Tag: life

Kindness #SOLC26 31/31

I’ve written about my “chaos class” several times this month. First, when faced with my exasperated declaration, “fine, you choose what we study!” they shocked me by choosing Romeo & Juliet. Then, there were several incidents of bullying which led to me giving them a very serious dressing down. Then we had March Break (and let me tell you, we needed it). 

When we returned from break, I knew I had to have my “strict teacher” persona firmly at the fore for a little while so that the students didn’t think their appalling pre-break behaviour was acceptable. I hate the strict teacher persona and find it exhausting, but I did it: I made sure every cell phone was in a backpack, every notebook on a notebook, every tardy explained or excused. The strictness was necessary, but it wasn’t going to be enough. “Strict teacher” gets compliance, but a truly effective class has more; we needed engagement. (I mean, if I am 100% honest, then yes, with this class at least a little compliance would be nice because the class needs to function, but I also hope that they will be engaged.) Engagement, however, requires some vulnerability, which means being able to trust that we won’t be mocked, which in turn means it’s hard to learn in a room with even one bully – and we have more than one.

My being strict might stop the bullying I could see, but it wasn’t going to change anything once my back was turned. I needed more. I needed kindness – not mine: theirs.

****

When we were little, no matter how often we fought, the punishment that united my sisters and me against our parents was “ten nice things.” All three of us hated it. It was the worst. It went like this: if we were really really awful to one another – especially in the car – then our mother would stop everything and make us say ten nice things to one another. Ten! TEN! Worse, after three or four rounds of “I like your hair. I like your shoes” she would tell us it couldn’t be anything physical, which left us having to say at least six things we actually liked about the other person. It was awful. And it worked every time: by the end, we would be super mad at our mother and kind of ok with our sister. My mother was not dumb.

****

When I was teaching at a very small school in Washington DC, the Dean of Faculty once split us into groups of four or five teachers and gave each group an enormous stack of sticky notes. One teacher sat in the centre while others wrote compliments on the sticky notes for a few minutes. Then, we read the sticky notes out loud and stuck them onto the teacher in the centre of the group. It was awkward and a little cheesy, and listening to our colleagues compliment us made each one of us a little emotional. I saved my sticky notes for years; I know others did the same.

****

Punishment? Compliments? I wanted my students to dig deep and find something nice to say about each of their peers – and I wanted each person in the classroom to feel valued. I needed them to practice kindness until they felt it. 

I got out the sticky notes. On Day 1, I put five names on the board. Everyone had to write nice things on the stickies. I wrote, too. The notes could be anonymous, but I reviewed every note as it was handed to me. One student wrote “You have a nice smile” five times. I told them to start over. One student wrote “You are nice.” I asked for specificity. One student wrote “You are perfect in class” – an obvious lie – I told them that lying was as unkind as writing something mean because “it shows you can’t be bothered to think of something true.” Eventually, everyone finished. I gave the stacks of kind words to the five students as the rest of us began to work. Each student read through their notes. One girl, well liked and clever, whispered to me “this feels really good” and then slipped the post-its quietly into her purse. One boy read only a few of his, then immediately tucked them away. After class, I saw him in the hallway, alone, reading through the notes.

On Day 2, both the bullied and the bully’s names were on the board. I did not require the bullied student to write to the bully, but I did require the bully to write to everyone. I read every note, paying particular attention to those going to the bullied student. I returned a few for improvements, but I was impressed by how many students wrote truly kind and thoughtful notes to their ostracized peer; he wasn’t as alone as I had feared. Again I handed out the stack of post-its as we started an activity. Once most students were working, I glanced around at the students who had received the notes. The student on the receiving end of the bullying was furtively wiping tears from his eyes. I made my way over to him to ask if he was ok. “No one has ever said anything this nice to me before,” he whispered. He spent much of the rest of class arranging and rearranging the notes in his notebook. 

We’ll be done with this activity tomorrow. By then, everyone will have received a stack of kindness from their peers. I was feeling so good about this that I let down my guard a little today, and immediately phones came out and people talked so much during the balcony scene that I had to pause the video. They’re still the same kids. Still, I hope that some of them are just a little kinder than they were two weeks ago. 

And hey, if they start picking on each other again, I might just channel my mother: after all, my sisters and I had to say ten nice things to each other far more than once before it really stuck – and now we’re good friends.

PS – I saved this one for the last day of March not only because it’s ongoing but also because every year this month of writing challenges me to look closely and seek good things to share; and every year the kindness of others’ posts and comments buoys me. Community and kindness are hallmarks of this March challenge – now in my classroom, too.

Birthday Cows #SOLC26 27/31

Ok, hear me out on this: years ago, when I started participating in the March Slice of Life Challenge years ago, I didn’t think things through to their inevitable end. I just started writing. But I’ve been at this for 8 years now, and every year, March 27 arrives – and every year that day is my spouse’s birthday – which means that every year I have to decide if I’m going to write about him. 

He’s pretty wonderful, so the issue is never if he’s worth writing about (he is!); the issue is if I’ll embarrass him by writing about him (I will). He’s not big into birthday celebrations, and for several years I didn’t mention his birthday at all; my writing and his birthday did not need to occupy the same space, even if they occurred on the same day. But he is impossible to buy gifts for (today he picked up his own birthday cake and his own bottle of bourbon as well as a board game he’d been waiting for – how on earth do I buy a gift for someone like that?), so instead I’m going to share one little story to let you know the kind of human who has my heart.

18 years ago, when I was pregnant with our oldest, someone gave me the book The Girlfriend’s Guide to Pregnancy. It was full of great advice and funny anecdotes and I loved it. Andre, read it, too, because he was intrigued by the idea of reading what women might say to each other. Somewhere in the book, she talks about how it’s a terrible idea to moo at a pregnant woman. How did this come up in her life? I have forgotten. It was funny and silly and made me giggle which made Andre want to see what I found amusing. Now 18 years later, I occasionally come downstairs and find something like this in the kitchen:

Why is there a wooden cow on top of the coffee container in front of the vitamins? Because 18 years ago, this made me giggle. So now we have a wooden cow – and a stuffed cow, in case you’re wondering – and a cow mug. And when I’m least expecting it – for example, on the morning of his birthday, Andre might decide that he needs to moo at me. Probably while I’m drinking my tea. And even 18 years later I will start to giggle – and he will somehow think that this is a birthday present to him. Because that is the person I married.

Happy Birthday, my love.

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.

I Can Do Hard Things #SOLC25 31/31

Not for the first time this month, I nearly forgot to write. Tonight seems egregious, since it’s the last post of the March Challenge, but there it is. I’m the mom who would forget to leave the house with a spare diaper, even with the second baby – even when the second baby was over a year old. Apparently I have trouble forming new habits.

Of course, part of the reason I almost forgot to write is that I’ve been thinking about this post for a while. Wrapping up a month’s worth of daily writing and publishing is definitely part of the challenge, and this year is no different. I’ve been trying to put into words what I’ve learned this time around, or at least what I experienced. In my head, I’m close to knowing; in writing, I’m a little farther away from conclusions.

This March, I’ve sort of shoehorned writing in around other things. Some years I feel like it’s been more central to the month; this year it’s been more part of the fabric of my days. Predictably, some days have been tough, but mostly I had something to say when I sat down to write. As usual, I feel that I haven’t commented on nearly enough blogs, and I’m missing reading some of my “regulars.” I’ve come to recognize that this is ok.

Mostly, this March has been a reminder that I can do hard things – and I’m allowed to do them in a way that works for me. Write in the evening instead of in the morning? I can do that. Some days comment on only three or four other blogs? I can do that, too. Write a two-sentence post? Sure. Or use almost all pictures? Ok. Heck, accidentally post about extremely similar dinner conversations in the space of three days? Go for it. This month I have forgiven myself over and over for things that, as it turns out, others don’t even notice. Who knew that writing every day would help me continue to shed the shoulds that have governed my life for so long.

Tonight, I went to a class at my gym that I have never tried before. It “includes a little more intensity and choreography than our usual.” Since I can barely keep up with the “usual,” I wasn’t sure that I was making a good choice, but I did it anyway. I had to stop a few times, and for one entire “choreo” track, I gave up and just did my own basic steps. No one cared and I got a great workout. Once I got home, I had to wait a while to stop sweating – which is part of why I nearly forgot to write. The whole thing was more than my usual, but I can still feel the buzz of energy from having finished.

March is like that: it’s more than my usual, but the buzz – from the writing, from the community, from the challenge – lingers long afterwards, and it’s totally worth it. 

See you on Tuesdays! (Um, yes, that’s tomorrow.)

Being the Parent #SOLC25 25/31

I parked in the tiny parking lot and sat in my car for a few minutes, hoping that the rain would let up. While I waited, I texted a friend to let her know I had arrived; we made plans to meet in a bit. That taken care of, I darted out of the car and towards the well-lit building. A young man – one of Mr. 16’s friends – said hello to me as I made my way up the stairs. There, a couple I’ve known for years were standing near an open door, so I paused to chat for a few minutes – kids, work, life. Luckily, no one was in no rush. 

Eventually, a door down the hallway opened, and an old colleague gestured to me. I made my excuses to my friends and headed over to him. We embraced briefly and then caught up. He shared photos of his son – already two and a half! – and we laughed a bit about my youngest, now 14, and some of his antics in English class. Time flew; soon it was time to go.

This is how parent-teacher interviews go for me now that both of my children are in high school. 

The next interview was across the courtyard, and I ran into several people I knew as I made my way to the classroom. There, a semi-familiar young teacher greeted me and reminded me that we had worked together a few years ago. “I’ve gained weight,” he said ruefully, “Imagine me, thinner.” Again, we used some of our ten minutes to catch up and some to talk about Mr. 14. When time was up, the next parent was a friend, so we all talked for a minute before I left them to their discussion.

Being the parent in these meetings is odd. I’ve taught in this school district for seventeen years now, and I’ve worked in four different high schools. Since I take pleasure in both collaboration and mentoring, and since new teachers often move around a bit before they get a contract, I’ve gotten to know a lot of teachers at a lot of schools. More than that, a few of my former students are now teachers (!!).  These days, much to my children’s dismay, parent-teacher conferences are a semisocial event for me.

The third teacher on my appointment sheet was not able to make interviews – too bad, really, because she was the only person I didn’t already know. After I figured out that she was absent, I made my way back to the front hall of the school to wait for Mr. 16. He was serving as a guide for the evening, and it was still cold and rainy, so I had offered him a ride home. This meant I was free to stand in the lobby and chat with an old friend/colleague and talk about books, the upcoming PD Day, and changes in the school board. Soon, one of Mr. 16’s teachers joined us, and we began an animated discussion of AI and how it’s affecting learning. By the time Mr. 16 was released from his duties, we were gesturing with enough enthusiasm to be completely mortifying.

Eventually, parent-teacher conferences wound down. Before we left, I found the friend/ neighbour/ colleague who I had texted when I arrived, and we all walked out to the car together – of course we were also giving her a ride home. After we dropped off my friend, my child said, “It’s kind of cool that you know so many of my teachers.”

I’m glad he’s ok with it because apparently this is what it means for me to be a parent who teaches.

4-4-4 #SOLC25 23/31

This evening, after several false starts (possibly because I’m still a little tired from whatever illness got me down yesterday), I decided to do a 4-4-4: write about four things within four feet of you for four minutes. I set the timer & wrote, then went to have dinner with the family. Now I’ve spent another minute editing/ tidying. (And probably another minute writing this.) It’s a pretty good way to get writing when I’m feeling stuck. Special thanks to Elisabeth Ellington who used this form earlier this month and to whomever mentioned Saffy’s Angel (maybe as a book her mother liked? Can’t remember.)

***

On the other side of the bookshelf, Mr. 14 is on the computer. What is he doing? I don’t know. I do know that earlier today he let me add him to my Google Classroom to check out a quiz I made. Then he commented on my quiz (“interesting, but hard”). He’s awfully fun to have nearby; one of the many reasons I appreciate having his computer in our main living area.

He’s just behind this bookshelf

My feet are up on the arm of the love seat in front of me. Just beyond them, our black lab mix, Max, is snoring lightly. He prefers being near me whenever possible; even better if he can be near me and in a soft space. If I stir, he’ll wake up, but for now, he sleeps peacefully.

Max takes up the entire love seat

Beside me on the couch are two blue yoga balls in a small mesh bag. They are calling me, reminding me that some mobility work will be good for my body, even if I’m not quite done being sick, even if I would rather just sit and read my new book, James by Percival Everett. It’s open and just next to the yoga balls. So far, it is amazing. I finished The Heaven and Earth Grocery Store just in time for book club on Friday night; that one was a slow read for me. Then, yesterday, I read Saffy’s Angel – a middle grade novel recommended by Elisabeth Ellington – because I spent most of the day in bed. It was a great half-sick lie-in-bed read. Last night I started James, and I’m tearing through it – making much faster progress than I did on The Heaven and Earth Grocery Store. 

Time’s up. 

Say it again #SOLC25 21/31

Inspired by Sherri’s post with the same title. Things I say on repeat…
(And if you were here yesterday: I FINISHED THE BOOK!)

Good morning! You awake? Time to wake up! Hey, kiddo, if you don’t get up your brother’s going to get the first shower.

I’m leaving! Have a good day!

No, I don’t know who has the Chromebooks. Have you checked Richard’s room?

Books and notebooks out and open! Make sure you have a pen or pencil available. 

You know where the pencils are. The pencils are where they have been all year. I’m sure you can find a pencil. Yes, that is where the pencils are. 

Please make sure your phones are away. Headphones and air buds, too, please. Away means in your backpack. Your pocket is not a backpack. I see a few phones out. Make sure your phone hasn’t accidentally snuck into your hands. Phones are sneaky like that.

If the teacher writes it on the board… you should write it in your notebook.

Is anyone else hot or is it just me? 

You can’t read and talk at the same time; that’s not how brains work.

Listen first, then move.

Ok, you know the drill: SLANT! Sit up, lean forward… look, even if you don’t ask questions you can nod your head and track me when I’m speaking.

Ok, but you need to be back in five minutes or less. Five minutes is reasonable.

No one else is hot?

Bye! Bye! Nice work today! Bye! See you tomorrow! Bye! 

Hi! How was school? Has anyone walked the dog? Ok, I’m going to walk the dog. Did anyone feed the dog? Have the cats been fed?

No, dinner’s not for a little while. Try a healthy snack. It won’t be long.

Please make sure your dishes end up in the dishwasher. Do you have any homework? I’m just going to mark a few things. Please make sure that plate ends up in the dishwasher.

Goodnight, my love. See you in the morning.

27 #SOLC25 16/31

Twenty-seven. I have twenty-seven “This I Believe” essays to comment on, ideally before tomorrow morning. And that’s just for one class. It is 6:17. Wait, let me be clear: it is 6:17pm.

Y’all. This is not going to happen.

I would like to write “How did I end up here?” but I’ve been teaching too long to pretend I don’t know. These were due before March Break and I should have been done before I even left. But some people wanted extensions and some students were late, and I put things off, and here we are.

I would like to pretend that this is because our flight home was delayed yesterday, but I’ve been teaching too long to believe it. I was never going to get through these in one day. Getting home earlier would have made no difference.

I would like to think that the students know how they did or that it won’t matter to them or that this isn’t a big deal, but I’ve been teaching too long to fool myself about this, either. They want their essays back, with a grade.

The good thing about “teaching too long” is that I have learned to forgive myself for this. Am I a fast grader? Sometimes. Thorough? Pretty much always. Right now that has to be enough because there is little I would change about the past ten days, even knowing where I am right now. I loved my March Break – I loved travelling, seeing family, learning to scuba dive. I loved swimming, walking on the beach, and hanging out with my kids. I loved writing and reading in ways that were not completely focused on work (although anyone who knows me knows that I am pretty well always half-thinking about teaching). All of those bits – plus a few hours of lesson planning – mean that when the bell rings tomorrow morning I will be ready to teach again, focused and interested and excited for what each student brings.

After all this time, I’ve finally realized that teaching is an impossible job. There are not enough hours in the day or days in the week for me to learn and plan and teach and care and mark. I could work all day every day and still there would be more. In fact, sometimes the better I get, the more work I have to do. This doesn’t mean that I don’t feel guilty about work I haven’t finished, but it does mean that I handle it better, and I have a much stronger understanding that I am responsible for taking care of myself. 

So here I am, reminding myself – and all the other teachers heading back to work – that it’s ok not to have everything done. Tomorrow, we will show up in all our imperfect ways, and the essays will (sadly) still be there on Tuesday. 

P.S. And this is why I don’t assign homework over breaks. Everyone needs time off.

Day one, one day #SOLC25 8/31

The thing about the March Slice of Life Challenge is that it always happens in March. Another thing that always happens in March – at least if you’re a teacher in Ontario – is March Break. Every year I tell myself that this is great because I will be able to write SO MUCH during March Break. I will go on vacation and everything will be relaxing and wonderful. I really should know better. I’ve been doing this long enough that I should be realistic about day one of March Break. And one day I will be. But not today.

On the first day of break, physics seems out of whack. Gravity works overtime; the air thickens and acceleration is slowed; every action requires more force to begin and results in smaller than expected opposite reactions.

Today, as in years past, I am sitting on the couch, mindlessly playing games – Wordle, Sudoku, Connections, Strands, Duolingo, even my Castles of Burgundy app – while telling myself repeatedly that I should get up, I should pack, I should write, I should…

Here, I’ll take a page from Sherri and make a chart:

What I’m doingWhat I think I should be doing
Sleeping inGetting up early
Having a second pot of teaEmptying the dishwasher
Playing gamesWriting
DuolingoCommenting on other posts
Sitting on the couchLaundry, packing
Talking to my motherTalking to my mother

This is why it’s early afternoon, and I’m only starting my day – even though I’ve been up for hours. This is why even though I have lots of writing ideas, I don’t know what to write. This is why I wish that physics allowed for teleporters that would function exclusively to take tired teachers to vacation destinations.

Listen, I promise that one day I’ll write more. I will be witty! I will be wise! Today, however, I will accept the reality that today is not one day, it’s just day one.

Community #SOLC25 1/31

It’s snowing again. What purports to be our front yard is currently a pile of snow so tall that shovelling more snow on top of it causes mini-avalanches either back onto the shoveller or over the top and down the other side. Across from our driveway, a snow pile significantly bigger than our minivan looms ominously. To leave home in the car, I have to do a sort of backwards three-point turn, using the snow mountain as a semi-soft reminder of how far I can go – though our recent thaw-freeze cycle means that the snow is a little more compacted and a whole lot harder than it was a week ago. Our street was due for snow clearing *before* the last big dump, but each major snow storm sees the city scrambling to remove snow from the bigger roads while our little residential street slowly subsides under the white stuff.

As I leave my house to walk to a massage appointment, neighbours are already out clearing their driveways. Glenn pauses to greet me, teasing, “Here I thought you were coming out to shovel, but I suppose you’ve got teenagers for that.”

“Ha! They’re only any good if you can wait until mid-afternoon for the driveway to be cleared.” I laugh. Then I realize that Glenn is shovelling Mario’s driveway – and Mario is maybe snow blowing Glenn’s driveway? Unclear. And a guy from the halfway house – someone I haven’t met yet – is obviously helping Glenn.

“Did you all get confused about who lives where?” Everyone laughs, and we banter for a moment before I head on my way, grinning at the way our neighbourhood functions.

***

The massage therapist has a 7-month old and updates me on all the recent developments – he’s rolling both ways now, and he’ll be crawling any day now. I tell him (the father, not the baby) about my own children, and we marvel at the changes in our lives since I started seeing him a few years ago.

After the appointment, we’re still chatting while I put on my coat and boots, and his next client arrives. “I thought I recognized that voice!” she laughs, and I turn around to see a former colleague. Since I last saw her, she moved away and back, had a baby, turned 40. Social media has let us keep up a little, but here in the little office, we greet each other again.

***

And now I’m home, starting my 8th year of participating in the March Slice of Life Challenge. I have already read a few blog posts from friends (though I’ve never met them in person). I write knowing that some of my friends from as far back as elementary school will read my posts, and we’ll reach out and catch up a little. I’m anticipating a month full of moments where we’re all shovelling each other’s virtual driveways and running into each other in the comments section. Once again, I’m looking forward to this community we create with words.

With many thanks to the team at Two Writing Teachers for growing and preserving this community.