me in my classroom, as well as small tokens of cards and little gifts they’d had the children bring me from home.

Every quarter, the PTO would hire a nice local restaurant to cater a lunch for the teachers, while the parents watched the children in the cafeteria and gave the teachers a duty-free lunch. They would decorate the tables, include a dessert we could take back to our classrooms, and give away door prizes and special treats to the teachers.

Every August, the teachers all received $150 checks to spend on supplies for our classrooms so that we didn’t have to spend so much out of our own pockets. The parents ran all the fund raisers, helped with the Scholastic book sales, and even chipped in money so the teachers could buy a book or two of their choice for their classrooms. One Friday out of every month, the parents came in and popped popcorn for the entire school, and we were allowed to show a video while the children enjoyed their treat. It was a welcome break for all of us, students and teachers alike, from our rigorous work. At random times they would send around a treat cart to the door of each classroom, and the teacher could pick anything from it…bottles of water, soda, snacks, fruit, lip balm, hand lotion, hand sanitizer, office supplies.

Like I said, we were spoiled, but we also felt acknowledged by our parents. No matter how ugly or harsh or unfair the administration became or how difficult our students were, there were those moments every once in a while when we felt valued, that we knew our efforts were not overlooked or forgotten by the people they were intended to benefit. It kept us going.

For the first time ever, I currently work at a school where the focus is the same, to support the students and school, but the attitude is the opposite; it’s what can the faculty and staff do for us parents? In all fairness, I have to say there were cold sandwiches supplied for our dinner on parent-teacher conference nights where we were required to stay late into the evening, which was nice, but those were ordered by the principal and set up and served by the school secretary, not the parents. There are no catered luncheons or hot food banquets. There are no checks to help us cover the cost we incur every year replenishing supplies the school districts no longer provide. There is no acknowledgement of a teacher’s birthday. There are no free books from the book fair. I was allowed to fill out requests for specific books I would like in my classroom that parents could donate, but not surprisingly, no one did.

When these parents wanted to have a back-to-school picnic last year, the teachers were expected to run it. When they wanted to host a pancake breakfast to raise money in January, the teachers were required to organize it, purchase the supplies, set up the tables, cook the pancakes, serve the pancakes, and clean up afterward. So much for the P in PTO.

I experienced another first a few days ago, I didn’t receive a single card or gift for the holiday from a student. Usually, a lot of teachers try to have a plan and thank-you cards on hand to write notes of gratitude to all the students who bring in presents before the end of the last day before break. It’s easier to slip a note into the students’ take-home folders than it is to have the task looming over one’s head during the holidays. It also saves the cost of having to mail the notes to each child. For the very first time in my career, no thanks were necessary, because I received nothing.

I have to say it was odd, and I am still not quite sure how to feel about it. This is also where my tale becomes tricky. I don’t want to sound like a demanding lout. I’m not. I don’t need anything. While I have received such items in the past as articles of clothing, $50, $100, and once even a $200 gift card, I don’t expect anything of the sort. It’s not the size or the quality of the gift at all.

And, yes, just in case you are wondering, I know that I am working in a neighborhood that is always suffering financially in a year that has been absolutely horrendous economically. Many parents have lost their jobs, and my heart goes out to them. I would not want them to take one penny of their money that they need for rent or food or utilities to buy me anything. (On the contrary, I have done my fair share of playing secret Santa, leaving anonymous greetings with grocery store gift cards in the mailboxes of students I’ve known whose families were struggling.)

It’s the attitude. In a year when our school has given free-of-charge all sorts of paper, crayons, markers, pencils, and other school supplies to our students and their families to take home and use for school work, a year when I’ve never worked harder, longer, smarter, or more flexibly to do my best for these children, there really wasn’t even ONE family who thought to have their child write a little note of thanks or to wish me a happy holiday?

Well, despite the recent trend of receiving nothing and having to risk my life to serve, I will continue to give my students presents for the holidays. I will continue to do my best for them, learning everything I can to continually improve my teaching, to spread myself as thinly as possible, to keep working and pushing despite exhaustion and lack of appreciation from my administration, my parents, and my children. I’ll keep stepping in and teaching my students to be civilized, productive human beings. I’ll keep providing supplies and food when their parents don’t, having their hair brushed by the school nurse because the mom never takes care of it, changing their clothes and having them laundered when they come to school so filthy that there’s no way to hide the parental neglect. I’ll keeping making the calls to the Department of Family Services when I discover the bruises and welts on their bodies where they’ve been beaten and when little girls finally find a way to express that they’re being sexually abused. Why? Because it’s my job; it’s what I’m paid to do. No, it’s more than that, and every teacher knows it. It’s a calling. You don’t go into this job for the riches or the fame or the glory. There is none.

No thanks necessary.

Gingerbread

Like many teachers across the country, my fellow grade-level team member and I declared the week before winter break to be “Gingerbread Week” in an effort to be festive without giving offense to anyone. Each day we read a different gingerbread story, beginning with the original folktale on Monday.

We made all sorts of scholarly applications out of our topic. We had gingerbread sorts, gingerbread CVC (consonant, vowel, consonant) word blending, gingerbread math, gingerbread vocabulary syllable identification, and gingerbread alphabetical order. Just to make sure we were (that all-too-loved term by administrators) “rigorous” enough, we also made sure we used higher-order thinking activities, such as analysis and creativity, as we discussed cause and effect in our stories, made comparisons of similarities and differences between the versions, and wrote our own endings to the story.

At the end of the day, though, it just didn’t feel like enough this year. The students weren’t allowed their usual winter party because of COVID-19, and it just wasn’t the same. I had expressed that thought to my husband, and told him I wished I could at least give the kids some gingerbread as a treat to wrap up our themed week and send them off happily into their break.

Being the sweet, kind fellow that he is, he stopped off at the grocery store the next day to see what they had. Although he wasn’t able to find traditional gingerbread people, he did find some gingerbread cookies, all factory-made and prepackaged per COVID precautionary guidelines. I was thrilled! I checked the ingredients, double-checked my list of allergies, sent out a notice to the parents of what I was planning to do, and even sent an individual email to one parent just to clarify the extent of her child’s allergies. Everything was cleared and ready to go!

Before I handed out the treats I explained to my class that I thought it would be fun if we actually tried some gingerbread since we had been reading about it all week and asked if anyone had tasted gingerbread before. Only one hand went up. We washed our hands, sanitized our tables, and I distributed the packages of cookies. They opened them, lowered their masks, took their first bites, and their eyes opened wide. They loved it!

In fact, one boy, who is very difficult to please and who often proclaims himself “bored,” muttered to himself as he gobbled away, “So this is gingerbread, huh? Why haven’t I had this before? This is GOOD! I gotta get me some more of this stuff!”

Teachers, by this point in the year, are feeling the same way about rest and relaxation, and while we’ve experienced it before, it’s been a long, long time since we’ve actually had any, particularly this year. So for all the teachers out there (and anyone else who needs a break – like our diligent, even harder-working health care professionals), may you have some time over the holidays for peace and release and rest, because it’s GOOD, and we gotta get ourselves some more of it!

Merry Christmas, everyone!

Actions Speak Louder than Words

Back in late October when our school board was deliberating whether or not to switch from all-remote learning to a hybrid model, we were just beginning to get the hang of remote. The rough bumps in the road early in our journey were beginning to smooth out, and students and teachers alike were settling in. Not everyone had jumped aboard the remote learning platform, but most families had embraced it, and we teachers were doing everything we could to support them and help them be successful with their education, as well as encourage the ones who hadn’t tried it yet to climb aboard.

Then everything changed. Despite the numbers of COVID-19 continuing to rise in our community, despite the reports from Dr. Fauci, all of a sudden the rhetoric from our school district superintendent changed. I’m not sure why. I’ll probably never know what was really behind it, but for some reason, our superintendent became hell-bent on us returning to the classroom. His school board members were dubious, despite the threats they’d been receiving from a minority of less-civilized parents. His staff was overwhelmingly against it and made very compelling, well-supported arguments against it. Even a vast percentage of his parents had elected, through his many surveys, to keep their children remote, even if the district opened up a hybrid option. He chose to ignore all of us and campaign for us to return. Every sentence out of his mouth was slanted in that direction. He produced the district’s HVAC engineer to testify endlessly at the board meeting that the air quality in our classrooms would continue to be healthy upon the students’ and teachers’ return. The board meetings lasted for hours, far past midnight, arguing the prudence of their decision.

I knew any hope was lost when, during one of his follow-up videos in which our superintendent tried to explain himself to the public, he said with a shrug of his shoulders, “Can I guarantee that none of our teachers will get COVID? Of course not.” It was the nonchalant shrug of the shoulders that got me. I knew in that moment I did not matter. I was expendable. My life and my well-being were of so little consequence to this man that he was willing to gamble with them to get what he wanted. He faced the possibility of harming me and my family as disinterestedly as a general analyzing the collateral damage of his latest offensive.

After that, no matter how many times he says that the health and safety of his staff and his students are of utmost importance, it falls on my deaf ears. Actions speak louder than words, Mr. Superintendent, and your actions speak volumes (both in quantity and decibel-level).

He was right about one thing, he couldn’t guarantee that his staff wouldn’t get it. Within just a couple of weeks of each other, our Title I teacher (after spending 30-minute sessions with several of my students), our Parent Involvement Facilitator (after overseeing lunch duty in my room for 30 minutes the day before), and our Media Center Specialist (after teaching for 45 minutes in my room the day before), have all tested positive.

Please pray for their full recovery and for protection for the rest of us. Our superintendent’s latest rhetoric states that children ages 0 -9 are unlikely to get COVID or to be carriers, contrary to what the CDC has published on its website. Our state school board and our local school board have just adopted measures that have completely changed the “gating” criteria, which govern how the community health is rated by color zones. Using our former criteria, the county would now be back in red, but they’ve redefined the zoning so that we’re only in yellow. Additionally, they’ve altered how our school district reacts to a change in zone color. Now, it doesn’t matter how bad the pandemic becomes, all elementary schools have been ordered to stay in hybrid mode, even if the health code turns red.