Truth-telling #SOLC26 26/31

The older I get, the more I enjoy meeting caregivers at conference night. (We used to call them parent-teacher conferences, but “caregiver” makes more sense – tonight I met a host parent/ guardian, several parents and an uncle – and also a very cute younger brother, but he was not a caregiver.) I especially enjoy when students come with their caregivers and we can chat together about how things are going. I love opening with compliments and watching people’s faces light up. I love asking the students to talk about what they’ve learned. I love learning more about each student and seeing how they interact with those who love them. Sure, it’s exhausting to do all of this after a full day of teaching – and with a full day of teaching ahead – but it’s usually worth it.

As you can see, however, my enjoyment is predicated upon compliments and discussions of learning – but not every student is making the kind of progress that will move them towards their goals. If things aren’t going particularly well, I am usually a fan of the compliment sandwich: good thing, slip in the complicated bit, good thing. This plays to my predilections: I have a penchant for looking for the good in people, especially if those people happen to be in my classroom. Still, I knew that my last conference tonight was going to be different: I needed to tell the parents the truth that their hard-working, loveable child needs extra support.

When I was younger, I probably would have danced around this issue a bit more, but I’ve been doing this for too long to fool myself. I’ve read this child’s school records and seen their progress through old report cards. This year, I’ve been working with them since September, tracking their reading fluency and comprehension: they started well below grade level and they’re not catching up in the way that I had hoped. I’ve sat with the student’s work for a long time, wondering what I can offer to support them. I can’t figure it out. The student is hard-working and enthusiastic, well liked by teachers and resilient enough to have overcome some of the bullying they endured in middle school. They play sports and have friends…but the truth is that I don’t see how a regular classroom with a regular number of students can support the growth they need. I’ve made suggestions along the way, of course, but tonight I had to tell the truth.

I could have spent the whole conference telling their caregiver how wonderful they are, and as the conference continued I kept coming back to that idea, but I reminded myself both before and during the meeting that the best thing I could offer was the truth. So, while I softened the data with phrases like “just a snapshot” and “may need more time” I still shared the data. When the student proudly pulled out their notebook to show their growth in writing – and they have grown! – I complimented the increase in volume, then took a deep breath and pointed out the spelling and grammar that made it almost incomprehensible. I did the same as I shared the books the student has been reading – far far below grade level.

Looking in the eyes of the people who have raised this child and telling them that they need more help than I can give them was hard. I felt sadness and a little shame – why can’t I fix this? Have I worked hard enough, tried enough strategies, offered enough support? I know that I have truly given this child everything I can in the confines of the classroom, but my heart only barely believed that when I sat in the conference.

Still, I told the truth – and then the real miracle occurred: their caregiver nodded and said “thank you.” And then, with the student as part of the discussion, we started talking about specific strategies that they could use at home. The caregiver took notes. The student seemed genuinely excited about strategies that might work. I was able to talk about ways to measure growth and outcomes. We agreed to try something, then speak again in a few weeks to see if things are progressing. I felt the same thing I often feel in the conferences I love: a sense of community. Here we were, teacher, caregiver, student, working together to set a goal and work towards it. And look, none of us are expecting miracles, but a little truth-telling might at least have set us all on a path towards improvement rather than stagnation.

After that conference ended, I chatted for a while with a colleague and let my brain and my heart settle. I hope that in the end the family went home feeling the same sense of community that I did. I hope that we can work together to help this child become a stronger reader because that is something they desire. And I know that with each conference like this, I become a little better at telling truths.

Drivel #SOLC26 25/31

I need to write. Yesterday I only posted a picture. I mean, it was a good picture, but a picture nonetheless, which is only sort of a slice of life – though now that I’m thinking about it, a daily picture as a slice of life would be interesting, too. But that’s not this challenge, so today I have to write. It’s March 25. Only six days left in this challenge. I’m not going to stop now.

It’s just that last night I was so tired that I fell asleep right after work and  slept for 12 hours – even though March Break just ended two days ago, so technically I should be refreshed. And today I could have done the same, but that seemed  a bit over the top, so I’ve made myself stay awake, eyes at half mast.

It’s just that today was busy at school because we’re running the Literacy Test – which is always oddly confusing despite arriving at predictable intervals and being largely the same every time. And Wednesdays my student teacher is at school and I like to, you know, actually spend some time with her so she learns stuff.

It’s just that today is the chaos class, and even though they’re *much* better after our pre-March Break – ahem – discussion, they still require a lot of attention in order to make it through a full class with any sort of learning.

It’s just that after school the dog wanted an extra long walk because the weather is getting nice, and Mr. 15 needed an extra kick-in-the-pants to finish his work because, well, he’s 15, and my spouse needed extra support because his work is tough right now. 

It’s just that yesterday was a Heads Meeting and tomorrow is Teacher-Caregiver Conferences and it seems that there is always so much to do, even though I swear my to-do list gets longer every day. When do teachers mark student work? I no longer know.

At any rate, this may be drivel but it is written – and written is at least something. Maybe tomorrow I will write something better – but not tonight.

Planner Love #SOLC26 23/31

I honestly don’t know how anyone teaches without a planner of some sort. Schools function in a series of intermeshing cycles – like gears of different sizes that each need to keep moving in order for the whole system to function. School days must sync with the weeks and the months and the rhythm of a semester and school year and calendar year. Then there’s the cycles within the class itself and, in high school, the four year cycle from entry to graduation. It gets complex.

On top of that, I teach four classes on a schedule that alternates daily between AB CD/ BA DC. Two of those classes meet every day in the morning; two meet every other day in the afternoon. One of the every day classes, Reading Skills, is a team-taught ongoing class with somewhat open enrollment: students “graduate” from the class when their reading skills are equivalent to learning needs. The other is a 12th grade University prep English class. The two afternoon classes are both grade 9 English, so I have to keep track of which class ended where.

This is why I need my trusty planner. For years I used the Happy Planner Teacher Planner & I loved it. The pages turn easily and there’s plenty of space for notes and lessons. But it was pretty cutesy and increasingly expensive and eventually I wanted something new. Then I discovered the Clever Fox Planner and fell hopelessly in love. It has an area called “schedule of school events” where I can see exactly what the whole school year will bring. When my colleague asked today when our comments are due for midterm, I flipped it open and – boom! – April 20. When is graduation? Got it? Retirement parties? On it. I can look at months or weeks and keep track of whose parents I’ve contacted. And I can take notes in meetings and find the notes again. Oh, and there are ribbon page markers – and have I mentioned the stickers? I get an inordinate amount of pleasure from putting in all the stickers. 

Here, let me take you on a tour of my amazing planner:

Mostly, though the planner holds some of the information that used to clog my brain. I know where we stopped watching Romeo and Juliet (down to the minute!) and what page we got to Long Way Down. I remember the new words we learned in Reading and have some idea how units will unfold in grade 12. I can see upcoming meetings and force my brain to coordinate school things and non-school things instead of double-booking. Offloading that into one place where I can find it brings me a measure of peace – and heaven knows I need as much of that as I can get. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, I don’t know how anyone teaches without a planner.

Packing #SOLC26 22/31

As I packed my bag yesterday, I followed my personal rituals, tailored to this particular carry-on: stashed socks in various corners, used t-shirts to fill the gap between the bottom bars, placed my toiletries bag on top of the clothes on the wheel end of the bag, made sure that underwear were not the top layer, in case the bag got searched, splayed open in front of passengers everywhere. When I realized I was reveling in my lack of actual shoes – sandals only for this trip! – and thus lack of decisions about stuffing socks in them, I remembered a long-ago argument with my sister. 

We were in college, and I thought I was quite cosmopolitan. I went to school in a big city (Washington, DC); she went to school in a college town. I had studied abroad and had a French boyfriend; she had not. I was a traveler, and as far as I was concerned, she was not. I was proud of my ability to travel just about anywhere with only a carry-on – something that I don’t think was particularly common at the time (cast yourself back to before 9/11, before fees for baggage – hard to imagine now). I had recently seen a magazine article about rolling up your clothes in order to cram more into your bag, and I was opining about how much I loved this new method of packing, about just how much I could get into a tiny space. My technique was flawless.

Diane Macdonald/Getty Images

Enter my sister. She had no time for my airs and mercilessly mocked my amazing new packing discovery. I remember her sitting on her bed, telling me how stupid it was and how much time I was wasting by rolling all those clothes. I tried to explain how this created more space; she said I might as well just toss everything in because it would be the same. I disagreed, she mocked, and we continued our back and forth until we fought. 

We were loud enough that my mother came in. She was used to our fights, often worse just before one of us left the other, so she didn’t even bother to point out the absurdity of fighting over how to pack a suitcase. Instead, she tried to mediate, but we were having none of it. Finally, exasperated, she came up with a plan: we would both pack the bag. First, I would pack my way; then my sister would pack her way. Most clothes in would win.

The game was on. Drawers were emptied. I folded, rolled and thrust clothes into the carry-on until it was bursting with clothes. I added more in the middle, less on the sides, and was just barely able to zip it closed. Triumph. Then, we cleared any unpacked clothes off the bed, opened the suitcase and dumped it out. My sister took her turn. She shook everything out until she had a giant heap of clothing. Then, she picked up the entire pile and threw it into the bag. She smashed it down, shoved a few bits into place, sat on the suitcase and smugly zipped it closed. 

My mother declared that both methods allowed for an equal amount of clothing in the carry-on. I was furious; my sister, exultant. My mother looked at her two oldest children, both of us students at prestigious institutions of higher learning, and did not say that we were petty and shallow and utterly ridiculous; instead, she simply said, “Kim’s method is faster, but Mandy’s means the clothes aren’t wrinkled and unwearable.” Then she left.

I don’t remember what happened next. I know I was a clothes-roller for a little while longer, but I reverted back to regular folding pretty quickly; I want to believe that my sister never simply dumped a drawerful of clothing into a suitcase and left, but she might have. These days, she folds her clothes, too. Such a silly, silly fight – and I have no idea why I remember it – but I think of it often as I pack: folding, smoothing, and, yes, rolling some things up to fit in one space while I shove other things in into another, willy-nilly wherever they’ll go.

Packing Lists #SOLC26 21/31

Things that never made it out of my suitcase:

  • 4 pairs of socks
  • the “nice” shorts
  • 1 “decent” t-shirt
  • my least comfortable swimsuit top
  • airpods
  • 2 bras
  • mascara
  • student writing that needs to be graded by Monday
  • my second & third books

Things I found exactly where I dropped them the day we arrived

  • one pair of lightweight pants
  • one sweatshirt
  • shoes with laces
  • compression socks

Things to put in my backpack

  • book #2
  • a few scavenged seashells and three small pieces of sea glass
  • water bottle
  • journal – the seats are too small for a laptop
  • sand, whether I want it or not

Things I will not bring home

  • sunscreen
  • a half-full bottle of moisturizer, now empty
  • travel razor
  • regrets

Flying, or something like it #SOLC26 20/31

I take my foot off the bottom rung and sink softly down, surrounded suddenly by a school of yellow grunt. Their bodies undulate all around me and, though their large eyes are right next to mine, they seem unperturbed by my presence. I watch their gills work, amazed. A few blue tang join us, cutting crossways through the motion of the school of grunt, not unlike the way the boys I’m with now join me. We are giants compared to them – each grunt is the size of my outstretched hand, the tang maybe the size of a small dinnerplate – but we are flying through their world, and they are unconcerned.

We are snorkeling in the clear waters of Cayman. I watch a large parrotfish chase after a saucereye porgy as I stretch languidly above them. Nearby, a honeycomb cowfish darts into the mountainous star coral to hide and myriad other fish fly in and out of the corals and sponges that make up this coral head that is their home. Sometimes I hold my breath and dive down to be nearer to them, releasing air slowly so that I can stay under just a little longer. I’m careful not to touch their home, but I long to peek into their hidden caves and see what lives inside – a lobster? An eel? I’m out of air – a reminder that I am an intruder in their world – and have to surface.

Afloat again, I continue to watch. There! Oh! In a sandy patch between coral heads a sea turtle is taking a break, snacking on a bit of sea grass. She sees us, but we are merely uninvited guests, so she takes her time before she moves on. We follow respectfully. With a few flicks of our plastic fins, we can nearly keep up as she swims. She inspires awe, this creature whose movement through the water belies her ungainly body. In the water, she is at ease. Turtles are all grace in the water; I will never tire of watching them. Slowly, she flies away from us, and I am momentarily bereft.

We relax again, allowing the waves and the currents to direct our movement for blissful moments. This is the closest I can come to flying: watching a universe swirl around me, supported by the clear water with no fear of falling. No wonder we dream of mermaids. Oh, to be a creature of both air and water! Until then, I’ll keep snorkeling.

A day with the boys #SOLC26 19/31

Some days these boys just chill, but other days they cram in as much as they can. Today – to my surprise – was the latter when I was expecting the former -which is why I’m writing (again) after 10 pm. Ridiculous.

Context: I am with my son and four of his buddies on their March Break trip. Four of the five of them graduate at the end of this year, so this is their grade 12 grad trip. They are delightful & I am really enjoying them; I am also the only one who can drive here – which is why I am here.

Despite their general delightfulness, they are still 17 and 18 years old, so their organizational skills are,well, not fully developed. My original understanding was that today was going to be a chill day at the beach. Instead, we…

woke up reasonably early (why? the sun? the screeching children next door? who knows?)
decided to go to Starfish Point and went on a moment’s notice. It was amazing.
hung out with the starfishdiscovered there were almost no cruise ships coming into port today, so decided to go into town to do some shopping.
decided to eat “a little” breakfast before heading out. Ate a significant amount (from my perspective).
finally got in the car to go – and decided to stop at a restaurant for lunch. The power was out at the restaurant, but the food was still pretty good.
drove the rest of the way to town. Stopped at one of my favourite shops. Purchased many gifts for moms & girlfriends – and even grandmothers!
went to the main drag – bought t-shirts and stuffies and who knows what else. (I window shopped.)
realized they were hungry again and stopped for smoothies and sandwiches
went to my aunt’s house to see my cousin and “chill”.
went to Smith’s Cove and swam.
got cut on the coral.
got bandaged up by me.
went to the grocery store for more food.
drove all the way home – 45 minutes, even though the island is small.
ate.

The boys are downstairs laughing and listening to music. I did my Duolingo & remembered to write. I’m counting that as a win because I am exhausted. Now I am going to bed because I am not built the way 17-year-olds are. Sheesh!


Quiet #SOLC26 18/31

Part of the magic of writing a daily slice of life is that I’m forced to notice small moments every day, and – somewhat less obviously – allowed to reflect. The noticing is clear: whether I’m writing about something that happened that day or stumbling across a memory that has sudden relevance, I pause to collect the moment and then provide structure via words. In this way, writing is an attempt to capture and share an impression. Writing also shapes the moment, insisting on a start and an end, a form, the importance of some details over others, and an expected or desired effect. As I shape each moment, writing gives me a slender sense of control by ordering my thoughts and making moments into stories. Anything can be a slice of life because I can notice it and fit it into my own understanding of who I am or am not. When I capture these moments, I affirm my identity.

I can imagine writing daily moments and leaving them unconnected – loose beads, rolling on the basement floor – but that’s not my experience with this month. Instead, at some point, I start to pick up those written beads and string them together in new ways. I recognize that one moment is temporally distant from another, but as I shape my larger story, I examine them and mentally place them together. The more I write, the more patterns I can create with my captured moments. I can see myself in different ways. The more I read other blogs and comment on them, the more I am able to understand which patterns are universal (or at least universal to educators) and which are personal.

Somehow the hurried pace of March, the steady march, if you will, of write, read, comment, read, comment, read, comment, write – and my sense that I cannot keep up, can never keep up (have I missed your blog? I’m so sorry. I wanted to read it. When did I stop responding to comments on my blog? I apologize. I cannot even begin to tell you how much I appreciate them.) In the rush, March becomes an exercise in looking for ideas, of looking at what I’ve already written, of restringing the moments. In other words, amidst the chaos, I reflect.

Every year at the end of March people reflect on the month. I get double the reflection time since March Break always happens in, well, March. Here, in this third week, while I’m away from my normal routine, the noise of the school year and my family life and even my writing quiets. Sometimes the quiet is fleeting, but it’s almost always there. 

20 seconds of calm

Today, I am in my favourite place in the world: my aunt and uncle’s cottage on the North side of Grand Cayman. Familiar with the comfort of this place, I allow myself to relax more readily than I might elsewhere. The boys I’m accompanying are at the beach and I am alone. The breeze shushes through the trees, the birds call – grackle, mockingbird, dove – and, from the nearby pool, children shriek in delight. I am no longer the mother of shrieking children. My mind wanders as I sift through the memories, the slices of life that come up. I am a newly minted teenager, exploring the island, spending hours with my sisters, draped over a raft in this very bay, astonished at the giant starfish. That night, my aunt and my mother will rub soothing aloe into our badly burned backs; as an adult, I check my back regularly for signs of skin cancer. I am a high school senior on her first solo trip with her best friend. Driving on the wrong side of the road, listening to the soundtrack from Cocktail, thinking Tom Cruise is sexy, wishing we were Elisabeth Shue. While Kokomo and Don’t Worry, Be Happy blast from our tinny speakers, I feel both sexy and mature – though I am neither – in my strapless blue and bathing suit with a ruffle across the bust and a cut-out back. Now I watch my younger sister get married on the beach as my grandfather wipes away tears, and today I glide over the jealousy I felt back then, choosing to remember instead that my uncle noticed and took me out for secret drinks afterwards, reminding me that he and my aunt met when they were a bit older and had (have) a strong happy marriage. I am here with friends, and as a newlywed, then, later, snorkeling while pregnant and then again with my firstborn, who enthusiastically eats sand, and my second, who does the same. I am here with another family as we watch our older children create a scavenger hunt for the younger ones and we play games on the porch. I am here and here and here. I have written these moments in my journals, captured them in photographs, published them on this blog. 

What moments have I forgotten? Which have I chosen not to share today? Why not mention the Olympic swimmer I met here (ahem) or the time we forgot to defrost the turkey before what must have been Christmas dinner? The way my dad never really did get along with my aunt or the times my sisters and I fought? The time we met a celebrity on a snorkel trip and invited her over? Swimming with turtles and stingrays and dolphins? Being stung by jellyfish or cut by coral? 

Today, in this quiet, I string together moments of comfortable happiness. I know from what I’ve written this month that my mind and memory need this. There will be a time for exploring new places, for highs and lows, for petty jealousies and wild ecstasies. But for today I am content with the quiet of this story and this storytelling. I know that I have plenty of moments to string into different patterns another time.

When I write, I become more conscious of the stories I tell myself about who I am – and I am better for it.

Interrupted #SOLC26 17/31

A few days ago on Ethical ELA’s monthly poetry Open Write, I read a prompt that suggested we play with the idea of interruptions. I immediately thought it was a great idea, so I have been catching up on the series Lincoln Lawyer which two of my friends from college recommended, and I find it so compelling that I often end up watching right into another episode because boy do those writers understand the power of a cliffhanger, and, while Cayman doesn’t have any cliffs, the boys I’m with hopped out of the car tonight to look “over the edge” of the ocean (behind the grocery store where we’d stopped for more eggs – even though they’ve managed to eat 3 ½ dozen in two days; I suppose that’s less shocking if I tell you there are five of them and they are all 17 or 18 years old, but it is still a lot of eggs, and let me tell you, eggs are not something I have a lot of anymore (thank you, menopause), but aside from the fact that I can’t seem to follow even my own train of thought anymore, it’s really not so bad) and what was I going to say – don’t go look at the ocean when obviously the ocean is what we’re here to look at or, more to the point, to go in, and we are all happy that we don’t have to go in to school this week so we really might as well take advantage – which I think we did today because we swam with turtles and walked on the white sand beach and spent time with family and every time I thought I might have a minute to write I was wrong – interruptions abounded so here I am, writing at 11:15pm but I am getting it done because that is part of the deal and since the boys are dealing cards downstairs I’m going to shut the bedroom door and go to sleep or, if menopause rears her head, maybe watch Lincoln Lawyer but just for one episode, I swear.