Courageous Conversations–Challenging My Whiteness

It’s been awhile since I’ve opened this blog. Part of the reason is because I was afraid of what I’d write; part of the reason is because I couldn’t get my head around exactly WHAT I wanted to share. My classroom tables have been replaced by chairs to facilitate better classroom management; the curriculum continues to be a thorn in my side; and the days continue to run one into the next, with the biggest premium being that of time. With all that said, what made me finally return here? And what is it I am feeling the need to share? Before I actually broach the subject, please know that I am bracing for the firestorm this post may cause. I am fully aware that the entire topic is a hotbed for misunderstandings and miscommunication. So without further hesitation, here we go…

Last Tuesday and Wednesday, I was asked to attend a two day seminar being hosted by our District. There were seven or eight teachers from my building who were also asked to attend, and a total of 100 or so attendees from various District schools and administrative offices. I went in with no preconceived notions of what to expect. The title of the workshop was “Courageous Conversations” and was run by the Pacific Education Group (a misnomer I’ll address later in this post). Our hostess for the day was Terrlyn Currey Avery, the single most hostile, divisive African American woman I have ever met. And so the stage was set for what was to be a disturbing, disheartening and, for me, disgusting two days of racially charged and hate filled messages delivered under the guise of bridging the achievement gap between the races.

The first day began with the data–our “black/brown students” (read: shades of black) were performing far below our white and Asian students. For the purposes of this exercise, “white” encompassed everyone other than Asian and black (a fact that immediately caused what Avery called “push back” from Arabic, Indian and other middle-eastern attendees: pushback that was summarily dismissed and ignored) . In fact, said the data, our poorest whites were outperforming our most wealthy blacks. This, said Dr. Avery, took socio-economics out of the equation. This, said Dr. Avery, pointed to the racial inequities brought about by what she called “white privilege”. The Asian data was higher than the white data, a fact that Avery attributed to family influence, but when that same argument was applied to the lower black scores, Avery balked and insisted that simply wasn’t the case. If you’re confused, join the club–so were many of the white folks sitting in the audience.

The conversation then turned to the tests themselves–”white norm-referenced tests” that were created and scored in Iowa (“And we,” offered Dr. Avery, “know who lives in Iowa!”). So the cultural bias of the tests was called on the carpet. Dr. Avery referred to the “BITCH” test for blacks, and challenged whites to pass THAT test (which, incidentally, I did that evening), and moved on to her next racially charged topic. This time she took a swipe at special education, saying that an inordinate number of black males were being identified as special education (again, due to the racial bias of the tests themselves). She said that those boys were given “A”s in special education, and she offered “We all know what those A’s mean in special education!” The inference was clear–and disturbing.

One of the most troubling exercises of the day occurred near the end of day one. We were asked to take a “white privilege” survey where we rated ourselves, based solely on race (either black or white) on a number of statements. Example: based solely on my race, I can pick up a magazine and see others of my race. There were 20 or so questions, each scored on a 1-5 scale (1 being “never”; 5 being “always”). We were then asked to take the survey home and give it to someone of a different race. When questioned about where we were to find someone of a different race if we didn’t live with such, we were told to “go to a grocery store and approach a stranger.”

The end of the first eight hour day was supposed to be at 3 pm. Of the hundred or so in attendance, about 20 of us had arranged late child-care (we are usually dismissed from our buildings between 2:30 and 2:45 pm). At 3 pm, we excused ourselves, only to be met with harsh words from our presenter. “I’m SURE you don’t leave your schools before this time.” We assured her that we did, at which time we were called “rude”. Frankly, I thought it was rude that she was the guest and assumed her time schedule was more important than ours. Those of us who needed to leave did so, but we were met with much hostility the next day (something I’ll discuss further later in this post).

Day two began with a short introduction from a District administrator, reiterating the reason behind asking Pacific Education Group to address us. When someone asked about the 3 pm end time, the administrator assured the group that we were, indeed, to be done at 3 pm. The presenter at that point interrupted and said that if SHE was expected to finish on time, that the group was expected to be back from breaks and lunch on time (a fact that, in the end, was quite ironic based on her closing commentary–something I will get to shortly). At that time, Avery again took the stage. She started by asking who did NOT do the homework. As I had other commitments and wasn’t comfortable approaching a stranger, I had not done the work and raised my hand. So did about 30 other folks. She asked one man why he hadn’t done the work, and his reasons were much the same as mine. Avery chastised the man and blamed his lack of racial understanding. She told him that he was basically racist in his views and needed to invest what was needed to challenge his “whiteness”. She then lined everyone up according to their scores, and made a long and tedious point of showing us that the darker the skin of our black peers, the further down the line they stood. A few of the darker Italian attendees who ended up very close to the front of the line challenged her on this, but she attributed it to their whiteness. In fact, she said that she often heard the argument that many white immigrants were “down trodden” when they came to the States. She said that they still had their “whiteness”, a comment she also attributed to Jews who were persecuted. When she had apparently made her point, she broke the group down into smaller groups based on their places in line. This was where things truly fell apart, as all the black attendees (at least 90 percent of them) ended up at the same table. This will become an important factor in a moment. At our tables, we were asked to “define” white culture. Avery then offered what was perhaps the most inflammatory and surely the most disgusting example she had proffered in the entire two days. “Here’s an example,” said Avery. “When our black folks get old, we take them into our homes and take care of them. You whites, when your people get old, you put them in a nursing home and wash your hands of them.” I was shocked and truly wanted to throw up. I wanted to share with her the story of my grandfather wasting away as my 5′ aunt struggled to get his 6’2″ frame to and from the bathroom. I kept my mouth shut, and things just went from bad to worse.

Our table was having a very difficult time identifying “white” culture. We could identify what in our lives represented the ethnic cultures we were from–Italian traditions; Irish customs; etc. One of the younger teachers at a table turned to the table of black attendees and asked them what THEY thought was “white culture”. The table erupted. People who had formerly been colleagues were now pitted against one another. One of the black attendees at the table accused the all white table of being “deflective” and not taking responsibility for their “white privilege.” A woman at the white table turned and asked why the group wasn’t differentiating between “Jamaican” and “African” culture when talking about “black” culture, at which point another black attendee accused her of “biting” and using an accusatory tone. Another woman at the black table said that the white woman didn’t “know her” well enough to ask those questions. The tension was so thick you could cut it with a knife.

Eventually, Avery brought us all back together, and we shared our responses. The white culture ended up being defined as one of a patriarchal heirarchy, one of privilege and racial blindness. The table that offered Nascar as a light-hearted addition was ignored and ridiculed. The conversation then quickly turned to “black culture”, at which time Avery brought to light cultural things that we, as white educators, needed to address. The first was that of time. She insisted that black culture didn’t respect time in the same way that whites do. For this reason, she said, we need to reexamine our tardy policies. (I found this comment to be quite ironic in light of the fact that she had railed on about many being late back from lunch, but I suppose she was talking about the whites who were late). She went on to offer examples from her own life and told about inviting blacks and whites to the same party, always telling the whites a much later time than she would tell the blacks. She called it our “whiteness” and said we needed to challenge that attribute. She went on to address the number of blacks who failed phys ed because they wouldn’t swim. She said that many of the girls spent $55 a shot to get their hair done, and that they shouldn’t be expected to get their hair wet the next day. From there, she talked about head gear, and the fact that many schools banned hats, scarves, etc. She said that the black culture, especially for girls, meant that they NEEDED to wear that gear after gym and that we needed to reexamine that rule. Finally, she called on teachers to understand the need to have lotion in their classrooms for the blacks who had “ashy” skin and needed it. I was left simply shaking my head.

At the end of the day we were all asked to write about how WE would challenge our whiteness. Avery offered her own example. She said that she lives in a predominately white neighborhood where she can be sure her daughters will receive all of the best that is denied those in black neighborhoods. She said she usually shopped at a mostly white Walmart, but at one point a few weeks earlier had found herself in a Walmart with a lot of black patrons. She turned to her friend to remark about that fact, at which point her friend told her that her “whiteness” was showing. Without fully understanding the point of Avery’s example, I did know this–she talked about her “whiteness” as if it were a thing to be squashed and dismissed. When we were finally told the seminar was over, it was accompanied by Avery’s biting comments that she would love to continue, but that she was obviously under the time constraints set up by those who had complained about the late finish the day before.

And so I return from whence I started–the group who put together Courageous Conversations was Pacific Education Group. Where, I ask, is the “education”? As of Friday, I still couldn’t look at the black woman from our building who verbally attacked the white woman sitting next to her without thinking that SHE (the black woman) was the racist. She commented to someone else in our building that it was about time that whites were made to face their privilege. I am appalled. Further, I am appalled that not once in the entire presentation did Avery offer any hard data about bridging the achievement gap. Not once.

I suppose that what else appalls me is the fact that my own family comes from such a diverse and wholly “unprivileged” background. My father grew up in a primarily black town and was the minority in almost all situations. He worked as a blue collar laborer and never rose about 40k in salary, despite his long hours. Our home was open to all races, and we celebrated our differences by attending our Italian neighbors’ holiday dinners (7 fish for Christmas) and our black neighbors’ church (Baptist, loud and lovely). To be now told that I am of white privilege and need to feel guilty about that just doesn’t wash–it’s completely divisive and has done more harm, in my case, than good.

The District plans to do follow up to this work, eventually incorporating into curriculum. I fail to see how labeling our white students as being of “privilege” when many can’t afford to even eat three meals a day is productive. I want to stand up against this initiative and scream at the top of my lungs about the “wrongness” of the approach, but I fear for my job. It’s a sad, sad commentary, and one about which I feel completely helpless. Comments??

Tomorrow, tomorrow–you’re only a day away

The days continue to tumble into one another in a blur that remains just out of focus. Class sizes are out of control (30 per class); behavior management continues to take center stage (i.e., a student who wasn’t mine raced into the room, screamed “lick my balls” and ran); and I am trying desperately to cling to the ideals that brought me to education 22 years ago. With that said, tomorrow the other shoe drops in terms of administration.

Some years ago, our district bought into a managed curriculum. Though we have over a half dozen high schools, with tremendous economic disparity between them, every English teacher was handed a “lock-step” sheaf of papers and told “follow this–or else.” This curriculum isn’t simply a list of objectives and goals, it is, rather, a script that we are to read verbatim. As one administrator waxed, “there’s no more room in education for Martha Stewart.” I think that was one of the most crushing blows to my professional ego–I became a teacher to practice the art; to give students what they NEEDED, not what was now being “prescribed.” Initially I rebelled. I refused to have my entire pedagogy stuffed into a cardboard box and shelved. The “smackdown” came swiftly, and I found my job in jeopardy. At the time I had advanced to the position of a teaching “coach”. My refusal to buy into the “program” meant that I was forced back to the classroom. I was also told that in light of my inability to buy into district policy, I would never see the outside of a classroom again. In spite of my administrative certification, I would never be given the opportunity to use it. In all fairness, I suppose I did have a choice. I could leave the district I was committed to and seek employment elsewhere. I chose to ride it out, telling myself that, like every major initiative our district had taken on, “this too shall pass.” Thus far, the powers that be are apparently waiting me out.

So tomorrow, administrators from every office at the district level will descend upon our building. We are the first high school to be “walked”. These administrators will come, evaluations in hand, to check for evidence of student learning through the prescribed curriculum. They will look for proof that we are using the language they have deemed necessary (“getting the gist”; “significant moments”; “stepbacks”; etc.). They will look for evidence of clear routines (we’ve seen these kids a total of four times in the classroom thus far). They will look to see if student work is posted; if students are engaging in accountable talk; if our lesson plans include instructional pathways that clearly follow what has been dictated. They want to be sure we’re posting the “overarching questions” for each unit, questions we must present to students verbatim; they want to be sure we have the standardized test data for each student posted (with student numbers instead of names of course); they want to be sure we’re using that data to group those students.

The consequences of tomorrow’s “walk through” can be disastrous. Last year, a record number of teachers were placed on “Improvement Plans” and consequently rated “unsatisfactory” at the end of the year. A mid year review of another “unsat” means that teacher will no longer be employed. Teachers who have been in the district for almost 30 years are sweating out these walks, hoping for a reprieve after having been “unsatted” last year for the first time in their careers. Principals aren’t immune either, and their jobs are often riding on how well the teachers in their building perform.

Friday, it was incredible to see the number of teachers still in the building over an hour after dismissal time, myself included. A camaraderie, however, has emerged. It’s sort of an “us” against “them” mentality that has brought everyone, principal, faculty and staff, together in an effort to somehow minimize the stress and tension we are all experiencing. On the other hand, everyone appears to be stretched like violin strings, almost, but not quite, to the breaking point–and it’s only September.

Me? I’m wringing my hands over the icebreakers I did with my students–the ones that my students wrote about in their journals, saying how beneficial each thought they were; the icebreakers that weren’t in the prescribed curriculum (which contains NO introductory activities for ninth graders new to us from middle school). My stomach is churning over the fact that I asked my students to follow a specific Twitter account I created specifically for school, the account I asked them to Tweet for homework this weekend–again, not in the curriculum. I am sweating over the fact that in preparation for a prescribed lesson on “identity”, I chose to show a presentation of Sharon Flake’s “You Don’t Even Know Me” instead of having students “pair share” the dictionary definition of “identity” as prescribed. Yes, I know I’ve made my own bed for tomorrow’s reality check. I chose to add things to my classes that were good for kids. I chose to make them comfortable with myself and one another before I jumped into reading Glaspell’s “Trifles”. I chose to incorporate technology in an effort to create a more personal approach, allowing students to Tweet me questions if they are afraid to ask in class. I chose to give them a common piece of literature in the form of a high interest poem in order to facilitate richer discussion about the concept of identity. I knew when I made those decisions that I would be made to suffer the consequences. I just didn’t think it would happen so quickly.

Wish me luck–I’m going to need it.

Random musings in a random fashion

Humor me as I wax poetic and moan a little about my current state of affairs. If by chance this post ends up taking on a James Joycean style of meandering, forgive me in advance. The reality of education just keeps visiting me in a cyclical fashion, reminding me that I am a very small cog in a very large machine.

Students started back last Wednesday, so it’s been three days since they crossed the threshold that vaulted them from middle school bundles of hormonal nightmares to straight-laced, ready-to-learn high school students. Yeah, I know–WHAT WAS I THINKING? Changing schools hasn’t changed the nature of the students, and my ability to adapt was presumably lost somewhere in my twenties. The utopia I had envisioned has done a 180 and now resembles a dystopia of epic proportions.

Day One:
90 degrees in the shade; no air conditioning; and 30 ninth graders at a time, each sweating and apparently without any knowledge as to the benefits of a good deodorant. They know each other and the mob mentality that guided them through adolescence has intensified to the point of common dress that prevents me from telling many of them apart. One young man is sitting by himself in the cafeteria at breakfast, so I wander over to introduce myself. His name is Davaughn, and he has no interest in befriending a teacher. When I ask him if he dribbles from the piercing in his lip when he drinks, he gets up, without a word, and walks away. Strike one.

Day Two:
The temperature outside is 98 degrees. I brought a single fan that has wind-like effects on my back porch, but here in my table-adorned room, it feels like little more than spitting in the wind. Two girls ask me if I am pregnant. I explain that I am just fat. They look at me like I have two heads. Strike two.

Day Three:
The heat is positively stifling. No one can breathe, everyone is cranky, and the “oh my GOD they’re going to LOVE IT” lesson I planned is bringing sighs and dozens of “teeth-sucking” noises. One student, Jerry, is perched precariously on a chair that is now leaning backwards, two feet off the ground. When I ask him to put it on the floor for a second time, I add the fact that I hate to clean up gray matter from the walls when students’ heads explode upon hitting the hardwoods. Strike three. If only I was out.

So yeah, the three days I had envisioned (the ones where the kids all love me; the ones where I made tons of connections and kids ask to join my Facebook page)–those days have passed and I am left crying into my second glass of merlot. I am a GOOD teacher. I’ve always prided myself on my ability to successfully manage even the most difficult of students. These past three days, however, have me questioning even that. I’m trying to do this whole “paradigm shift” from “sit down and shut up” to “let’s talk about it in groups”. That’s what the curriculum prescribes–group work; accountable talk; academic rigor. And the powers-that-be want to see it from day one. If you’re listening, powers-that-be, it DOESN’T WORK. I know in my heart the issue–students need the guidelines first. They NEED the “sage on the stage” approach for at least a few days to set the tone. They need to know there are boundaries which, if crossed, will bring consequences. Somehow, having them work in groups of four on day one didn’t quite do the job. Maybe, however, it’s, again, my approach. (I warned you I’d be meandering…). I’ve always been a “do as I say” kinda girl. You know, the “my way or the highway” teacher. I’m confrontational, though non-threatening, and I like it quiet. The chaos of group work sends me into spasms. I also don’t “de-escalate” very well (I know, that surprises you). On Friday, Jerry refused to follow the simple request I talked about above–putting all four feet of the chair on the floor. All the literature about behavior management talks about a non-confrontational approach; about working WITH the student and acknowledging the student’s feelings. All that went out the door for me, however, when from this child’s mouth came the words, “I don’t give a FUCK what you want.” I suddenly became a raging lunatic, gritting my teeth, breathing heavily and spitting “GET OUT” while I glared at him with all the venom I could muster. I wonder where in the literature they talked about kids that insisted on using the word “fuck”, but I couldn’t think of a solitary page that mentioned it.

I left work on Friday afternoon grateful that we were facing a three day weekend. With that said, however, next week will be like starting over. I know that I will be seeing new students who thought school didn’t start until AFTER Labor Day. Add to that the fact that we are off on Thursday for Rosh Hashannah, and Friday we’ll be taking the entire ninth grade class to a team-building day of rock-climbing and tire-swinging (what? It wasn’t MY idea!). The next week, the big kahunas will be in to see what kind of progress we’ve made. I can’t wait to introduce them to Jerry.

A little disheartening

So the “new bright shiny thing” novelty of being in a new building isn’t quite wearing off, but I’ve most certainly been given a healthy dose of reality. In each department, one person is designated as the “ITL” (Instructional Teacher Leader). It is that person’s job to…well, to be honest, the job itself has morphed into a vague memory of its original self. Originally, the ITL ran the department. It was the ITL who had the ultimate input into the master schedule; it was the ITL who helped colleagues get those supplies that the principal insisted weren’t in the budget; it was the ITL who ran interference when parents came in for conferencing. Now, however, the primary function of the ITL is to meet with the other ITLs and administration and carry messages of “top-down” edicts to their peers in their respective departments. With that said, my lesson plans for the week (which, granted, deviated from the lock-step curriculum) were met by the English ITL with words of warning. “One day off curriculum,” she warned. “You have one day.” My initial reaction, of course, was to stomp my feet, cross my arms and clench my teeth. Instead, the more “mature” me smiled and said, “thank you.” I wanted to follow it with “may I have another?” but I bit my tongue to bleeding instead. When that incident seemed to have lost its immediate ability to cast a pall over our conversation, I took a stab at my next apparently “rebellious” act. Polleverywhere.com is a tool I’ve been itching to utilize in my classroom, and I tried to casually mention that fact as the discussion turned to future plans. When the ITL finally stopped gasping and was able to formulate a response, it came out as a hybrid cross between “oh my GOD” and “you can’t be serious”, seasoned with a little “you better learn your place here”. I was informed of the strict no tolerance policy regarding cell phones; the consequences should I choose to ignore that policy; and a not-so-veiled threat that seemed to smack of “I dare you.” I realized then that simply changing schools, even in a new capacity, wasn’t going to free me of the internal struggle in which I have become engaged–how do I balance the teacher I WANT to be with the teacher I HAVE to be?

I thought this new position would allow me more flexibility, but the cold hard facts are that I will once again be forced to follow a lock-step curriculum, reading a verbatim script, while the teacher inside of me continues to die. I want to utilize new technology; I want to dress in costume and have my students perform Shakespeare; I want to have them build newspaper castles to learn the writing process and draw comic strips to learn to identify significant moments. I want to use Wordle when we talk about identity and blogs to explore current events. I want to engage my students in distance learning opportunities and video conferencing with schools around the world. I want to create and implement service-learning activities; show my students what it means to volunteer; take them to see the opera and the ballet. I want them to read about what interests them then challenge them to think outside the box. The sad truth, however, is that I will, instead, have them read archaic pieces of politically-correct literature; identify significant moments; talk about the “gist”; write and reflect on the text. I will read scripted questions and respond in a scripted fashion, writing on chart paper instead of a whiteboard, using lined paper instead of MSWord.

Is it too late for me? Am I living too far in the past, when teachers had some autonomy? Should I truly be looking for another profession? For God’s sake, the kids aren’t even back yet, and already the frustrations are mounting. Any suggestions welcomed before I spontaneously combust!

A Must See

If you’re an educator, this video is a MUST SEE.

Who says crime doesn’t pay??

After two days of preparing for students to come back next week, I can say one thing for certain–it “ain’t” easy!  Take, for example, the fact that the room next to mine had FABULOUS tables, while mine contained 32 of the old-fashioned “chesks” (those horrid desks with the chairs attached, into which many overweight folks have had to wedge themselves and endure the public humiliation of then having to borrow a shoe horn to escape).  I waited until around noon yesterday for someone to come to that “table-adorned”room.  The plan was to negotiate for the tables–and I knew the stakes would be high.  When no one showed,  I took it upon myself to do what any upstanding educator would do–I took them.  Yep–all eight of them, with chairs, and replaced them with the “chesks” that had been bestowed upon me.  Let’s just say my room looks fabulous, and as of today, no one has shown up in the room from which I pilfered them.  I’m keeping my fingers crossed on that one and viewing the whole thing as a simple “relocation”.  On the other hand, however, my evil deed has not gone completely unpunished.  Every muscle in my body aches as if I’d run a marathon.  I’m telling you, I have aches where I didn’t even know I COULD ache.  In the long run I’m hoping the grand seating arrangement will pay off and make the pain worth it.  I have convinced myself that the “no pain, no gain” cliche is more than appropriate.  Let’s add to the bodily pain the blows my debit card withstood today at lunch.  I NEEDED purple pencil boxes for each table, and a magnetic aquarium for my desk was, well, NECESSARY as it MATCHED the pencil boxes.  I couldn’t very well walk past the patterned folders (which wouldn’t have been necessary with chesks, but which were positively crucial now that I had tables), and I swear those neon Post-its were calling out to me personally–”Look!  We MATCH the pencil boxes!” Look, last year, I refused to decorate and instead chose to mope in my cave-like decor.  I told you I’m trying to turn over a new leaf, though once my husband sees the bank balance, I may be forced to creatively justify those purchases beyond the “But honey, they looked GREAT with the tables I ‘relocated’!”

So new tables in place, I took a few hours to research assessment scores on each student and create seating arrangements that will allow my below basic kids to be grouped with proficient and advanced students.  I was surprised to note that many of my students are already proficient on the state exams, which in fact is a double-edged sword.  Higher scoring students are, in my experience, generally less of a behavior problem than those who are frustrated by the primary tasks of reading and writing.  On the other side of that, though, is the fact that this new team with which I’m working will split a bonus at the end of next year that will be based primarily on how far we can advance the students academically.  I’m not clear how they will measure gains for kids who are already advanced.

The “bonus” question is but one of the aspects of this program that already has me a bit skeptical.  I know I promised to be open and postive; optimistic and full of rainbows and lollipops, but already the cracks are showing (and in my opinion, FAR too early).  We were promised that in order to facilitate more meaningful relationships between students and teachers, the classes would be limited to no more than 20 students.  Four of my five classes are over 28, and as opening day nears, I fear that will no doubt increase.  It’s going to be difficult to foster a community/family atmosphere in a tiny room that is packed with just shy of 30 ninth graders.

So I will close with words of wisdom that I may need to come back and read again later–”I made the right decision; I made the right decision; I made the right….”

The journey begins

22 years. I’ve been teaching TWENTY TWO YEARS! I feel so damn old when I actually say that out loud. I can remember being the new kid on the block and shaking my head at all the “old timers” who resisted change, scoffed at kids and snarled their way through the long, grueling days of academia. Now I’m one of those “old timers” , and much to my dismay, I’ve recently realized that I was beginning to exhibit some of those very same characteristics for which I had expressed such disdain. That reality has not been easy to swallow.

Earlier this year, I realized that my career had stalled. It was a cold, dark February morning, and I sat idly at my computer while my students read silently. I was contemplating the weekend to come and gazed sullenly around my classroom. Suddenly it dawned on me that of the 30 students seated there, I didn’t know what a single one of them did over the weekend. Ten years ago, I would have known what at least MOST of them had planned, but there I sat without a clue as to the plans of even one. Oh, I certainly knew whether or not each was a proficient reader, or a basic writer, but beyond that there was nothing. I had no knowledge of their families; their hardships; their triumphs or their failures outside of my English class. In what seemed to be the blink of an eye, I became aware that I was failing each of them in a way I would have never thought possible. They had become statistics–individual bits of data which contributed to a state-wide “standing” in terms of assessment. I had dehumanized them in an effort to….well, to what?

How I had lost my way as an educator wasn’t difficult to “figure out.” Lock-step, managed curriculum; an administration which valued the test score above the student; an impossible class-load; and a never ending paper chase were but a few of the catalysts that had brought me to the point at which I found myself that cold winter day. It was at that very moment that I realized something needed to change– either I needed to find a new career, or I needed to find a way to rejuvenate the career I had chosen over two decades earlier. I couldn’t continue to fail the children in front of me by biding my time until retirement.

The answer wasn’t one that came quickly. I did some serious soul searching in the days that followed. I thought back to those I had taught at the beginning of my career–those with whom I still kept in touch; those who insisted that in spite of my novice status that I had indeed made a difference. It had been at least three years since I had made that kind of connection. Thinking about how impersonal the nature of my relationship with students had become left me embarrassed. When the introspective process had run its course, I was certain of two things. First, I loved teaching. Second, change was not going to be easy.

The first step on my “road to recovery” was to apply for a transfer from the building in which I had become so comfortable. I wasn’t sure I could begin again where I was—change was necessary.  Our administrator was hell-bent on having a 90/90/90 school–90% poverty;90% ethnic minorities; 90% proficient on state exams.  We certainly fit the first two criteria, and this administrator would stop at nothing to achieve the third–but at what cost?  What personal integrity had I traded in for successful test scores?  And what did those test scores prove?  They proved that I had bought into a school of thought that was systematically destroying any creativity in not only myself but also my students.

A new program for incoming ninth graders was just being introduced in our district’s high schools, the basis of which was grounded in teachers connecting on a more personal level with students. I read the program’s philosophy, which included family involvement; mentoring a core group of kids; and “looping” with those students through their ninth and tenth grade years.  There were aspects of the program with which I disagreed–the continued lock-step curriculum and the concept of merit pay for teachers who were involved.  All in all, however,  it sounded like an opportunity for me to reconnect with my roots. I knew I would be giving up the “choice” classes that are often “given” to veteran teachers (almost as a consolation prize for making it so long), but, again, I knew it was necessary to travel new territory. After speaking to a friend who was a principal in another building, I discovered that she was in need of an English teacher to work the ninth grade position. I applied and was hired. It all happened so quickly I barely had time to contemplate the consequences of what I had embarked upon.

My new job began, in theory, today. While students don’t return until next Wednesday, our ninth grade instructional “team” met today. It was interesting to me to see the diverse nature of those with whom I would be working. Three of us were new to the school itself, though all of us have experience in the district as a whole. Two of the team member are typical “old-timers” and come complete with cynicism and doubt.  I am anxious to see how they fare in this new paradigm.

I also got to tour the building in which I will be teaching . I gave up an air conditioned building, and a HUGE classroom on the second floor, for a tiny, non-air conditioned room on the third floor of a building that is in desperate need of its own renovation. I went from a building where I could park at the door to one that will require a three flight climb from the parking lot to the main office. While those may sound like minor “inconveniences”, I have to confess to being a big gal and more than a little intimidated by the physical prowess I will need to develop so that I’m not starting each day gasping for breath. I hope with all my heart that I made the right decision, and I will readily admit to recurring second thoughts.

On the other hand, however, today we had the opportunity to look over a list of incoming freshmen. We will be combing the data to get academic “baselines” on the kids and will spend much of September just getting to know who they are. Each of us will be mentoring a “cohort” of students, whom we will choose via an in-house “draft” on September 10 (after we have several days within which to interact). That part is, for me, exciting. We will meet their families on September 8, engage in team-building activities outside the school on September 10, and will meet as a team each morning to encourage one another. We will engage in daily professional development as well. In short, I believe we will sink or swim together.

I hope to chronicle my journey via this blog. I intend to share here my own successes and failures; my growth or lack thereof; and the ultimate result of what I hope will be a jump start to a career that had fallen into a rut of disinterest. Please feel free to comment along the way and share your own stories. Tell me when it sounds as if I’m losing my way; make suggestions; be critical and encouraging. Challenging myself at this juncture will either allow me to renew my love of teaching or convince me that it’s time for an early retirement. I hope you’ll join me as I dive in head first. I just hope the water is warm.