Nine Times

This morning was dreary: gray, rainy, and far too chilly for mid-May. On the drive to work, the spitting drizzle was too sporadic to merit even the slowest setting of the windshield wipers, but too persistent to be ignored. I rotated the on/off knob back and forth, back and forth. In the classroom, only dim light filtered through the high windows, making the space too dark for reading. I was forced to flick on the harsh fluorescent lights. Students groaned. Even inside the building, the air felt heavy. No one wanted to be at school.

Heads nodded towards desks during period 1. Half-lidded eyes flickered open, then closed. Students strove valiantly to pay attention, to fight off the malaise, but it was no use: several slept during work time. After a few half-hearted attempts to keep them on task, I let them rest.

I had hope for period 2 – grade 9 – but they wandered in, half-dazed. I surveyed them as they read and realized that there was no way they were going to write an in-class essay today – or at least no way they would write a good one. We needed a change of plans.

Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. None of these ninth graders had ever seen it. Just what the day called for. On it went.

80s movies can be tough for the students. They start more slowly and rely more heavily on dialogue than their modern counterparts. Worse, I wouldn’t let the students use cell phones – even though we were taking a break – so they were stuck actually watching. And then we got to this scene:

Ferris Bueller’s Day Off – Nine Times

“Why are they so worked up about him missing nine times?” asked a student.

I snorted.

“Well, there was a time when if you missed ten days, you had to repeat the class.”

The students close enough to overhear this discussion looked at me in disbelief. And no wonder: over a fifth of this class has already missed over nine times; another handful have already missed seven or eight. And we still have five weeks to go.

“Like, you failed just because you didn’t come?”

“Exactly like that,” I said.

And we went back to watching the movie. I’d like to think that the students had a renewed respect for Ferris, but I suspect they were simply shaking their heads at the weird things we used to do in the olden days.

(In case you’re wondering, it’s still a good film.)

Again

The assignment was due March 5. Today is April 2. So far, only six students have received grades. Why? Because only six have fulfilled *all* the requirements, and I’m refusing to mark assignments that aren’t complete.

Before you get worried, I don’t think I’m overly demanding. The basic assignment is to write a 100-word memoir. A complete assignment has a title and a story that is exactly 100 words. Students must use a spelling/grammar-check (I’ve recommended LanguageTool, but some use Grammarly) so that no underlined problems remain, and they must label three “craft moves” – or good things in their writing. For the last part, a poster in the classroom lists things we’ve studied and they’ve seen multiple examples.

Some students have only been through one round, but most are on their third or fourth attempt. In years past, I’ve marked what came in, no matter how incomplete. But this semester, something changed. I decided that every single student was capable of following all four steps:

Title
100 words
Spell check
Label

What is different? I wish I knew. The closest I can come to explaining is that I am taking my role as a “warm demander” increasingly seriously. To the very tips of my toes, I believe that every student in my class is capable of completing the assignment. Even more, I believe that they are capable of completing it well. So I keep returning the assignments with plenty of feedback (“I really appreciate how you’ve opened this fun memoir. Next you need to give it a title and run it through LanguageTool.”) and insisting they do it again. This weekend, one student turned in the identical assignment three times. Last night I finally caved wrote in all caps, “USE THE FEEDBACK.” Today, they finally asked for the explanation they required to finish their work.

I’m not sure that I’m making the right choice, and I need to be clear that I am consistently upbeat and encouraging as I hand back the assignments (again and again with no mark), but I figure if they learn nothing else this semester besides “follow all the steps” that’s probably a reasonable life skill.

Now, off to write, again, “True compliment about the writing. Next, you need to give your good work a title and run it through LanguageTool.” I’m betting I can get 24 completed assignments by the end of next week because I’m pretty sure I’m more stubborn than they are – at least about getting this right.

The Truth About Stories #SOL24 31/31

In grade 9, we’ve moved from our first unit – Stories of Us – into our second – Stories of Others. We’ve written Where I’m From using not only George Ella Lyon’s wonderful poem but also interpretations by Melanie Poonai, a young writer from England, and Danika Smith, an Indigenous author from British Columbia, as models. We’ve worked as a class and in small groups to create Where We’re From poems that help us understand our class as a whole. Students turned these into posters or short videos – and the school board’s print shop has delivered gorgeous prints that now decorate our room. We’ve written our own 100-word memoirs, too. Now, it’s time to look outside our classroom walls.

It’s also March, which means that I am in the middle of writing and publishing stories every day. I tell the students about this, and they are interested, impressed, curious, bored, and not listening. Some of them want to know where I get the stories from. I laugh and say, “from you.”

For a few days, we listen to StoryCorps interviews and look at Instagram posts from Humans of New York. We practice active listening and asking follow-up questions. Then, I put this quote up in the right-hand corner of the blackboard as one of our daily quotes:

The truth about stories is that that’s all we are.
-Thomas King

After reading time, I draw their attention to King’s words. I ask what they think he means. It takes a minute, but when they arrive at an understanding, a few of them marvel. “It’s really true, isn’t it? Our stories are really important,” says one. “It’s like what we think about what happens is as important as what happens,” says another. I just nod.

I think about the quote all the time. I think about how I am made of the stories I’ve heard, the stories I tell myself. I think of how the way I tell the story affects who I am and how the stories themselves change over time. I think about the value of regularly capturing tiny moments, recognizing the story I’m telling myself as I live it. These stories are everything. As Jess writes, “There is gold in every piece of your story.”

Now, the students are out in the world (mostly in the hallways, to be honest), interviewing other people: family or friends, students or staff. They have to choose a tiny powerful moment from their interview – a story – and pair it with a photo. I post these on our Instagram account, and we marvel at the moments that shape our community. The students must think about what part of their interviewee’s story they chose to tell and what parts they left out. How will that change people’s perceptions? What story are they telling? These students learn to lean in to other people’s stories and consider them deeply.

This year, this part of the unit is closing as March comes to an end. Today marks the end of seven years of this challenge for me. I know that, tired as I am, I will miss this – the writing, the reading, the commenting – tomorrow and in the days to come. And I know it’s because of the stories people share, and the stories I choose to share, too. What a privilege it is to be part of so many stories! What a boon to be allowed so many views of the world!

If Thomas King is right, and I think he is, then I am so much better, so much more because of the stories others have shared this month and in all the months and years past. I am better, too, because of the time you’ve taken to read my stories. Thank you.

This afternoon, a partial transcript #SOL24 27/31

PA system: “We are in a secure school. Please clear the hallways and lock your doors. I repeat, we are in a secure school.”

Email: “If you see [student name] please contact me in the main office right away.”

Email: “Photo”

25 minutes pass

PA system: “We are still in a secure school. Please remain in your classrooms when the bell sounds.”

50 minutes pass

PA system: “The secure school has ended.”

Email: “We will be having a stand up meeting at 3:35 in the auditorium.”

Person: “First, I want to say that under a difficult circumstance, we got to the best possible outcome because so many people came together to do the right things. Even the students in question cooperated with the police.”

Person: “Police entered the classroom and made an arrest. Afterward, social workers were available for students in the classroom.”

Person: “The police recovered a replica gun and a knife from the student.”

Person: “The police also recovered a knife and a replica gun from a second student.”

Person: “The students involved will not be returning to school.”

Person: “Ever?”

Person: “Well, I don’t want to tell you something that might not be true, but they will not return any time soon.”

Person: “An email will be sent home to parents.”

Person: “Social workers will be available at the school tomorrow.”

Email: “Thanks again for all that you did today in support of students and colleagues.”

Washroom Woes #SOL24 26/31

“Excuse me,” an unfamiliar adult leaned through the office door, “can you tell me where the staff washroom is?”

One of my colleagues looked down and tried not to snicker.

“Um…” I started, “well, there *is* a washroom on this floor, but the light is out, so you have to use your phone as a flashlight.”

The poor supply teacher looked a little startled. I quickly continued, “Probably the easiest one to find is” and then I gave a set of complicated directions to a washroom some distance away from us. She looked at me, wide-eyed, nodded, and left.

Glenda at Swirl and Swing has written before about trying to find a bathroom in a school. It seems like a small thing, having a restroom available, but apparently, in schools, it is not.

We have one one-seater staff washroom on the second floor that serves about 30 teachers. Also, it has been out of service for literally months of this school year… so far. For at least half of the first semester, the toilet wouldn’t flush. The care staff helpfully put tape over the seat to remind us not to use it.

For the first few days, none of us worried.

After two weeks, someone started a “days without a washroom” count on the whiteboard in the office. It was funny, but by week – what? three maybe? – we started to fret that our lovely care staff (who were in no way responsible for fixing the toilet) might feel bad, so we erased it. Another week passed, and someone started a “guess the date” – when will the toilet be fixed? Weeks later, even that was erased – our most outlandish guesses had been left behind.

“Never,” said one teacher.

“Not until next year,” said another. No one dared ask if they meant 2024 or next school year.

Eventually, the Chief Custodian caved and told us that he hadn’t been able to fix it himself. Given this almost unthinkable turn of events, rumours started to swirl: they had called a Board plumber who was booked for weeks in advance, said one teacher. “I heard the plumber came and declared that they were going to have to turn off the water to a whole section of the building,” said another. Someone else swore it would take an entire weekend to fix.

Every few weeks, someone worked up the nerve to email the principal and point out that we still did not have a working washroom on the second floor. He rarely replied.

“Just use the downstairs toilets,” groused the custodian, tired of us pestering him.

“It’s actually really inconvenient,” grumbled a teacher.

Then, one day, months after the toilet had been taped shut, with no warning whatsoever, the washroom was working again. Everyone was relieved (ha!), and life returned to normal.

Until last week. Then, someone came out of the washroom and said, “Um, did you notice that the light isn’t working?”

We had. Again, we emailed the custodian. This time he told us right away that they had tried changing the light bulb, to no avail. “We’ve put in a work order for an electrician,” he told us. “He should come soon.”

That was early last week. Since then, we take our phones into the washroom, and use them as flashlights. No one dares ask when the electrician might arrive; the custodian has already reminded us that we can use the bathrooms downstairs at the other end of our wing.

Someone suggested another guessing game on the whiteboard, but there were no takers. Some of us are pretending it’s perfectly normal to take a flashlight to the only staff washroom on our floor; some people make sad little jokes about it. Mostly, we try not to think about it – unless an unwitting visitor needs to use the bathroom, which is down one hallway, down the stairs, around a corner and to the left – oh, and unmarked. You just sort of guess which door is which.

I’m thinking of drawing up a map – or stocking up on flashlights.

High school in March, by the numbers #SOL24 22/31

(After Harper’s Index)

Number of pencils borrowed by grade 9 students during period 2 today: 4

Number of pencils returned: 1

Number of pencils lost while students moved between desks, ≈6 feet apart: 2

Number of days in school so far: 11

Number of fire alarms pulled: 1

Temperature on the day of the pulled alarm: 2C (35F)

Highest temperature in March: 17C (63F)

Date of highest temperature: March 5

Lowest temperature in March: -14C (7F)

Date of lowest temperature: March 22 (yeah, that’s today)

Number of hours set aside for parent-teacher interviews last night: 4

Timing of these interviews: 3:30pm –7:30pm

Number of minutes planned for each interview: 10

Number of parents who requested an interview with me: 3

Number of their students I am concerned about: 0

Number of people at Iftar dinner after parent-teacher interviews last night: ≈150

Number of those who were teachers: ≈20

Number of hours I slept last night: 6.5

Number of hours of sleep I really need: 8

Reason for the missing hours: finished Tom Lake; a cat sat on me until I woke

Number of five-day weeks left in March: 0

Chances we will cram five days of drama into four days of school next week: 98%

Number of days left in the March Slice of Life Challenge: 9

Chances that I will manage to write every day until the end: 100%

Maybe a myofunctional therapist #SOL24 21/31

“Ok,” she said, “push your tongue hard against this popsicle stick for thirty seconds.” He does. Then, they repeat the exercise once on each side. Next, she has him hold his tongue to the roof of his mouth “as if you were going to cluck like a chicken, but you stopped in the middle.” He chuckles, but he does it. Later he will hold water in his mouth and breathe through his nose for three minutes, then hold a spacer between his teeth and move his tongue in various figures. At some point during the session, she says, “I’m just really interested in tongues!” Fascinated, I text my friends – the ones who will understand this kind of text – about how cool this all is. This morning, for his fourth dental appointment in ten days, I took Mr. 13 to a myofunctional therapist. This is basically a physical therapist for your tongue. Who knew?

I get a kick out of anyone who is passionate about their job, and this therapist was clearly passionate. As we discussed her work, she asked if Mr. 13 knew what he wanted to do as an adult. He does not, but he had several great ideas when he was little: first, he wanted to be an animal translator who learned animal languages and then told people what the animals were saying; then he wanted to be an inventor who lived in the middle of the jungle and just invented things and gave them to someone who came to his cabin maybe once a month; more recently, he wanted to be a fountain designer to design the cool fountains where the water jumps around. Now, he just wants to be rich.

I was still thinking about unusual jobs when parent-teacher interviews started tonight. My first one was with a parent whose student will graduate in a few months. The student is fantastic, so the conversation was easy, and eventually the parent shared some of her concerns for “the next step.” Her biggest fear right now? He has no idea what he wants to do. I nearly laughed. “Stick with me here, but do you know what a ‘myofunctional therapist’ is?” She did not. “Neither did I,” I said, “until last week.” I explained the job and continued, “Nobody offers this as a job option when you’re in high school. Nobody says, ‘hey, you could do this really fascinating niche job, and you might love it.’ Kids have to explore and learn and find their own way for a bit – and who knows where they’ll end up? He’s not really supposed to know what he’s going to do with his life – he’s only 17.”

Parent-teacher conferences often leave me convinced that most things will work out, one way or another. The students will grow up. They’ll make mistakes and they’ll learn. Most kids figure things out, more or less, along the way. I’m pretty sure her child will, too, though I don’t see myofunctional therapy in his future.

Runaway #SOL24 20/31

He rarely comes to class, but when he does, we do what we can to make sure he has at least a little success. He’s in grade 9 and is currently illiterate in three languages. Research says that students with strong reading skills in their home languages often also have strong reading skills in their second language (see Short & Fitzsimmons, 2007 or this shorter article by Fred Genesee), but he doesn’t have strong reading skills anywhere. We can’t turn back time, but we’re doing what we can to move forward.

He’s lucky because this class has a push-in support teacher. She’s technically there for other students, but no rule says that she can only help them, so we’re using what wiggle room we have to create as much space for him as possible. When we were writing 100-word memoirs, she just happened to be sitting near him and just happened to be able to scribe for him. As I circulated, their heads were close together in front of the computer, counting words. When he realized he had written a story of exactly 100 words, he was so proud that he asked her to read it to him again. He beamed. Then he skipped for three days.

Then next time he made it to class during reading time, I sat with him and quietly talked through The Invention of Hugo Cabret, which he likes because it’s thick and he says it makes him look smart, while Ms H kept an eye on the other readers. Even the pictures were hard for him to understand, but he liked talking about them. Then he refused to do anything else.

Sometimes, he comes to class (late) and then asks to get water or go to the bathroom. I put him off as long as I can, but I am not the arbiter of his bodily functions; when he says, “Miss, I really have to go,” I let him. Sometimes he comes right back, but sometimes he runs. Two days ago, he swore he would only be gone for two minutes, then he took the hall pass and disappeared. I found him in the lobby later that day, skipping a different class. While we walked to where he was supposed to be, he told me that he had thrown up that morning, so he couldn’t return to my class. Given that he was practically bouncing up and down with energy as we edged towards his class, I reminded him that usually someone who throws up goes home, but he said he called home and his mother said no. Ahem. I found him in the hallways again that period and once the next period. He told me he just can’t stay in class.

Yesterday, Ms H had a breakthrough. She saw him (in the hallway, of course) and made some sort of deal/ bet with him – and then he actually showed up to English class a mere 10 minutes late (thus missing most of reading time). Meanwhile, she had hatched a plan. She took him to a quiet room – but not the resource room; he refuses to go there – and she started a phonics assessment with him. She praised him for what he could do and talked about ways we could help. She told him she could start with what he can do instead of expecting him to be able to do impossible things. He was eager.

Ms H was excited that we’d found a way to start giving him some real support. That afternoon we talked through her plan. But this morning, he saw her in the hall during first period, turned around and went the other way. Then, he saw her at the beginning of our class. This time he ran away. Ran.

We stayed after class together, Ms H and I, trying to figure out how to help him accept our offers of support. We reminded ourselves that years of failing in school, years of hiding his weaknesses, mean that he probably thinks he’s beyond redemption. He may be afraid that he’ll just fail again and disappoint us in the process. We walked into the hallway partway through lunch, and there he was, right by our English classroom. Gotcha! Gently, we reminded him of his (broken) promise. I told him that it hurt Ms H’s feelings when he didn’t come. She told him that she had been really excited to see him today. He shifted his weight back and forth, back and forth. When we finished – maybe a 30 second “chat” – he said, “OK” and then… he ran.

Sweet runaway boy, how I hope you’ll let us try to help you read. Reading will make a bigger difference than you can imagine. It’s worth sticking around for.

Noticed #SOL24 19/31

One afternoon, early in my teaching career, a colleague/friend and I got manicures together after school. The next day, in the middle of science class, a 7th grader raised his hand and said, “Did you and Amanda get your nails done together?” She was surprised that this young person – who could not reliably remember to bring his backpack from my French classroom to her science room next door – had noticed something so small. She was also surprised that he chose the middle of class to comment on his observation.

Over the years, I’ve gotten much more used to the idea that the students are always watching, but it can still catch me by surprise. Like yesterday when we came back to school after a week of March Break. I had gotten my hair cut (bangs!) the first Saturday of March Break, so I was used to it, but obviously no one else was. I was quickly reminded that my “look” had changed because students started to comment – in the hallway, in the lobby, in the classroom. Students who have never even had me as a teacher said, “nice haircut, Miss.” The kids I’ve actually taught were even more forward, one yelling, “you look good, Miss!” as I passed by.

I said “thank you” all morning long. The unexpected compliments put me in a good mood and I was sailing through the day. Then, during Grade 9 English, in the middle of a discussion about whether oral histories from “regular” people are important, a sometimes-reticent young man raised his hand. And despite my years of teaching, despite having been noticed in the hallway, despite everything, I still wasn’t ready when he said, “Um, did you get a haircut, Miss?”

“Yes,” I said, because what else was there to say?

“Cool,” he nodded, “It looks good.” And he went right back to doodling in his notebook.

I paused long enough to say to the class, “Well, that’s how you do it. If you’re going to ask someone if they got a haircut, you should definitely follow up with…” I paused for dramatic effect. The same young man looked up and said, “It looks good.”

Then we all went back to discussing oral histories as if nothing unusual had happened. And maybe it hadn’t.

Throwing in the towel #SOL24 16/31

I give up. It’s not that I haven’t written anything today. Oh no, it’s much worse than that: it’s that I haven’t *finished* anything today. When I realized I was struggling to write, I looked through my photos, thinking that a photo essay might be just right. I even got as far as creating a March collage. Then I decided I didn’t like it. Harrumph.

I considered writing about my pets because I love posts with pets, but this morning Hera stood on my chest and purred until I woke up, and the dog was kind of a jerk at the dog park this afternoon, so no posts for them.

I looked back at ideas I’ve collected from other bloggers this month and got deeply involved in a prompt from Steph at Steph Scrap Quilts, but it’s definitely not done enough to share. Or, more true, I like it too much to share it too early.

I tried to shake off my writing blahs by doing non-writing things that sometimes help me write: I took a walk, baked (banana bread – delicious), talked to my sisters for a long time, worked out, read other blog posts… Still, nothing.

And here I am. It’s almost 8pm, and this is what I’ve got. I’m giving myself credit for writing something when nothing would have been easier, and I will publish my imperfect writing.

Now that I think about it, I’m going to dedicate this to my students. After all, I started blogging as practice so that I could be a better writing teacher. I think it’s worked. If nothing else, I know what it means to stare down a blank document, knowing I have a deadline, knowing that others will read my work, knowing that another day, another hour might make it better. And then, I publish anyway. This is what I wish for you all: the strength to do your work, even when you aren’t inspired, and the courage to turn it in, even when it’s imperfect. This is me, practicing what I teach.