Tag: school

About my grade

Friday
On Friday, I give him his “evidence record” – the sheet of paper that shows the grades a student has earned on various assignments throughout the semester. While I’m excited about the recent series of high scores he’s earned, his eyes move directly to the list of “Incomplete” work, assignments he simply didn’t do at the beginning of the school year. 

“So,” he says, and he slumps as if the paper in his hand is almost too heavy to hold, “how many of these do I need to do to catch up?”

Grade 12 did not start well for him. I didn’t know him well enough to ask, but I’ve been teaching long enough to recognize a smart kid in a bad set of circumstances without needing to know the particulars.  

“None.”

He looks up. “What?”

I eye him, “What would you learn by going back and doing these assignments?”

“Not to do it again.” His answer is almost rote, and maybe I imagine it, but I’d swear there is a tinge of despair.

“Really?” I wear my best skeptical look.

“Probably not,” he admits.

“Well, I’d say that our work has gotten harder, not easier,” (This is true: he skipped “This I Believe” in favour of Hamlet and increasingly complex analysis and writing) “so doing previous assignments won’t teach you much and won’t show me much. We’re supposed to look at the ‘most recent, most consistent’ evidence we have. And recently, your consistent evidence shows excellence.”

He needs to confirm what he’s just heard. He needs the actual words. “So I don’t need to do these?”

“Nope.”

He stares at the paper in wonder, then he looks up. “Are you a hugger?” he asks. “Can I hug you?”

I say yes, and I get a wonderful hug from a near-adult who maybe just learned that sometimes mistakes can and should be forgiven – a far better lesson than whatever grade is on the paper that was weighing him down a minute ago.

Monday
On Monday, she stalks into the classroom, wearing a tragic look. She plunks her backpack down and yanks out her book. I can’t say she slams it on her desk, but it’s close. I’ve gotten used to her emotional highs and lows, so I approach her warily.

“Rough weekend?”

“Yes.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“No.”

Oh, so that’s how this is going to be, I think.I back off. She glares. Dark circles ring her eyes – and her eyes follow me as I set up the classroom for the morning. I try again. 

“You ok?”

“I didn’t get in to my university.”

I pause. I’ve known this might be coming. She is not doing well in English, and English is a gatekeeping class: universities tend to require certain levels in English class. She’s been a little mad at me since midterm marks came out – but her disappointment hasn’t increased her work quantity or quality. 

I stop what I’m doing and go to her desk to give her my full attention. “Oh no!” I am truly sad for her even though I am, I think, less surprised than she is.

“It was my English mark.” I would say she snarls, but she’s too sad for a snarl, and now tears appear in her eyes. 

“I’m so sorry,” I say softly – and I am, I really, really am. I wish I could magically make this better; I wish I could go back in time and help her learn the skills she needs to be successful in this class; I wish I could tell her she’s doing better now. Instead, I am stuck trying to support the actual human being in front of me, and I know that simply giving her a good grade that isn’t supported by her work doesn’t help her in the long run. “What do you need?”

She tells me the number grade she needs. It *might* be within reach – though honestly it will be a stretch, and we only have two weeks before the exam. 

“Ok,” I say. “Let’s work with that. Let’s concentrate on preparing for the exam.”

“But I’m terrible at essays,” and now she really is crying.

“Ok, but I can help. We can work together. And you might improve.” 

She might. She will need to use our next classes well. She will need to come into the exam with her notes in order, having considered what she wants to write. She will need to work. I want to promise that it’s within reach. I want to comfort her, but I bite my tongue. Comfort is cold when it’s a lie.

She hears what I’m not saying and glares at me again as she wipes away her tears. “Fine,” she says tersely, and opens her book.

Tuesday
On Tuesday, I wake to an email. Last night I “released” marks from an assignment Grade 9 students did before Winter Break. Honestly, I’d returned them before the break, when the assignment was due, but more assignments have come in, and I’m trying to get my grade book in order before we get to the end of the semester. I’d like to give the grade 9s a chance to catch up or improve, especially if they’ve learned something new. 

The email that I sent out shared their scores as a fraction out of 14.

The email I get from the student says, “Is this bad?”

Technically, I am an English teacher, but truly I am a teacher. I know that a person should be able to guesstimate – at the very least – if they’ve done well based on a fraction. I write back, “To figure out a mark like this, you are looking for the percentage. To find the percentage, you divide the first number (the part) by the second number (the whole). In this case your score is 12 divided by 14. The rest is up to you. Luckily, you’ll be getting back several more marks like this in the next few days, so you’ll get lots of practice!”

I wonder why this student didn’t know that they’d done well. It was a “quiz” (in the sense that there were answers, but it was open) in a Google form. Do they not remember it? Were they uncertain of their responses? Were they guessing on some? When I took quizzes, I usually had a sense of whether I’d done well.

I wonder how the student will react to my email. Will they be frustrated that I didn’t simply answer? Will they calculate their score? Will they calculate the grades they get in the next few days?

Then my brain wanders to grades in general. I wonder about them a lot. I wonder what they mean to students, parents, teachers, administrators, universities… I know they don’t mean the same thing to everyone. I wonder about numbers that make people give hugs and cry and send emails. I wonder about how these numbers fit into learning.

But it’s time to go, so I put my wonderings away and gather my things, glad that I’m not getting a fraction, percentage or number of any sort to try to tell me how I’m doing.

Happily Ever After

I’m on my prep, heading back to the classroom and slowly catching up to the two girls wandering down the hallway ahead of me, deep in conversation. For what must be the millionth time this December alone, I am trying to decide if it’s worth telling students that they really should be in class: my brain is on autopilot. Then I hear one of them say, “it’s happILY ever after.”

“HappILY?” her friend repeats, shaking her head quizzically.

“Yes.” She re-emphasizes the ily and the girls slow even more.

“But why?”

“I don’t know. But it is so.”

“Why not ‘happy forever’?”

“Yes, in Spanish it is ‘happy forever’ but here is it ‘happILY ever after.’”

They have nearly stopped. The questioner continues to shake her head, repeating “happILY” under her breath a few times. And now I have caught up to them.

“I can explain the ‘-ily,’” I say. Two faces turn towards me with such obvious pleasure that I nearly laugh. I explain that happily is an adverb and that it tells how they lived. I liken it to lentamente in Spanish. They nod gravely.

Then, I add, “but I don’t know why it’s ‘ever after.’”

Their interest bubbles over. “Si! In Spanish we say feliz para siempre – happy forever. So easy. Forever.”

Now we are in front of my classroom door. Inside, my student teacher is waiting. And really, the girls should be in class. So I shoo them off, saying, “I’ll look it up! Come back if you want to!” and off they go, hopefully to class, hopefully happILY.

What are we really teaching?

By the time I get to our office, lunch is already in full swing. I catch bits of at least three different conversations as I walk past the large table and plunk my things at my desk in the corner. Backpack, Chromebook, tea mug. Then I plop myself into my chair and take a deep breath. For a few seconds, I just sit and breathe, sit and listen.

This doesn’t last, of course. Time is an educator’s most precious commodity, and even lunchtime is limited. I grab my lunch bag and make my way toward the table and my colleagues. As I sit, I hear one teacher exclaim to another, “Right? He’s soooo rude. The other day he called me a [very bad word for women]. I couldn’t believe it. I mean, I ignored it, obviously, and I reported it, but of course nothing will happen.”

The second teacher nods along, sympathetically, then adds, “Does he do that thing where you say something to him and he flat-out ignores you, then he asks the male teacher and gets the same answer? And then he does whatever the male teacher said and sort of smirks at you while he does it?”

“Of course he does.”

They are laughing now, comrades in arms, relieved that this experience is not theirs alone. The stories continue.

My heart has dropped. They are talking about the young person I wrote about in my last blog post, the same young person who I’d hoped I was beginning to understand a little better. I start to tell them that I have *just* written about him, that I think there is a way forward, but I hesitate. 

I think about the wariness the two girls displayed last week when they encountered him. I think about the way I felt last year, the way he treated me. I think about what I am hearing now in the lunchroom.

I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what we should do. What are we responsible for teaching? English? History? Math? Yes, of course. But educators talk, too, about the “whole student” and the “hidden curriculum” and the things schools teach based on what we accept and don’t accept. I wonder if my decision to lean into his “humour” – which is so often rude – is actually harming him? Perhaps those of us who have worked to “meet him where he’s at” need to hold him to a different standard? And if we did, would anything change? How much influence do we have anyway?

In the office, the conversation swirls and the topics change. The bell rings, everyone heads to classrooms, and the rhythm of the school day subsumes my moment of doubt. Periodically throughout the week, I wonder and even worry, but there’s never a moment to find another teacher to sit and talk through the larger implications of these questions. Mostly, my thoughts remain my thoughts.

*****

This morning, he walks by my classroom carrying a large box. “Christmas lights!” he calls out delightedly. And even though he has interrupted my class, even though he is too loud, and he shouldn’t be in the hallway, I call back, “I love it!” and I give him a big smile.

Here is where we grow

School doesn’t start for at least half an hour, but I’m already letting two students into my classroom because one of them thinks she left her vest here yesterday, and ninth graders often move in pairs. As I jiggle the key in the lock, a large figure lumbers up behind us.

 “Oh!” I smile, “I heard a rumour that you passed your Civics class!”

He lurches to a halt in the near-empty hallway and glares at me. My key finally turns, opening the door just as he leans forward and breathes, “I cheated on all my tests” – only he says “testes” and, their eyes wide, the girls practically tumble into the classroom. He shuffles away.

In the room, the lost vest is retrieved and then, in a significantly more graceful echo of what just happened, one child leans towards me and murmurs, “Why would he say that?”

My mind clicks backwards through the moment, and I realize what they think just happened. “He was embarrassed,” I reassure them, “because I gave him a compliment. Some people have a hard time being praised. He did not cheat on his tests.” I emphasize the word tests.

They nod, unconvinced, and head into the hallway just as he returns. They flee. He stops again and looks me up and down. “Do you still have that box?”

I know exactly what he’s talking about. “Oh, yes!” I feign distraction as I move to the front corner of the room. The box he wants is hidden under a desk. “I was just wondering if maybe I should get rid of it,”  I pause, “but if you really did pass Civics, I suppose you could get a prize.”

He squints his eyes. “Two.”

“Hmm…” I pretend to consider this. “Well, first I need to know if you cheated on any tests.”

He glances around, wary. No one is nearby. “No,” he admits, and I swear I see a bit of a blush on his cheeks, but I could be making that up.

For the next fifteen minutes, he rummages through my “Box of Terrible Prizes.” He holds up various items, considering. He tells me which things are still there from last year (hint: it’s most of them), and I remind him that they really are terrible prizes. Undeterred, he checks out tchotchkes and useless plastic toys. He asks more than once if I have anything that makes noise. I do not. He points out prizes that he brought in for trades. Eventually, I remind him that class will start soon, so he makes his choice. Two prizes. No noisemakers. Delighted, toys in hand, he shuffles out of the room, leaving me aglow.

******

Last year, when he was in grade 9, I taught him. Well, “taught” might be a bit of an exaggeration. Last year, we were in the same classroom and sometimes he kind of did English-y things. Often, he was rude to me and others. Sometimes he was very rude. By the end of the school year, even after he’d left my class, every time he saw me in the hallways, he sneered things like, “Oh. It’s you. I hate seeing you,” or “Seeing you makes my day awful.” I am embarrassed to admit that, eventually, I let this make me angry. 

Sure, I had read his school records and communicated with his middle school teachers, so I knew he needed a lot of time and stability to settle into a place. I knew his IEP and had read all his old report cards, but he drove me up a wall. I wasn’t alone; few teachers connected with him. I couldn’t imagine how his middle school teachers had been able to find what they confidently called his “sense of humour.” All I saw was an angry young man.

One thing about a school, though, is that it’s full of kids – and kids grow. And, whether we like it or not, we’re all sort of stuck there together for a few years while they do this. He is lucky to have a Resource room full of people who have kept an open mind about his growth. I will argue that I am luckier that he kept an open mind about me – or maybe he never quite realized that I was actually angry. And I’m lucky that those same colleagues have helped me see him more clearly, too. 

*****

This morning, I realize that I get his humour now: I laugh as he moans and groans about the quality of my terrible prizes; I snicker when he tells me that I need more, and that I’m clearly not giving out enough prizes – maybe this year’s grade nines aren’t as good as he was. I fake exasperation when he lingers as my 12th graders come in, and he scowls when I make him leave, but he’s here. He’s still here. And here is where we grow.

Just 15 minutes

Once again, I forgot it was Tuesday. This is odd because yesterday I knew that today was Tuesday, and, frankly, today I knew it, too. I had planned to write something last night, but then I didn’t because… I can’t remember, but there was a very good reason. This morning I even set aside some writing time, but then the supplies we ordered came in, so I had to check what we received against what we ordered (vaguely similar) and distribute them to various teachers, then I had to set up a new booking system so that we can get the 95ish Chromebooks distributed fairly to the 30ish teachers who want them for various classes (no, the math doesn’t math there). Anyway, one thing led to another and then it was after work and now it’s 8:45 and I haven’t written my Slice of Life.

Recently, when I’ve found myself in this position, I’ve thrown up my hands and decided to put things off until “next week,” but this week my students have essays due, and I have this nagging sense that if they have to write and publish then I should probably write and publish. So here I am.

Part of the reason I lost track of time (and the day of the week – I even missed my knitting group!) is because I’ve been trying to figure out what to do with about 15 minutes of class time tomorrow. The original plan was for the grade 12 students to share their This I Believe essays in a sort of “desk exhibit” – they were going to walk around and read each other’s essays & leave positive comments on post-it notes. BUT… today’s lesson involved a peer feedback protocol that worked so well that quite a few students have some serious edits to make. Given our lack of Chromebooks combined with student jobs and after-school commitments, tomorrow needs to involve a little time to tidy up their writing in class, so the gallery walk will happen on Thursday. They do not, however, need 75 minutes (the length of our classes) to edit, or even 60 minutes (after 15 minutes of daily reading), or even 45 minutes. I figure we need a maximum of 30 minutes of editing time. This means that I need to create a tiny lesson – just 15 minutes – to bridge us from reading and writing narrative arguments to learning about rhetorical analysis and using that with popular culture.

Here is where being a teacher gets weird: I know what we’ve done, and I know where I want us to go; I also know the information I need to share, and I know the students. This lesson should be simple – just, you know, teach. Instead, I’ve spent at least an hour looking at videos and slide shows, thinking about the right way to present the topic so that students are interested and engaged. I need something that intrigues students and is memorable. This will be the first peek at something that we won’t really start until Monday (because essays, PD day, the weekend…) I want this to hook some specific students. I want them to have something to think about. Come Monday, I want them curious.

So do I read them a picture book by Jacqueline Woodson? Do I show them a video about a soccer team in Thailand – one that turns out to be an ad? Or maybe I show a brief interview with Simon Sinek about the power of stories? What stories matter? Why do we care? Who is telling these stories? To whom? For what purpose? Thomas King says, “The truth about stories is that that’s all we are” – I need a fifteen-minute something to start them down the path to believing that. 

I bet I can find it if I think about it for just a few more minutes…

September Looms

I gave myself the summer off, mostly. From blogging, from prepping for classes, from worrying about who can or cannot read and what needs to change or stay the same. I tried to actually relax – or at least not to be actively stressed. I attend zero conferences. I abandoned books I didn’t like. I didn’t plan a big family trip. I hung out with friends and family and quit Twitter. Overall, I think I did ok. 

I still have a week left before school starts, so this morning I rolled out of bed and plopped almost directly into our oversized beanbag to read a little of Jhumpa Lahiri’s Whereabouts. Instead of immersing myself in the story, however, I found myself wondering if I could finish it and return it to the library today, another item checked off the before-school to-do list that’s already filling up. My mind gleefully got into the go-getter groove, and soon I was listing as much as I was reading. Gah! Not what I had wanted.

I tried to shake off the looming lists and plans. I tried to read one more short chapter, but Hera – our cat – was having none of it. She scaled the back of the bean bag and dragged her tongue across my cheek. Skritch. Then she did it again. She clambered onto my chest, batted down the book, and looked me in the eyes. I knew she was right: time for tea and then into school to set up the classroom.

So I got up, neither fully relaxed nor fully tense, and lumbered down the stairs towards September.

It’s kind of a funny story

Commenting on student work, 2024 edition
Me, to a student who obviously used AI: please use your own words.
Student: what says this isn’t in my own words??
Me: I expect students to write in the doc I provide. I am automatically worried when I see a large chunk of work pasted in.
Student: I wrote it on paper before I pasted it onto the computer. If I find the paper will that help??

Um… that’s not how paper works.

That’s how I shared the story with friends. It’s all true, and dear Heaven, but this generation of kids…

But it’s also not the end.

Today, the last day of school, the student came to class. They finished up some work and, at the end of class, hung back at my request. We both wanted to see if all their missing work had been submitted, and I wanted to talk about that pasted-from-paper document. The student had resubmitted it, this time with a photograph of a handwritten document – the paper they supposedly wrote before they (magically) pasted it into the doc.

It was already hot – today’s high was 32C/ 90F and felt like 43C/ 109F – and the end of school was on everyone’s mind. I know I had to muster up all the calm I could find; I assume the student had to do the same. I opened the assignment. I showed the student how I could see the copy/ paste. I showed them the AI detector and the 100% AI result. I acknowledged that I could see the handwritten document, but shared my concern that the assignment didn’t fit the instructions. Then, as patiently as I could, I said, “I can see that you’re upset. Tell me what happened. I’m listening.”

Then I listened.

And it turned out that I was wrong. They walked me through their work and showed me their thinking. They hadn’t used AI to generate the text, but they had typed it up in Grammarly (because when you’re learning English a good grammar program goes a long way) so some of the words were not quite theirs. And they had followed the instructions, sort of, they just hadn’t organized properly to separate parts. And they were shocked that I could see the copy/ paste and a little hurt that I thought they might have “cheated.”

So we talked about cheating and about getting behind in our work and the shortcuts we sometimes take. We talked about the pressure of finishing all that late work and about talking to teachers rather than hiding. Then I thanked him for talking to me and shooed him off to catch up with his friends. The whole thing probably took three minutes, maybe two.

It’s not as good a story as the one where a student says “I wrote it on paper before I pasted it onto the computer” and the teacher thinks, “Um… that’s not how paper works”  but the real part of teaching, I think, is the part after the funny part – the part where we listen – and I wanted to write that, too.

Writing beside him

I’m helping a former student write a personal essay for his Grade 11 English class. We’ve talked it through, and planned a little; his next step is to write it. Reading and writing aren’t his forte – he’d much rather be on a playing field than in any classroom – but this story is important to him, and he wants to get it down on paper. So here we are, sitting in the upstairs lobby – currently one of the coolest places in our very hot school – and he’s writing.

This kid has my heart, as many of them do. Last year, he didn’t do particularly well in our first semester English class, so he agreed to change his timetable in order to be part of a reading class with me during the second. That alone took some courage: not everyone who needed the support was willing to accept it. Once there, he mostly tried, even when the work was repetitive or “not that interesting,” even when he took extra long body breaks or got frustrated by the “simple” books he was reading.

Knowing that history, I’m intrigued by his choice to sit with me in such a public place this afternoon. With only two weeks left in the school year, students are out of classes nearly as much as they are in, and many of them wander aimlessly through the halls. Several have stopped to greet us; pretty much all of them give us at least a passing look as we sit here at a student table and work. There’s no hiding that we’re writing together, no hiding that I’m helping.

Nevertheless, he’s nearly filled a page with his small, neat handwriting – a feat which would have been unfathomable last year – and his focus hasn’t wavered, though he has had to stop a few times to flex his tired hand. Meanwhile, I sit here typing my own story, this story, marveling at this moment of quiet togetherness amidst myriad other students. We are here, the two of us, writing; we are here, the two of us, writers. 

This sense of camaraderie has me thinking about what we mean when we say that teachers need to “get to know their students.” How well do I know him? I didn’t spend a lot of time last year asking him about his family, though I did call home when I needed to. I have no idea if he has pets, and am not clear about how many siblings he has. In fact, I don’t know many things about him, but I know enough that I can tell him, honestly, that I believe in him. I never told him he was a strong reader or writer; I did tell him that I thought he could be. I never told him this path would be easy – heck, I was clear that parts would be hard – but I did tell him that I thought it was worth it. Other teachers and coaches told him the same thing, complimenting him when he improved, noticing when he was reading, harrying him back to class when he was in the hallways. When he faltered, he had a team of people to remind him of his long-term goals.

Today, he has a story to tell, and he has found me. He says he needs help, but I think he just needs someone who believes in him to write beside him. What a privilege! I can do that any time.

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:

  1. Title
  2. 100 words
  3. Spell check
  4. 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 caved and 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.