Category: #SOL23

Smokin’ in the boys room

I’m on hall duty, spending most of my time near the boys’ room on the first floor, the bathroom best known for its – ahem – popularity. Things have been largely quiet and then, abruptly, they aren’t. Literally. Laughter and loud voices echo out of the bathroom and into the hallway. I lean towards the entryway – there are no exterior doors to separate the washroom from the hallways, though there are stalls inside – and raise my voice: “Time to go to class!”

Brief silence, followed by a reply:

“We’re smoking!”

Gales of laughter billow out of the bathroom.

I dutifully contact the VPs, who dutifully arrive, and we dutifully shoo the boys out of the bathroom, smoke trailing behind them. They are almost giddy with their transgressions. We move them towards their classrooms.

After the kids have been, um, relocated, I chat briefly with one of the VPs. Shaking my head, I say, “There must be something we can do about this.” She laughs ruefully, “If you figure it out, let me know.” We commiserate about how this is a problem in every high school we know of, in schools around North America.

Having done what little we can, we both move off towards our next destination.

I’m halfway up the stairs when the old Motley Crue song starts playing in my head: “Smokin’ in the boys room/ Teacher don’t fill me up with your rules…” That song came out in 1989 – and yes, I remember it. I shake my head again, this time with a little laugh.

If anyone out there figures out how to stop the kids from smoking in the bathrooms, let us know. Until then, I’ll spend most of my hall duty near the boys’ room on the first floor.

Refrigerator Art

He was hard at work in the back of the class and, ok, it wasn’t on an assignment, but at least it meant that for a few blessed minutes of class he wasn’t pacing, wasn’t calling out, wasn’t asking to go to the bathroom, to the Resource Room, to get water. And eventually I could tell he was listening to the audiobook – even though his back was to me and he was hunched over the desk, scribbling. I hadn’t actually had any pedagogical goal in mind when I’d asked him to test the markers; I just wanted a little quiet. I think he might have, too.

So when class ended and he gave me a sheet full of drawings, I was calm enough to be kind of tickled. He described each one. I told him – sincerely – that I wished I could put it on the classroom wall, but that probably the blood and (water) gun would be inappropriate, even though things weren’t as bad as they looked out of context. He agreed, glanced down for a moment, then brightened, “You should hang it on your refrigerator.”

So I did. Photo for evidence. I can’t wait to show him tomorrow.

Just the three of us

There were only two students in the classroom. I had guessed that attendance would be low, but this was far lower than anything I anticipated. The hallways, already nearly empty, settled into semi-silence, and I had to accept that this was it. 

Almost – almost! – I sat down to get some work done. Neither of the two were especially talkative students; neither seemed deeply invested in English. Still, before my derrière quite hit my chair, I stood again and walked over to them. I nestled into a nearby seat and asked what they wanted to work on. Nothing. 

I thought of my own child. He would be furious if he ended up in a class with only one other student – even if they were vaguely friends. If I, as the teacher, asked him what he wanted to work on, he would probably glare at me (although, if I were not his mom, he would probably simply shrug his shoulders and look away). I knew better than to start with such an open-ended question. I needed to try again.

“So, X, I noticed that you haven’t yet revised your 100-word memoir. Want to look at that together?”

Wait.
Wait.
Wait.

Resigned yes.

I try again with the other student. Similar results.

Soon, though, Chromebooks were open, and they were both at least looking at their work. With one student, I was able to clarify the directions for a missing assignment, and they got to work. With the other, I walked through the revision process while I revised his piece in front of him: I asked questions, wrote down phrases he said, and generally showed him what deep revision might look like. Then, confident that he had understood, I reverted to the earlier draft and sent him off to revise on his own. I like to think he wasn’t horrified. 

We also all worked a bit on our more recent project – Humans of Gloucester. We looked at the transcript of an interview one had done and talked about what part might be interesting to an Instagram audience. We considered how even a tiny piece of an interview can have a story arc. When the bell rang, we were all startled. 

Two students. Turned out to be a pretty good class.

(And follow us on Instagram: @HumansofGloucester – we’ve already got some good posts up, including the one from this day.)

“Oh!”

I’ve just finished taking attendance and am closing my computer so that I can read along with my class when I hear a muffled gasp from the middle of the room.

“Oh!”

My eyes snap up. Is something wrong? A student has her hand over her mouth, eyes wide as she stares at her book. Her friend shoves her own book – newly started – to one side and leans in to see what’s on the page. The reader’s eyes are wide. She starts to dog-ear the corner but then, just before she creases the fold, she flips the page. Both girls’ eyes dart back and forth as they read quickly down the page. Another intake of breath then, heads together, they hold a whispered conference.

One of them looks up and catches my eye. I nod. I know this book. I know where they are. It is, in fact, gasp-worthy. The student takes a deep breath, then dives back into the story. Just last week she told me that she usually abandons books long before she gets this far, but not this one.

Page finished, her friend reluctantly returns to her own novel. If I had to bet, I’d say that Dear Martin will soon be flying off my shelves. For now, though, there’s at least one reader in the classroom who needs to finish this book.

Heartstopper

I’m at the back of the classroom, trying to choose which title to use for today’s book talk. My hand is hovering over Heartstopper. I want to tell the students about this fun and accessible graphic novel about a cute high school romance – and hey! There’s a Netflix adaptation! I love the series, and am sure that some of the students will love it, too. 

Still, I hesitate. I know that some of the students will not love Heartstopper. In fact, some of them may be offended that it’s on the shelves at all. If I share this book in today’s book talk, they will, at best, giggle and blush; maybe they’ll look away; some will be quite upset. All of this because the cute romance is between two boys.

As a teacher, I want the classroom to be a space where all students feel welcome. I imagine a space where they feel confident that they will be able to learn, where they feel safe and respected.  But already, even as I type this, I can feel the tension in my stomach because this vision – the room where everyone can bring their full self and thrive – is largely a dream. Reality rests on some seriously rocky ground.

Two weeks ago, across Canada, a group of people protested to “protect our children from indoctrination and sexualization.” Many students “walked out” of (well, most simply did not attend) school. I was shocked, though I shouldn’t have been. Conservatives – from the leader of the national Conservative Party to Ontario’s Education Minister – have been ramping up their attacks on LGBTQ+ people for several years. In early September, the Premier of Ontario told a group of supporters that schools are “indoctrinating” students on issues of gender. 

But queer people exist. Our schools welcome people – students, staff, parents – who live and love in all sorts of ways. [I have stared at this paragraph for many long minutes now. Long minutes plus almost two weeks. I want to write this, but how will I say what I mean? I don’t know. I have to remind myself that this is a very small blog, that I am writing mostly for myself, that I am trying to be a teacher who writes which means being a teacher who experiences what my students experience: a blank page, a blank mind and, sometimes, a fear of writing or a lack of words. I *will* write this tonight. I *will* hit publish.] I guess what I want to say is, LGBTQ+ people are people. They love and are deserving of love. They live and deserve to be allowed to live full, rich lives. 

The walkout and the subsequent acts in our school – the defacing of pride flags, the hate(ful) speech in classes – profoundly unsettles many of us. There are tears in the staff room; tempers are short. The Rainbow Youth Club is nervous about meeting. Everyone’s edgy.

Days later, at our staff meeting, two powerful voices help staff refocus. “Be careful,” they tell us, “not to jump to conclusions.” “Lead with curiosity,” they remind us. “Remember that some of our students have recently arrived from places where merely discussing these issues could have serious repercussions. As best as you can, when faced with statements that you might categorize as hate, ask genuine questions.” I am humbled that people whose very existence is being attacked are reminding us to be kind, curious, teachers. 

The speakers help us find balance between the human rights of all people and the right to freedom of religion. We can practice our religion here, read our religious texts, attend any house of worship. We do not, however, have the right NOT to learn about other practices and peoples in our public schools. We may not discriminate against others who do not share our beliefs. They remind us that all children deserve to see themselves reflected in the curriculum, and that statistically, whether we know it or not, someone in our class is probably LGBTQ+. They deserve to be seen.

That night, on social media, I share a post: a person holds a sign that says, “Classrooms that erase QUEER identities are erasing truth and beauty and joy.” The next morning, I wake to a message from an old friend: “I was erased.” 

And now I’m at the back of the classroom, trying to choose which title to use for today’s book talk. My hand is hovering over Heartstopper. I think about my friend and about the presenters. I think about students past and present, about friends, family and other loved ones, all of whom identify as queer. I think about students who will feel uncomfortable and (hopefully not, but maybe) unwelcome if I choose this book. I think about how much we change – how incredibly much we all change – over the course of a lifetime. I cannot know now what someone will believe in a week, a month, a year. I cannot know who anyone will love. 

I’m an English teacher. What I know is stories. Some stories you’ll like; some you won’t. They may make you cry or laugh or rage. You may read a story that you’ll want to throw across the room in anger, or one that you’ll always keep within arm’s reach because you feel so seen. If you’re lucky, you’ll read them all. So I pull out Heartstopper and lean it against the blackboard. Because everyone’s welcome here.

Good and Bad

Today was supposed to be our first day of Inquiry Based Learning. It was going to be new for both me (I’ve never gone all-in on this) and the students in my Grade 9 sheltered English course. The idea came up last week: I suggested that since there were five students, maybe we should do things differently. After all, waiting for five people with five very different learning profiles to do the same thing at the same time sounded silly.

Everyone agreed. And then…

Two of the five students weren’t in class today, *and* a new student joined our class. I’ve only been teaching this particular group for two weeks, but I can already tell that many of the students come to the class with a giant “NO”. No, they are not planning to read. No, they are not going to move closer to the front. No, they are not interested in putting their phone away. No, they will not write anything. NO. Just NO.

Today was no different. The three students who have been in the class for a while warily watched the newbie, letting his presence shape their participation. I knew better than to plow ahead, but I nevertheless gamely tried to lead a discussion about what we might be interested in learning. One student didn’t speak; another stuck to one-word high-school-approved topics: cars, games, computers. The new student refused. We weren’t making much progress.

Somehow (don’t ask me – I just teach here) our conversation morphed into what these young people like and don’t like about school. Sensing potential, I grabbed a whiteboard marker and starting recording their ideas. Soon, even Mr. No was contributing. I think I won him over when another student started to say something, then backed away from it, saying, “Nah, I’ll just get in trouble.”

“I doubt it,” I replied. “Unless you were planning to curse directly at me, in which case, yeah, I’d be mad.”

Once he had shared his (honestly, not very controversial) opinion that teachers were a lot of the bad about school – and didn’t get in trouble – we were on our way. Soon, the board was full of their observations, and they were sharing stories that went with them. Almost every student had, at some point in their schooling, been *very* disruptive – overturned tables, broken windows, one caused their whole school to be “secured”- and it was almost always because they felt unheard, unseen, or not respected. They were pushed beyond their own limits and they didn’t have another way to respond. Some are still unhappy about things that happened years ago. All of them wish things had been different.

As the end of class approached, I shared that I found their ideas powerful. I said that I thought that other teachers, too, might benefit from knowing about these things. After all, I said, not every teacher knows that sometimes they need to help *less*. We all looked at the board for a quiet moment. Then, carefully, I wondered if perhaps our first project – maybe just for a few days – could be to create a sheet of things teachers could do to be less annoying (not likely to be our final title) and share it with the teachers in our school.

I wish I could say they said “YES” but the truth is that they are reserving judgment. We’d used up their quota of focus for the day, so we have to wait until tomorrow for any decision – and who knows who might be in class tomorrow. Still, I’m beginning to believe that with this class, anything could happen.

Here’s what they have to say:

GoodBad
Learning new thingsHomework
Gym – get my energy out & play gamesThe Office (includes being sent to the office
AND “office people” who don’t listen)
Having fun (includes making teachers mad)People who won’t listen
Making my own decisionsAnnoying teachers:
talking to me for no reason,
telling me what to do,
making me focus when I really can’t focus anymore,
trying to help me when I want to do it on my own.
Using phones

Hot hot hot

“Hot! Hot! Hot! Is it hot enough for you?” The Great Gatsby, Chapter 7

This year, school opened during a heat wave. Teachers were instructed via memo to “drink plenty of fluids” and “wear lightweight and loose clothing.” We got helpful recommendations like, “Where possible, open the windows first ting in the morning and close them mid-morning as it starts to get hot outside” and “Keep the blinds/curtains closed during the day.” Reader, these things did not help.

On Wednesday, I greeted my grade 9 class in the sweltering semi-dark of my sauna-classroom. Outside, the air was already sticky with humidity, so I decided not to open the two small windows, instead making sure the blinds were closed. (In one case, this meant unclipping the binder clips that hold the broken blinds up when necessary.) I didn’t turn on the fluorescent overhead lights; we couldn’t afford any extra heat.

Students swam through the air into the classroom, and slid into their seats. I tried for an opening “seating challenge” (it’s a game, I swear) but by second period, when I met my first class, we were already struggling to think. My carefully planned opening activities quickly fell by the wayside in favour of melting slowly into our desks. Students asked each other not how to get to the nearest washroom but which water fountain offered the coldest water. “None of them,” sighed one student. “All the cold’s already used up.”

I stood in front of the students, sweating. During my first class, I sweat through my underclothes and then through the top of my (lightweight, loose) dress. I gathered what I could of my short hair and pulled it into a ridiculously tiny ponytail, just to get it off my neck. Sweat trickled down my back.

While the actual temperature (32C or 90F) was not completely shocking for Ottawa, the “feels like” temperature (up to 42C or 107F) was. Just across the river, in Quebec, the beginning of the school year was delayed. In Ontario, school started as planned.

Now, if you live in South Carolina – where I grew up – you may be unimpressed by these temperatures, so let me add that we have no air conditioning in our building. If you live in California – where I attended 3rd and 4th grade – you may *still* be unimpressed, so let me also add that we do not have fans in our classrooms.

I mean, we can bring in our own. Here’s what that (not very helpful) memo we get every year tells us: “Portable fans may be employed to help manage the heat. Any portable fans brought from home by staff must be CSA-approved and must be guarded properly and reviewed by the principal/ vice principal/ manager prior to use in classrooms or offices. It is the responsibility of the owner/ staff to clean, and maintain the portable fan.”

We have very, very few fans in our school. At lunchtime, teachers gathered in our office, taking turns near the lone fan. We didn’t talk much. My – blessedly cold – salad and cold water provided short-lived relief. The memo told us that we should find the cool areas in the school, but our air-conditioned conference room had been in use for a meeting all morning, and the library (lightly air-conditioned) could only really accommodate one class at a time. There was no respite.

Then it was time to teach again. The classroom was even hotter than it had been in the morning. My dress was visibly wet before the class was half over. I wiped sweat off of my forehead before it dripped into my eyes. The students draped languidly over their desks. One student briefly considered misbehaving, but when I plopped down next to him to offer help, he reconsidered, too hot to protest.

I dripped my way through inventorying Chromebooks in a closet with another teacher, trying to prepare them for students to use. We drained our water bottles more than once, sweating out every drop we took in. Finally, the final bell rang and students seeped out of the school, exhausted.

Teachers, too, left for the day. Then, we did it again on Thursday. That afternoon I tried to take the dog for a walk after school. Partway around the block, I realized I was actually overheated. Andre came to walk us home, and I – like many other teachers, it turns out – immersed myself in a cool bath. Heat exhaustion. I went to bed early and slept hard.

On Friday, the rain came and the weather finally broke. Week one was done.

First-day jitters

We’ve added a third person to our little carpool, and we pick her up today for the first time. Because it’s the first day of school, she is waiting for us in front of the elementary school where she has just dropped off her children. The day promises to be extremely hot, and she’s already pulling her dress away from her chest as she slips into the car.

“How’d it go?” I ask, and she reports that the kids are happily on their way into school with their new teachers. I think back to when I dropped my own children off at this same school, their sweaty hands clinging to mine when they were little and, later, those same hands raised in a quick goodbye as the child they were attached to dashed off to meet up with friends. Today, teenagers, neither child ‘fessed up to any nerves, but I know they were there – the first day of school is always a bit jittery.

Now, the car is full of chatter. One teacher is starting her third year of teaching and her second semester at GHS. Our new companion has been teaching longer, but she’s new to the school. Me? I’m the veteran – I’m pretty sure this is my 26th first day as a teacher, and it’s my third year at this school. We’re all a little sweaty – and I doubt it’s just the heat. As the A/C finally kicks in, we settle back and admit to our own nerves. Who slept last night? Who feels prepared? Does any teacher ever sleep well the night before the first day? Fully prepared for the moment the students walk in? We don’t think so.

The school building is already jumpy with students when we arrive, nearly an hour before the first bell. In the lobby, nervous teens check printed lists taped to the display case, trying to find their first period teacher. I overhear the same conversations I remember from my own first days as a student: “Who do you have?” “Do you know where room 2045 is?” “Wait? Are we in the same class?” I remember that edgy excitement.

As I walk away from the buzz of the main area towards the classrooms, a few of the students I taught last year tumble to a halt and say hello. One eyes the books I’m carrying. “Are those new?” she asks hopefully. I tell her yes, and show her that I’ve also got a new set of her favourite series from last year. “Oh!” she is excited, then suddenly she bites her lip. “Would it be ok if I borrow one of the ones I’ve already read?” By the time I say yes, the first in the series is in her hands, a shield against this nebulous new year.

Finally, I arrive at my classroom and open my door. I’m straightening up when a head pops in: “Miss, you have my brother!” True, but not this period. I walk them – the brother now stealing shy glances at me- to where they need to be. Back in the lobby, I find anxious parents, trying to understand the chaos in front of them. One family speaks French, and their relief is almost tangible when I respond. Yes, yes, their child is in the right place. Yes, I can help. I’m surrounded by languages I don’t know, too, as students greet each other in delight.

By now, I’ve forgotten my nerves, but the school is still fizzing with energy. A young woman I know from a club I sponsor rushes up to me. “Are you teaching Grade 12 English?” I am not. “But… I need you for Shakespeare.” I have no idea what she’s talking about. “I can’t do it, I just can’t,” she continues,”and I know you can help.” I assure her that her teacher can, in fact, teach Shakespeare well and that if she is still struggling she can come to me. Then I realize she has English second semester. I manage to hold back a laugh as I send her off to her first semester classes.

I smile at students I recognize, notice how they’ve grown and new hairstyles. I ask about summers and check timetables. Soon enough, most people have found their way to where they need to be, and I am again in the classroom. I don’t have students right now – it’s orientation for grade 9 students – but I can feel the energy pulsing through the walls.

That energy simmers and pops throughout the day. Students and staff move about the school, trying to find our places, trying to discover who we are this year, in this space, with these people. We won’t figure it all out today – heck, we might not all figure it out this year – but most of us will sleep better tonight than we did last night. For now, though, the truth is that many of us here are just a little jittery.

The Song

The woman in the stall next to me is singing along with the piped in music. I’m exhausted and distracted, so it takes me a minute to realize this is what’s happening, but when I finally register the unexpected sound, I find myself smiling.

My shoulders go down, and I start to actually listen as she – quietly but enthusiastically – jaunts along. The words aren’t in English… I listen for a few more seconds. Arabic? Yes, Arabic! A major American airport is piping Arabic muzak into the women’s bathroom in terminal 4 (and, presumably, everywhere else), and the woman in the stall next to me is happily singing along. I chuckle.

We’re on our way home from vacation. Yesterday, the first flight of our three flights was delayed on the tarmac for nearly four hours. Once we were in the air, we learned that they had a grand total of three cheese plates and a few cans of Pringles available to sustain passengers for the four-hour flight. I’m pretty sure we had devoured every package of cookies and pretzels on board by the time we landed, after midnight, in a city we had not planned to stay in. We’d survived the curt customs officer, fed the kids from the one kiosk still open, trudged to a hotel, slept a few hours, waited in a wildly understaffed security line, and made it to our rescheduled flight just as it was boarding. Our amazing vacation already seemed far away. But here, now, a woman is singing in the public bathroom.

I stand, and the automatic system flushes the toilet. Briefly, I am grateful that I do not have a child or two in the stall with me, that no one has suddenly burst into tears because of the unexpectedly loud sound. I remember the twisting required to take care of multiple people in one bathroom stall while blocking the sensor with one hand. At the time, it was all-consuming, but now, remembering, I’m smiling again.

I’m washing my hands when the woman opens the stall door, still humming under her breath. In the mirror, she flashes me a happy smile. “I love that song,” she says. The janitor, busy to one side, replies, “Mm-hmm. I heard you singing. You have a nice voice.”

We finish washing at the same time, and my neighbor uses her paper-towelled finger to press the green happy face of the “How are we doing?” doohickey above the sinks. “This is the best bathroom in the terminal,” she says to the janitor. “I always come here. You’re doing a great job.” Now we’re all smiling. I press the green button, too.

“Such a great song,” she says, and she walks out of the bathroom. Behind her, silently, I agree: a great song.

Dear Next Year’s Teacher

A couple of years ago, I learned that many elementary school teachers create these amazing documents about their students, which they then share with next year’s teachers. I was flabbergasted – what a lot of work! – and deeply impressed. A thoughtful document that shares students’ likes & dislikes, strengths and areas for growth, and even family situation could help create a soft landing space for the student as they transition from year to year. (And yes, it could backfire; and yes, students change; and yes, we all have biases; and yes, the new teacher will need to get to know the students in the new year – but let’s assume positive intentions all around.)

In high school, we don’t do anything like this. We pretend that an overall grade and some learning skills are enough information (they aren’t), leaving me to wonder, occasionally, what I would write to next year’s teacher if I had a chance. Obviously, I can’t ethically write a public post about individual students, but here’s what I wish next year’s university profs knew.

Dear Next Year’s Professor,

We tried. We really did. We read, and we wrote, and we even studied Hamlet. Ok, we *sort of* studied Hamlet. Ok, we got through Hamlet and watched several movie versions, which has to count for something. In general, the students were engaged. Most of them came most days. Everyone at least tried to read a book – if you include manga, which I do. Everyone turned in at least one written assignment and everyone participated in a formal debate, even if they were extremely unhappy about having to argue in favour of something they disagreed with. Even if they cried. Even if they spoke nearly inaudibly or in their third or fourth language. One way or another, they stood in front of their peers and spoke.

In good news, most people learned to revise their work using feedback, and most people were able to share their strongly held beliefs about the world without completely alienating their classmates, even in daily conversations. I’ll admit that the last one was hard. Heck, both of them were hard.

Still, you should probably know that sometimes people whispered through silent reading. And no matter what I did, their cellphones still ended up in their hands, almost by magic. Lots of times people were late. And since January, a lot of people have resorted to using AI when they’re feeling pressured – even if I try to dial back the pressure. Also, to be clear, turning work in on time seems to have disappeared, along with thank you notes and calling cards and other niceties of a bygone era. And, honestly, on a few days near the end, a fair number of students skipped even though they really needed the time in class. After all, they were still in high school.

I know they will arrive in your classroom looking like adults. Some of them will think they are adults and, since the law and our society believe that to be true, I guess they are. Nevertheless, I think you should probably know that they really aren’t fully grown. For example, every now and then, someone’s father still walks them to class, just to be sure they make it. Even at the end of the year, I had to get in touch with several parents in order to convince a few students to hand in one final assignment. And more than one student cried near the end of the year, usually from the sheer emotional overwhelm. They will swear that they know how to finish their work on time, but lots of them don’t, and they think I’ve pushed them hard, but they’re really only just starting to wrap their heads around essays and critical thinking. Also, between you and me, many of them haven’t mastered complicated grammar. Appositives flummox some of them, and comma splices abound.

Still, they want to learn; I’ve seen their excitement when they’re deep into an argument they believe, scrolling through the text, looking for evidence to prove that Gertrude is the hero or that grief is the defining feature of the play. I’ve heard them talking about calculus problems and sharing information about Chemistry. One of them has started a business; another is determined to be a designer. They have lived through things I can only imagine. Be gentle with them. They’ve only just dipped their toes in academic thought, even though they think they can already swim. And if there are days when you are tempted to despair or when you hear yourself say, “what are they teaching them in high school these days?” please remember that we tried. All of us. We really did.

Sincerely,

Their Grade 12 English teacher