During my first year at MLK, I failed my students, miserably, in more ways than one. In one class, 23 out of 25 students failed the first quarter of the year. I actually bubbled in "F" twenty-three times on the grade reporting sheet for that one section alone. Now, as a reflective teacher, I had choices about how to proceed. Here's how I saw it at the time. I could continue to teach the way I'd been teaching. After all, I set high expectations and assigned work college-bound students should be able to complete. It was up to the students to meet me where I was instructing. Conversely, I could change how I was teaching and try to address my students' needs. After all, my job was to make sure they learned the skills regardless of how they got to the goal. Obviously, I chose Door #2, but allow me to say that many teachers choose Door #1 each and every day and continue to fail students on multiple levels.
Having made the choice to change how I did business, I needed strategies for helping the students be successful. As a new teacher, my toolbox of options was rather limited in the whole "teacher makeover" area. So, I looked to role models as examples. I had been impressed by Lou Anne Johnson's teaching in many ways, and I decided she would be a perfect inspiration for my new classroom approach. Ms. Johnson is the subject of the movie Dangerous Minds, which had recently been released, and she has written several books about her experiences teaching in Los Angeles. Actually, I could also say she is the inspiration for this blog, but that's another story.
Ms. Johnson chose to combine several factors in her instructional approach: (1) down-to-earth delivery, (2) her own passions/interests, and (3) knowledge of her students' cache'. I'm not sure if "cache'" is the right word or not, but it's the word I've adopted for a teacher's leverage over his/her students. If I know what my students value in the scope of my influence, then I know how I can motivate them to act and, therefore, learn. So, I adopted each of these three tenets into my own classroom approach during the second nine weeks.
Really, I have always taught with a down-to-earth delivery approach. I'm just comfortable addressing groups of people as though I'm only talking to one person. I am simply the latest in a long line of orators in my family, and the role comes naturally. So, this tenet was basically a continuation of my previous practices.
By teaching a novel that I had taught during student teaching, I was able to bring a natural enthusiasm to my approach that had been lacking during the first quarter. I wasn't teaching what I thought I should be teaching; I was teaching what I wanted to teach. Big difference in my personal investment.
The students' cache' or my leverage is what puts the spotlight back on the students. My students revealed two important factors about themselves as a collective group during the first quarter: (1) they value social time (what teenagers don't?), and (2) they value/enjoy competition. So, I chose to combine these two characteristics of typical teens into the format for the second quarter. As we read Lord of the Flies, I tried to creatively apply social outlets in a competitive atmosphere as often as possible.
I arranged the students into authentic cooperative learning groups for the duration of the 9 weeks. They read together, did questions together, took quizzes as a group, did projects as a group. The groups named themselves, had tribal flags and mottoes, bonded as friends, and generally learned a whole lot. I thoroughly enjoyed the synergy that came from the groups working together to help each member be successful.
I offered competitive incentives for the "tribes" to out-achieve one another as we read Lord of the Flies. I offered a class incentive for overall improvement: If the whole class (NO exceptions!) passed for the quarter, then I would pay for a movie/pizza party. I also offered individual incentives for improvement: For the student whose grade showed the greatest improvement from first quarter, I would take the student out to dinner anywhere in Cleveland on my dime. You would not believe how motivating the competitive elements became! I might also mention that food was a secondary element to the students' cache'.
At the end of the quarter, there was one student who had attendance issues who was in danger of failing. I let his tribe know he was in danger so they could help remind him to do his make-up work. Well, the tribe let the whole class know, and those kids would not leave that boy alone! I will never forget the look on Mikail's face when he brought in his dog-eared, smudgy pile of make-up work, all complete, and presented it to me as though it were on a velvet pillow. I have no idea how much help he had, and I don't really care. The look of accomplishment on his face was worth the passing grade. So, the class won the pizza party.
For the individual competition, I ended up with 4 students who went from F's to A's, which they had genuinely earned. At that point, it didn't matter which one had the greatest increase. They had all improved tremendously, so I took them all to dinner.
I learned a valuable lesson, though, about recovery that nine weeks. Students will forgive me for failing them if I admit the failure and try to fix it. I can forgive students in the same way. The problem is in the lack of reflection or in the hubris that won't allow for an adjustment in teaching approach. So, while I am very proud of my lightbulb students who learned a valuable lesson in their own efficacy that quarter of English I, I too learned a valuable lesson in my own ability to recover from failure.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
A Case Study
Robbie has the most beautiful eyes I've ever seen. They are the most unusual color and have the longest lashes. He has more wit, humor, and charisma than almost any person I've ever met. He also harbors more sadness than one person should know or bear. In my first year of teaching, he became my earliest "case study." His entire life reads like a file from a social worker's case load. His reality contains details that, up until he and I started talking, I thought were contrived by "Made for TV" movie writers to seem trumped up and impossible to fathom. However, as Robbie's life story unfolded during our time together, I came to realize that perhaps TV did imitate life.
What would the social worker's file say? Robbie, aged 18, grade 10. Father: Unknown. Mother: Prostitute, drug addict. Siblings: 5 (5 different fathers). Occupation: Recreational Drug Distributor.
I don't think it's the recitation of that combination of facts that surprised me so much. It was more in the attitude and acceptance of a sequence of events. Robbie's mom was a crack addict who had several children by several fathers. Because of her habit, she was essentially unable to care for her family. Robbie, as eldest child and as a male, felt compelled to provide for his family. Well, at 8, what's a boy to do? There are limited professional opportunities for 8-year-old boys. So, he began selling weed. And, he continued to sell through elementary and middle school.
But that's not all. Not only was Robbie going to school full time and working throughout most of the night, he was also raising each of his siblings as they came along. He cooked and cleaned and cared for his brothers and sisters as essentially a single parent would. He also took care of his mother when she needed his help. Amazing.
When Robbie entered my classroom, he was so enmeshed in his pattern that he saw no alternative future for himself. He didn't see himself earning a diploma, and he certainly didn't see college as an option. It was probably unfair of me to even suggest that he pursue another path. However, the boy could draw. I don't mean cute little critters or sinister comic creations or even adequate copies of existing works. I mean, Robbie had the vision, creativity, and perception necessary for graphic design and/or architecture. I hated to see all of that potential go to waste.
Not only that, but Robbie didn't even see himself graduating from high school. He basically wandered in and out of the school to sell to a few clients and socialize with a few friends. This was one time when my naivete' served me well. I actually expected Robbie to do his work! I had Robbie for three different classes during the day, and he enjoyed my classes. However, his attendance was understandably erratic. He was honest and open about why he only showed up occasionally ("Ms. Hoskins, I'm saving up for a whip. I gotta work them streets. I can't make no paper sittin' in these here seats."), but my middle class values wouldn't let him go.
I knew that drawing was a cache' for him. He'd never had real drawing pencils of his own. He'd stolen "nubbins" from art class, but he'd never had his own tools. So, I went to an art supply store and bought a supply of pencils. I bribed him (no need to mince words 'cause that's what it was) to come to both classes every day by offering him a pencil for each week of perfect attendance. It basically worked! He came to class, did his work, and contributed greatly to class activities and discussions. My lunch was between two of his classes with me, and we would sit and talk each day. I don't have any idea if he went to a single other class, but he made it to English every day.
At the end of the year, he told me he was transferring to another school that was closer to his home to reduce his commute time. It sounded like lies to me. However, I had to respect his decision, and with teary eyes, I said goodbye. Imagine my surprise a year later when he walked into my classroom, wearing the hugest smile on his face, waving a small ivory rectangle of paper. I jumped up to greet him, and he extended to me an invitation to his graduation. His mom, well, she wasn't going to be able to make it, and he thought I might want to see him walk the stage.
I went to that graduation. I saw Robbie walk that stage and get his diploma. I hugged him when it was over and told him how proud I was. He thanked me for not letting go. My case study turned out not to be the rule...he was the exception...
What would the social worker's file say? Robbie, aged 18, grade 10. Father: Unknown. Mother: Prostitute, drug addict. Siblings: 5 (5 different fathers). Occupation: Recreational Drug Distributor.
I don't think it's the recitation of that combination of facts that surprised me so much. It was more in the attitude and acceptance of a sequence of events. Robbie's mom was a crack addict who had several children by several fathers. Because of her habit, she was essentially unable to care for her family. Robbie, as eldest child and as a male, felt compelled to provide for his family. Well, at 8, what's a boy to do? There are limited professional opportunities for 8-year-old boys. So, he began selling weed. And, he continued to sell through elementary and middle school.
But that's not all. Not only was Robbie going to school full time and working throughout most of the night, he was also raising each of his siblings as they came along. He cooked and cleaned and cared for his brothers and sisters as essentially a single parent would. He also took care of his mother when she needed his help. Amazing.
When Robbie entered my classroom, he was so enmeshed in his pattern that he saw no alternative future for himself. He didn't see himself earning a diploma, and he certainly didn't see college as an option. It was probably unfair of me to even suggest that he pursue another path. However, the boy could draw. I don't mean cute little critters or sinister comic creations or even adequate copies of existing works. I mean, Robbie had the vision, creativity, and perception necessary for graphic design and/or architecture. I hated to see all of that potential go to waste.
Not only that, but Robbie didn't even see himself graduating from high school. He basically wandered in and out of the school to sell to a few clients and socialize with a few friends. This was one time when my naivete' served me well. I actually expected Robbie to do his work! I had Robbie for three different classes during the day, and he enjoyed my classes. However, his attendance was understandably erratic. He was honest and open about why he only showed up occasionally ("Ms. Hoskins, I'm saving up for a whip. I gotta work them streets. I can't make no paper sittin' in these here seats."), but my middle class values wouldn't let him go.
I knew that drawing was a cache' for him. He'd never had real drawing pencils of his own. He'd stolen "nubbins" from art class, but he'd never had his own tools. So, I went to an art supply store and bought a supply of pencils. I bribed him (no need to mince words 'cause that's what it was) to come to both classes every day by offering him a pencil for each week of perfect attendance. It basically worked! He came to class, did his work, and contributed greatly to class activities and discussions. My lunch was between two of his classes with me, and we would sit and talk each day. I don't have any idea if he went to a single other class, but he made it to English every day.
At the end of the year, he told me he was transferring to another school that was closer to his home to reduce his commute time. It sounded like lies to me. However, I had to respect his decision, and with teary eyes, I said goodbye. Imagine my surprise a year later when he walked into my classroom, wearing the hugest smile on his face, waving a small ivory rectangle of paper. I jumped up to greet him, and he extended to me an invitation to his graduation. His mom, well, she wasn't going to be able to make it, and he thought I might want to see him walk the stage.
I went to that graduation. I saw Robbie walk that stage and get his diploma. I hugged him when it was over and told him how proud I was. He thanked me for not letting go. My case study turned out not to be the rule...he was the exception...
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Hair Lesson
On the first day of school, Shawnte' walked into class as a bright-eyed, absolutely adorable, petite 9th grade student. The first thing that struck me was her voice. She has a cartoon character's baby voice. I was looking at the young woman explaining to me how she lived with her grandparents, and I was thinking, "She sounds like a Disney character." Then I realized that my fascination did not stop there. I was entranced by her perfectly coiffed braids that covered her head and ended in mysteriously simple ends that were exactly even all over. Although I'm sure I'd seen hair like hers before, I don't think I'd ever paid much attention. Every day for a few weeks, Shawnte' would come in with her braids in some slightly new style: all down, partially pulled back, ponytail, pigtails, etc. My fascination continued.
Until one day, she walked into class with a smart, stylish, BUT VERY SHORT hair style. I scooted up to her and exclaimed, badly concealing my consternation, "Shawnte', what the heck did you do to your beautiful hair?" Unfortunately (or not), I made this comment in the hearing of the majority of the students right at the beginning of class. The entire group of students erupted into uproarious laughter. I looked around in confusion. "What's so funny" I asked.
"Ms. Hoskins, That wasn't my real hair," Shawnte' tried to explain. "Them was microbraids."
That explanation did not help. Brow wrinkled, I looked at her and said, "Microbraids? Not real hair? Explain, please."
At this point, Rachael piped in, "This ain't my real hair either. You'll never see my real hair. No one but my hair girl ever sees my real hair. Shoot, I barely know what my real hair looks like!"
Trust me, this was a whole new world to me. Several other girls in the class contributed their "non-real" hair realities to me until my head was spinning with cultural overload. They started throwing all of this information at me until I threw my hands up.
"You want us to show you, Ms. Hoskins?" asked Rachael. "I could bring in some hair, and we could explain it all to you." She seemed sincere, and the rest of the girls were looking at me with eager expressions on their faces.
Frankly, I liked that idea. It seemed more concrete than the abstract explanations they were giving me. So, that's what we did. The next day, Rachael brought in plastic bins of hair. She laid it out all over my desk. She and the other girls started telling me about all the different types of hair (human, horse, synthetic). They told me the different ways it's put in (sewed, glued, braided). They gave me different names (weave, extensions, microbraid).
The boys in the class got into the act by explaining to me about boar's hair brushes and doo-rags, waves and clippers. No one was left out of the conversation because everyone has their own grooming style.
I learned so much that day about hair and culture, and, yes, the it was an important lesson. However, the willingness to simply ask my students to explain that which I didn't understand was an even more important lesson.
What I gained that day was the students' trust in ways I didn't begin to understand until one day Rachael walked up to me as we were both walking down the hall and said, "See that girl up there, Ms. Hoskins?" I nodded and said, "Yep, Bad weave." She said, "You got that right!" and continued walking. I had learned my lesson.
Until one day, she walked into class with a smart, stylish, BUT VERY SHORT hair style. I scooted up to her and exclaimed, badly concealing my consternation, "Shawnte', what the heck did you do to your beautiful hair?" Unfortunately (or not), I made this comment in the hearing of the majority of the students right at the beginning of class. The entire group of students erupted into uproarious laughter. I looked around in confusion. "What's so funny" I asked.
"Ms. Hoskins, That wasn't my real hair," Shawnte' tried to explain. "Them was microbraids."
That explanation did not help. Brow wrinkled, I looked at her and said, "Microbraids? Not real hair? Explain, please."
At this point, Rachael piped in, "This ain't my real hair either. You'll never see my real hair. No one but my hair girl ever sees my real hair. Shoot, I barely know what my real hair looks like!"
Trust me, this was a whole new world to me. Several other girls in the class contributed their "non-real" hair realities to me until my head was spinning with cultural overload. They started throwing all of this information at me until I threw my hands up.
"You want us to show you, Ms. Hoskins?" asked Rachael. "I could bring in some hair, and we could explain it all to you." She seemed sincere, and the rest of the girls were looking at me with eager expressions on their faces.
Frankly, I liked that idea. It seemed more concrete than the abstract explanations they were giving me. So, that's what we did. The next day, Rachael brought in plastic bins of hair. She laid it out all over my desk. She and the other girls started telling me about all the different types of hair (human, horse, synthetic). They told me the different ways it's put in (sewed, glued, braided). They gave me different names (weave, extensions, microbraid).
The boys in the class got into the act by explaining to me about boar's hair brushes and doo-rags, waves and clippers. No one was left out of the conversation because everyone has their own grooming style.
I learned so much that day about hair and culture, and, yes, the it was an important lesson. However, the willingness to simply ask my students to explain that which I didn't understand was an even more important lesson.
What I gained that day was the students' trust in ways I didn't begin to understand until one day Rachael walked up to me as we were both walking down the hall and said, "See that girl up there, Ms. Hoskins?" I nodded and said, "Yep, Bad weave." She said, "You got that right!" and continued walking. I had learned my lesson.
Saturday, June 13, 2009
One More Windmill
I had spent the week battling the teachers in my building, and I felt like Don Quixote after fighting windmills on my own. My will had been crushed, and I wasn't sure I was up to the "windmill" of my last class. My students had been rowdy all day, and I was just plain tired. I stood at my door and greeted my students, but there was no smile on my face. I felt weighed down by the mere effort of standing on my feet; my heart wasn't in it. All I could think was, "It's hot in my room. I'm tired. I hope the kids aren't hyper today. I need peace."
I had written the assignment on the dusty chalkboard; I put it there deliberately to minimize questions. I didn't want to touch or talk to another human being. I just wanted to put my finger to my lips for quiet and point to the lesson. It was as though some other being occupied my loving, giving, teaching body. I was feeling totally contrary to my normal self, and my students noticed right away.
"What's wrong, Ms. Hoskins?" asked Roosevelt, whose 6'4" frame barely fit into the student desk. He's also my protector and can usually bring a smile to my face with a flash of his pearly whites. During the year, his teddy bear presence had brought me comfort at the end of many a long day.
"I'm in a rotten mood, I guess," was my taciturn reply while I rubbed my forehead.
"How come? You need somethin'? You wanna talk about it?" he inquired, his brow wrinkling with concern as he crawled up to sit on top of his desk.
"Nah, I just need to frown for awhile, okay?" I replied, hoping he would let it drop.
"No way, Ms. Hoskins. You don't let US act that way! You make us smile and do our work. You can't do US like that!" piped up nasal-voiced Jackie, punctuated by finger-pointing, head-wagging gestures. I was stunned to hear this from her. Jackie was usually so wrapped up in her own world that her support almost overwhelmed me.
Next thing I knew, all of their beautiful faces mirrored Jackie's concerns, wondering how I'd respond. I looked back at them, sighed, tears burning my eyes, and said, "You're absolutely right. Why don't we do this together?"
Shoulders relaxed, smiles lit up, and the air lifted as our heads bent to the assignment, one more windmill. This time, though, we tackled it together.
I had written the assignment on the dusty chalkboard; I put it there deliberately to minimize questions. I didn't want to touch or talk to another human being. I just wanted to put my finger to my lips for quiet and point to the lesson. It was as though some other being occupied my loving, giving, teaching body. I was feeling totally contrary to my normal self, and my students noticed right away.
"What's wrong, Ms. Hoskins?" asked Roosevelt, whose 6'4" frame barely fit into the student desk. He's also my protector and can usually bring a smile to my face with a flash of his pearly whites. During the year, his teddy bear presence had brought me comfort at the end of many a long day.
"I'm in a rotten mood, I guess," was my taciturn reply while I rubbed my forehead.
"How come? You need somethin'? You wanna talk about it?" he inquired, his brow wrinkling with concern as he crawled up to sit on top of his desk.
"Nah, I just need to frown for awhile, okay?" I replied, hoping he would let it drop.
"No way, Ms. Hoskins. You don't let US act that way! You make us smile and do our work. You can't do US like that!" piped up nasal-voiced Jackie, punctuated by finger-pointing, head-wagging gestures. I was stunned to hear this from her. Jackie was usually so wrapped up in her own world that her support almost overwhelmed me.
Next thing I knew, all of their beautiful faces mirrored Jackie's concerns, wondering how I'd respond. I looked back at them, sighed, tears burning my eyes, and said, "You're absolutely right. Why don't we do this together?"
Shoulders relaxed, smiles lit up, and the air lifted as our heads bent to the assignment, one more windmill. This time, though, we tackled it together.
Friday, June 12, 2009
Spade Days
Most teachers look forward to the last day of school with almost the same level of anticipation as the students. They are eager for the chance to finish calculating grades, store the final evidence of the year's activities, and wrap up the minutiae of the end of the school year. I, however, was not one of those teachers. The last day of school was a special one for me. Every year. I would rush through my end-of-the-year duties in order to enjoy spending that delicious day in the company of my students.
Most students would rush out of the building with a whoop and a holler, glad to be free of the brick walls for the next few months. Not my kids. They would seek me out and settle in for a long game of spades. Why spades? Well, you can chat over spades. You can talk smack over spades. You can laugh over spades. If someone comes in to take their leave for the summer, you can easily put spades on hold in order to chat. I will say this, however. If we did stop to chat, we had to watch Jerome. He would stack a deck, slip a card out, and generally cheat to his advantage. Of course, it didn't bother me quite as much when I was his partner, but we still had to watch.
The first year, I was genuinely surprised that kids showed up for their scheduled "class." No one else had kids coming to their classes! My kids were there! Random collections of students, just hanging out. We played music. We played cards. We ate pizza. After a couple years of this pattern, we remembered. A large part of the ritual of last day spades seemed to involve a reminiscing about the year's events (and it wasn't even my idea!). Brandon and Rodney would show up, and we'd sit around chattin' until someone started dealing the cards. Generally, we'd start playing 3-handed 'cause Brandon would get impatient to win. Rodney would be impatient to talk smack. I'd be impatient to start the laugh fest. Whatever the reason, the chemistry worked. We'd get our fourth player (A-Dub was a likely suspect) and begin playing in earnest. Eventually, we'd end up with a peanut gallery of folks watching, advising, cheering on favorites.
We basically had a party. Roosevelt would wander in, closely followed by Lil Ric (who now prefers "Rico," but I can't quite bring myself to call him that) and Deon. Basheer would flit in and out, usually trailed by underclassmen or a random girl or two. When Bobby chose to show up, I always knew the festivities would be turned up a notch; Bobby has a young person's body but an old person's soul.
What I think I loved most was that, for those brief hours, I was valued as one of the crew. I wasn't just a teacher; I was appreciated for what I contributed to the fun of the group. And, I felt I'd earned the chance to just hang out and enjoy my students as people. Even the students I thought I knew pretty well would reveal new facets to their personality in those final hours. I took those revelations as precious gifts, unconsciously offered, and I cherish them still.
Most students would rush out of the building with a whoop and a holler, glad to be free of the brick walls for the next few months. Not my kids. They would seek me out and settle in for a long game of spades. Why spades? Well, you can chat over spades. You can talk smack over spades. You can laugh over spades. If someone comes in to take their leave for the summer, you can easily put spades on hold in order to chat. I will say this, however. If we did stop to chat, we had to watch Jerome. He would stack a deck, slip a card out, and generally cheat to his advantage. Of course, it didn't bother me quite as much when I was his partner, but we still had to watch.
The first year, I was genuinely surprised that kids showed up for their scheduled "class." No one else had kids coming to their classes! My kids were there! Random collections of students, just hanging out. We played music. We played cards. We ate pizza. After a couple years of this pattern, we remembered. A large part of the ritual of last day spades seemed to involve a reminiscing about the year's events (and it wasn't even my idea!). Brandon and Rodney would show up, and we'd sit around chattin' until someone started dealing the cards. Generally, we'd start playing 3-handed 'cause Brandon would get impatient to win. Rodney would be impatient to talk smack. I'd be impatient to start the laugh fest. Whatever the reason, the chemistry worked. We'd get our fourth player (A-Dub was a likely suspect) and begin playing in earnest. Eventually, we'd end up with a peanut gallery of folks watching, advising, cheering on favorites.
We basically had a party. Roosevelt would wander in, closely followed by Lil Ric (who now prefers "Rico," but I can't quite bring myself to call him that) and Deon. Basheer would flit in and out, usually trailed by underclassmen or a random girl or two. When Bobby chose to show up, I always knew the festivities would be turned up a notch; Bobby has a young person's body but an old person's soul.
What I think I loved most was that, for those brief hours, I was valued as one of the crew. I wasn't just a teacher; I was appreciated for what I contributed to the fun of the group. And, I felt I'd earned the chance to just hang out and enjoy my students as people. Even the students I thought I knew pretty well would reveal new facets to their personality in those final hours. I took those revelations as precious gifts, unconsciously offered, and I cherish them still.
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