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.

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