Calling All Teachers

My dear friend Nichole has just returned from maternity leave.  She is having a hard time with the adjustment, to put it mildly.  If you have ever had to leave an infant at home all day, so that you could return, sleep-deprived, to work, you will know that it is hell.  As a former maternity refugee, I have been trying to offer as much empathy and encouragement  as I can.  Granted, it is no easy task to over-ride hormones and an overwhelming instinct that tells you that leaving your child is wrong, but I give it the old college try.

At lunch today, I reminded her that she is called to be a teacher.  She is certainly called to be a mother - she has been Mama Bear to her students since she came to our school.  She is, in every way, a remarkable mother.  The problem is, she is also a remarkable teacher.  It's like she was born to it.  And I believe that she was.

Most teachers have always known they would be teachers one day; many of us are from families of teachers.  It's as if it were in our DNA, as if we were destined to teach.  Or, as I believe, we were made and shaped and led each day to come to the calling of teaching.

Teaching is a calling.  It's that way with every job that requires you to pour your heart and soul into it for little or no pay.  Other jobs take as much - if not more - time every day as teaching does, and many even take the physical and psychological energy.  Most of those jobs, however, offer incredible financial gain as a compensation.  Not teaching.  Nor preaching, nor painting, nor writing.  None of the arts pay well (unless you are famous or corrupt), but we simply can't help ourselves.  Teachers are artists, in spite of politicians trying to convince everyone that teaching is simply a science.  It isn't simply any one thing. Teachers finesse our lessons in the middle of class - we can't simply abandon the experiment and begin again. We have to peer into the faces, the minds, the hearts of each child and try to understand what they need from us.  We look at a block of flawed marble and try to free the sculpture inside.   As an artist works an accidental smudge into the painting, so we teachers work to create a masterpiece in each child, no matter what smudges, chips, and even disasters come our way.

That's the heaven and the hell of it, I suppose.  I am a teacher because, ultimately, I don't have any choice.  I have to be here.  Year after year, even when I am tired, grouchy, or sad.   My students need me - even on the days when I don't believe it and neither do they.  And, I need them.  I need my kids.  They keep me honest by the way they look at me any time I don't keep my word.  They keep me young with their music, their shoes, their love of video games. When I let them, they make me laugh. They give me hope.  When I see someone stop in the hall and help a stranger pick up their dropped pencils.  When they thank me for handing them a test.  When the expression of their face brightens because they finally understand prepositions.  Maybe teaching is a calling because we get the opportunity to see God in the face of each child we teach; and we, in turn, offer them love and support as the hands of hearts of God each day.

Clicks of the Week #3

Look!  I brought a spider to school!  (holds up baggie with a small, dead spider in it)

Hey, smell my finger!  It smells like citrus - yeah mine smells like blueberry

My mom, no my aunt, I think, no it was my aunt, she fell and broke her kneecap like three years ago.  It was gross.

Those are scales on your earrings.  I'm an expert on scaleology.  I also like trains.

When's the harvest moon?  It's orange.

I thought there was a skeleton under my bed last night, but it was just a backpack.

Clicks of the Week #2

I got a new goldfish, and I didn't feed it for four days.  It died because I didn't feed it, and I didn't notice for two days.

Do you want to shake my hand?  Do you know who I am? (said by a student in that class)

Look!  I bought a talking moustache!

My Favorite Mistake

Because some days you aren't sure if you should laugh or cry, I collect funny stories and answers from class.

Here are some of my favorite wrong answers from class over the years...

2000-2001

“Many Jews died by lethal interjection.”  (Holocaust research paper)

“Theatres in England closed from 1592 – 1594 due to the Great Depression.”

“Ms. Isaacs’ birthday is the same day, same month, same year as William Shakespeare’s.”

“Goering made a big compact on the times during WWII.”  (Holocaust research paper)

2001-2002

 “Unfortunately, my grandfather slipped into a comma.”

“Job Duties:  sweeping, moping, snack bar…” (on job application)

2003-2004

“I am really good at archery.  Especially with a bow and arrow.”  (as Artemis)

“Water is polluting our area and we need help.” 

2003-2004

“I am positive Hitler was one of our presidents, I just don’t remember which one.”

“Mark Twain helped [Bill Clinton, Ronald Reagan, Nicolas Mandela, George W. Bush, Gen. Freddy Roosevelt, Johnson, George Washington, John Adams, President Franklin, George Clifton, Dwight D. Eisenhower, Richard Nixon] publish his memoirs.”

Name another book besides Tom Sawyer that MT wrote:  “Dr. Seuss.”

2004-2005

“Are Catholics mostly the people who celebrate Hanukkah?”

“The bullet hit the chest plate and Rica shaded at him.”  (instead of ricocheted in a story).

“Are Quakers the people who think you shouldn’t kill bugs?  And didn’t they discover some land?…..or was that the Vikings?”

Here is actual dialogue from one of my classes today.  The context is that some of my students were wanted to talk about some school issues, and they asked me if I was picked on in school.

Me:  I really hated junior high.  So, here I am.  In 7th grade every day for the rest of my life.  I had a choice on how to respond.  Be a serial killer, or be a middle school teacher.

Vince (one of my kids):  Which one had a better dental plan?

It took me a little while to recover from laughing at that one.  :)

2006 – 2007

What was Mark Twain’s real name?

Roger Clemens

When given the assignment of writing about a time they were lost and frightened (in relation to Tom Sawyer being lost in the cave), one student wrote about all of the places he was “lost” in the novel and didn’t understand it.

“We need more adoption where they can give up their babies miscellaneously.”

2007-2008

In a capitalization exercise, students were to underline any words that should be capitalized in the sentence.

3)     the siegels are moving to long island on Friday.

I had THREE students tell me that they did not underline “siegels” because it is a common noun:  the name of type of bird.

2009-2010

What was Mark Twain’s real name?

Dude Mgee

Mark Johnson

Samuel Adams

Steve

What former president did Twain help publish his memoirs?

Nixon

Grover Cleveland

John F. Kennedy

J.R. Kennedy

Name another book MT wrote:

Inicents of Broad  (Innocents Abroad)

Love Not Shove!

Middle school boys love to shove.  Oh sure, there's always time for a nice punch on the upper arm or a trip when someone is walking down the aisle.  But nothing quite tops the joy of a shove from one adolescent boy to another.

As I stand and watch kids in the locker bay by my room, I am always amazed at how much shoving goes on.  Into lockers.  Into other kids.  If you can knock books out of someone's hands, that is just a bonus!  Girls like a good bump now and then, but they can't hold a candle to a middle school boy's penchant for pummeling.

Why, oh, why do they shove?  Is it, as many claim, the pulse of increased testosterone in their veins?  Is it misplaced aggression?  Truthfully, I think it is a side effect of homophobia.  You need love or affection?  You better not let another boy know it.  Men don't hug.  Men shove and thump one another on the backs.  Men shake hands as hard as they can or fist bump.  Manly men do not hug.

For many years, we had a male guidance counselor in our building named Rick Showalter.  Rick was one-of-a-kind.  With his weird tee shirts and the rubber chicken outside his door, Rick was a fascination for many of the troubled boys in our building.  Also?  He gave them candy just for coming to his office.  Oh!  I used to get so frustrated with him.  Boys would come in to my class, rushing in just after the bell, Jolly Ranchers rattling between their teeth. 

"I wazh wish Mishter Showalter," they lisped and shlurped.

"Doesn't he know they only come by to get the candy?" I would fume to myself. 

It is only now that Rick has retired that I get it.  Of course he knew.  They come by the first few times for the candy.  Then, those big, shoving boys would start to talk.  Talk about the girls who didn't like them back.  Talk about the parents who were splitting up.  Talk about the dad who drank too much or the step mom who hated them.

You see, Rick understood those kids in a way many of the rest of us couldn't.  Rick's dad had been an alcoholic, and he was so open and honest about the hurt that had caused in his life, he was an inspiration to kids who had to tread a rough path like his.  Name any boy dressed in black, satanic rock tee shirts, and Rick could tell you anything about his life.  Where he lived, where he sat at lunch, whether or not he got enough to eat each day.  Rick knew and loved those hard-to-love boys.

The shirts, chicken, and candy -- none of it is what mattered most, however.  No. It was the hugs.  Rick Showalter gave a hug to any kid who wanted one, and the shoving, sometimes smelly boys wanted and needed them most of all.  For the first, and maybe last time in many of their lives, those boys had a full grown man show them affection.  Rick was a true "guy," yet he saw no shame in wrapping those boys in a big bear hug right in the middle of the hallway.  None of the boys saw any shame in it either.

When Rick retired a few years ago, he got up and spoke to the staff at our annual breakfast.  He cried; we cried.  He told us how much his job meant to him and how hard it was to leave some of the kids who had no one else.  "Hug the kids," he challenged us.  He practically begged.  "Please, hug the kids.  They need it."

I'm not sure we have truly honored Rick's request, or his legacy.  But, starting today, I'm in.  Maybe the next time I see some boys shoving one another, I'll walk right up and hug them both.  Well, maybe not.  Maybe I should start with candy or a rubber chicken.  Either way, Rick was right, and I've got some hugging to do.

Clicks of the Week #1

Said to me at my desk...during class:

Do you know who Aaron Rogers is?   Well, my aunt knows him, and I got his autograph in the mail the other day.

I fell off a yoga ball this weekend and landed on my neck.

My tongue is numb.  I drank some really hot hot chocolate this weekend, and now I have, like, frostbite, but for hotness.

Look!  I covered my desktop with pictures of airplanes (done instead of writing a research paper, I might add!)

"CLICK"

Have you ever been to a school sporting event?  As you enter, there is generally some poor guy there whose job it is to press a clicker in his hand to count how many people have entered.  "Click."  In you go.  "Click. Click. Click."  Family of three.

One day, while standing in the hallway, I told one of my good friends and colleagues that middle school teachers should each hold a counter in their hands.  Each time a student tells us something we really don't want/need to hear, we could click it.  The number after just one week would be staggering.

I have decided to find some joy in this sometimes exhausting aspect of teaching.  By keeping track.  "Guess what I did this weekend!"  Click.  "My mom bought a bell just like yours!"  Click.

Ready to share the joy?  If not, just "Click."

Death by 1000 Paper Cuts

Teaching is a glorious profession.  Any of us inspired by Dead Poets Society or Stand and Deliver can tell you that there are (rare as they may be) moments when all the late night grading becomes worth it.  You really DO see the light come on in a student's eyes, and you know they understand something brand new for the first time.  We do, most of us,  have someone come back years later and say, "You were one of my favorites."  Yes.  Teaching rocks.

Actually BEING a teacher, on the other hand...now that is something else.

This is my 13th year of teaching middle school English, and I can genuinely say that this is my best year ever.  Part of it is the kids; part of it is me.  As the Rumi quote I wrote on my back board this morning says, "Yesterday, I was clever, so I wanted to change the world.   Today, I am wise, so I want to change myself."  I am a happier teacher this year than I've been sometimes in the past.  Even so, I still have to look for bright spots to keep me going.  Teaching middle school students, as a colleague and I once observed, is like "death by a thousand paper cuts."  It's not any, one, big issue that exhausts you during the course of a day.  It is the millions of questions you have to answer; the questions that students ask during class to try and steer you off topic; the student who wants to know an hour after the essays are turned in if you have them graded yet.

A few weeks ago, a student came up to me in the hallway and said, "Hey!  Guess what I did this weekend!"  I pasted on a smile, as I always do, and I asked them what they did.  It's not really the event or activity itself that is important to them.  Generally, students just want to tell me about eating too many donuts or watching all the Twilight movies in a row.  What they really want and need is what we are all looking for:  a connection with someone else.  It's an honor that it's me.  Whenever I forget that for a minute, God seems to snap me back into reality. 

What if I'm the only person they have to tell?  What if someone at home would just say, "Be quiet.  I'm watching TV."  What if it's worse?  Among all the other things I am called to do, I am called to listen.  Even when I really don't want to.  Even when I'm too tired or have troubles of my own.  I must listen, even when I feel like I will bleed to death from these cuts all day.  Teachers listen.