Tag: school

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.

Knock-on Effects #SOL24 7/31

Today, I got an *AMAZING* message from a former student. She is graduating from university and is “almost an RN now.” I am aglow with happiness for her – and for us: she’s going to be a wonderful nurse. I am proud to say that a tiny part of her story relates to my post from yesterday. 

You see… back when Mr. 13 was Mr. 6, he was driving his teacher up a wall. They butted heads regularly (in a first-grade sort of way – the kind where it turns out that six-year-olds need to follow rules sometimes), most often in reading group. There, Mr. 6 would some days read fluently, then other days act silly, “reading” words that were not on the page. We were baffled. The story goes that one night, angry with my insistence that he try to sound out words, he “read” his entire book without looking at the pages *even once*. But he couldn’t read individual words.

Because his teacher was both kind and deeply experienced, she had already flagged his reading as potentially problematic. Because I knew that dyslexia ran in my family, I already knew to pay attention to my children’s reading. Because my colleague’s wife was a child psychologist who did lots of educational testing, she advised testing Mr. 6 asap, rather than following the school system’s recommendation to“wait and see.” Because we have good health insurance, we could pay for private educational testing. And because of all that, we discovered that Mr. 6 had dyslexia when he was, well, 6.

The chips continued to fall in our favour. First, even though I am a high school English teacher, I was already learning about how people learn to read, so I knew that people with dyslexia benefit from early intervention. Then, when the principal said it was “too bad” that Mr. 6 was going into Grade 2 because the school’s reading intervention program started in Grade 3, we were wealthy enough to pay for tutoring. Then, I began researching dyslexia and found Dr. Sally Shaywitz’s book, Overcoming Dyslexia which recommended specific research-based tutoring programs. In a final bit of good fortune, a local tutoring company specialized in exactly this. 

Y’all, that is a lot of good luck. Learning to read should NOT be a matter of luck.

Now, let me tell you about my student. She had struggled to learn to read when she was little, but she was an incredibly hard worker, so she managed to stay on top of things. She was seriously smart, so she was able to figure things out, even though reading remained, well, not easy. By the time I met her, she was in 10th grade, and she was working her butt off. She was also doing extremely well in school. 

Still, as we got to know each other over a few years, she confided in me that she wasn’t “as smart” as her friends because she took “three times as long” to do her homework and made “stupid mistakes” if she wasn’t focused. I believed her, but I didn’t know what to make of this… until about ¾ of the way through Shaywitz’s book. There, I read a description of a high school student with dyslexia. Right away, I thought of her. Pages later, Shaywitz listed some common signs of dyslexia – and suddenly I had concrete questions I could ask someone. 

I explained to this young person that I had an idea about her learning. Then I read her the description in Shaywitz’s book. Recognition dawned: “That’s exactly me!” I am not an educational psychologist, so I can’t diagnose anything, but at least we had an idea of what might be happening. All we needed was some testing – which our school system couldn’t provide because, first, our limited resources go to students who “are not able to access the curriculum” and this student was on the Honour Roll and, second, those same resources are meant for students in our system, and she was nearing graduation. We fought on. One thing led to another, and things stayed plenty dang complicated, but in the end she was able to get accommodations when she went to university. Things weren’t easy, but they were, at least, easier.

Looking back, it all feels awfully precarious. What if my child’s teacher hadn’t noticed his uneven reading? What if we hadn’t known to get him tested? What if I hadn’t been reading about dyslexia? What if?

I think about all the people who will benefit from having this brilliant, determined, caring young person as their nurse. I know this is supposed to be a slice of life – and I really want you to know how much I admire the student I’m writing about – but I have to end with what I already said: learning to read well should not be a matter of luck. As a profession, we are trying to make changes so that more students learn to read well. I hope our systems don’t give up when our first attempts aren’t perfect. I hope our system doesn’t write off students who are already in high school. I hope we have success story after success story to tell in years to come. And I really hope you’re lucky enough to have this person as your nurse. That would, indeed, be lucky.

Sick Days

Second semester started with days of absent students. Some didn’t understand that the semester began in the middle of the week. Some thought the first few days were “kind of useless” and decided to stay home. Two were out of the country indefinitely. Lots of students were changing their timetables. Of course, most students were there, so I focused on the ones in the classroom, tried to make clear assignments for those who were out, and continued along.

By the end of the first full week, classes were well underway, but students seemed to be coming and going at an unusual rate. I chalked it up to, well, I don’t know what – but weird things happen in small environments, and schools are no exception. So, a lot of students were missing class, such is life, and talk at the teachers’ table at lunchtime suggested that this was true in many classes. Worse, some kids were getting sick and then were gone for days – days! None of the normal “sick for a day and then back” that usually happens. We couldn’t figure it out.

Then, last week, my youngest got sick. He doesn’t love school, so I often look askance at any request to stay home, but on Tuesday, he was visibly unwell, so we let him stay home – and there he stayed for three full days. Three days! He’s 13! 13-year-olds bounce back ridiculously quickly; they don’t stay home for days because of a nondescript cold. (It wasn’t covid.) But here we were. By the time Friday rolled around, he’d missed the annual ice skating outing, pizza day, and more. He was ready to go back.

So I shouldn’t have been surprised when I started feeling sick on Saturday. I was gentle with myself, but I figured it was just a cold. Just a cold… and here I am, four days later, still at home. I am sick. It’s not Covid, but I was sick enough to check with the doctor on Monday. They shook their head and said, “there are some nasty viruses going around.” Indeed. Them they x-rayed my chest to see if I had pneumonia – I don’t. I’m just sick. Last night I slept 13 hours. I’ve spent most of the last three days sitting on the couch. My throat is a hot mess. I’m sick.

When I check class attendance, I see that the students are still sick, too. To date, only 6 of my 26 grade 9 students have perfect attendance; only 4 of the 21 grade 12s. No wonder I’ve been spending so much of my afternoon literacy block trying to simply find the students I need to work with. Whew.

I’m out again tomorrow – and I really hate being away from school. If I’m lucky, I’ll be better by Thursday. At least I’ve solved the mystery of all the missing students – they’re sick!

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.)

Outdoor toys

“Put the ball away!” I call over my shoulder as I head towards the classroom door. There’s a ruckus in the hallway that needs adult attention, a teacher visiting from Korea who has just arrived to watch today’s class, and two kids in the back of the room who are bouncing some sort of ball between them – maybe a lacrosse ball? Unclear. I trust that they’ve heard me and step into the hallway. Moments later…no, not moments, seconds… seconds later, I return my attention to the classroom, just in time to hear glass shatter.

They’ve broken one of the fluorescent lights. On the ceiling. 

Everyone is silent. Then, they are not, “What happened?” “You two are idiots” “Why don’t the lights have covers anyway? They’re supposed to have covers.”

I close my eyes and take a deep breath. The three boys in the back row are now sitting amidst a scattering of broken glass. I move them to the front row. A little overwhelmed and a little overstimulated by the chaos they’ve caused, they can’t quite stop laughing. I try to remember that this is a normal reaction, but I am annoyed. I start the timer for silent reading – the sound of ocean waves fills the classroom – and call the office to request a custodian.

That sorted, I head to my desk & rifle through a drawer until I find my blank cards. I walk to the front row and put one in front of the main offender. “What’s this for?” He’s aiming for an innocent look, but it’s ruined when he starts to laugh again. “Apologize,” I say tersely, “to the custodians.” He doesn’t argue.

When he’s finished, I pass the card to his friend. I check it over for appropriateness, then return it for signatures. 

It takes the custodians two passes to find all the thin shards of glass littering the back of the classroom. After the second sweeping, the boys ask if they can move back to their original seats. I don’t mince words, “No.” They don’t ask again.

****

Once the final bell of the day rings, a young person comes carefully into the room. “Um, Miss,” he starts, “can I have my ball back? I swear I won’t bring it to school again.” He is not one of the two culprits from the morning. I hold back a smile as I solemnly hand him his ball. “Thanks for keeping it at home.”

****

As I write this, my very own 13-year-old walks through the living room, dribbling a soccer ball. “Put. The Ball. Away,” I say.

He complains a little and tells me how unreasonable this rule is, but I do not budge. I am certain that balls are not indoor toys. The boys in my life, apparently, do not agree.

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.