Professor Noob's Daily Disquisitions
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
A Tale of Two Classrooms
I've re-read my initial post, and it strikes me as being a bit...whiny. So I thought that I should clarify something very important:
I have chosen this. Exactly this. Everything about it. My choice. Not just in a round-about fashion, by deciding to attend university and then deciding to become a teacher and deciding to student-teach, but by specifically requesting this school district.
Only one person in my high-school has said anything about it. "Did you want to come here?" said Ms. Mouthy, in her attempt to disrupt the rest of the class.
"Yes, I requested it."
"Oh. Why would you want to come here?" [The whine implied in this sentence is not a result of contamination by this rather bitchy blog. That's really how she said it.]
"I want to teach abroad someday," I said, "and so I wanted experience teaching in another culture."
"Oh." Apparently even Ms. Mouthy couldn't find anything to criticize about that. Teacher: 1. Student: 0.
Of course, just because I've empowered myself by accepting all my actions doesn't mean that I'm always happy about it. Like today, when Perfect Mentor asked, "So, excited about being a teacher?" and got only an exhausted moan in response. The road to hell is paved with good intentions, and mine is no exception.
With that in mind, I offer you two unique routes to the ninth circle.
Monday:
About half the class period was slotted for a writing exercise, followed by some group brainstorming about nuclear war as an introduction to the next story. During the silent writing section of the class, Perfect Mentor left, and one student - known to this blog as Trouble Student - decided he wanted to talk.
"If you talk, I'll send you out into the hall," said I.
He got about two more words out before kicked him out the door.
Not satisfied with that, he wandered back into the classroom and proceeded to read the instructions to the assignment - which I'd already gone over, thoroughly - off the white board. Out loud.
"Go back into the hall," I said. "This is your warning."
Then he had to sharpen his pencil.
"Lunch detention."
He stood in the doorway and refused to move.
"Write up. Go back into the hall!"
We stood nose-to-nose for at least a good thirty seconds, with me spitting out the words "Go back into the hall!" with every breath, and him saying things like, "Oh, you almost touched me! You can't do that, you're a teacher!"
The situation effectively ended when he finally exited to the room, offering this parting shot: "You're ordering me around like a dog." Since the conversation had degenerated to me barking orders such as "Sit!" I didn't deny the charge, just said, "Well, if you're not going to behave like a rational human being..."
Tuesday:
I gave the class three options for reading the next short story: they could read silently, work in pairs, or "popcorn-read," which allows a student to read out loud as much (or as little) of the story as they'd like before selecting the next student to read, with penalties for those students who weren't paying attention and can't pick up where their predecessor left off.
They decided to popcorn read. A little disappointed that I wasn't going to get to sit on my ass and half-heartedly grade papers, like I had in the previous two classes, I took comfort in pacing the classroom, keeping a wary eye on The Couple in the back and keeping half an ear out for any obvious stumbles.
Something wasn't quite right, though. They kept snickering and giggling through the reading, even though the material wasn't even remotely funny. Finally, Perfect Mentor, who was sitting at her desk as usual and operating as the eyes in the back of my head, said sharply, "Knock it off! There isn't anything comical in this text!" The subdued laughter subsided but didn't fade entirely.
We finished a bit earlier than other periods had, so I commenced a quick discussion using my favorite technological advancement, the white-board. Because the white-board is not in the front of the room but on the side, I was in closer proximity to the boy I'll call "Mutter" than I usually am. Mutter is his name not because he actually mutters, but because he has discovered found the perfect volume for causing classroom chaos: clear enough so that everyone around him can hear and so that I can tell he's saying something insulting, but not quite loud enough for me to actually hear what's going on. Our daily interaction goes something like this:
"Mutter mutter mutter."
"What?"
"Nothing."
But today, whether it was just because I was closer or because he was feeling full of beans and needed someone to fart on, he decided to take it up a notch, not only dismissing the story as "fake" (because it's set in the future) but also trying to persuade the boy next to him to join in. Although I stepped in when that happened - "Are you going to listen to him?" - I apparently had, with my bleeding liberal heart, given everyone in that classroom way too much wiggle room. This became somewhat apparent to me when they started giving me flack for having assigned homework (apparently my first mistake) the day before that was due today with no additional work time in class. Unthinkable! Inhumane!
"Hey, you didn't write a date on the board! It just says 'Due tomorrow'!" the male portion of The Couple yelled.
That's when I finally let the class have it, starting with threatening to explain to the speaker what tomorrow meant "in very small words" and then launching in on their future inability to accomplish anything in the real world if they couldn't turn in a single, easy homework assignment on time. But apparently, it was too little, too late - or so Perfect Mentor decided about a minute before the bell rang. Rising from behind her desk like a Fury hell-bent on avenging the death of my authority, she gave the entire class a scathing denunciation for their immaturity and disrespect, to which I smiled and nodded and wilted inside as it was made perfectly clear to everyone involved how badly I needed rescuing.
So...pick your poison. A full-on, damn-near-came-to-blows confrontation with a student who has sexually harassed you in the past? Or having your clearly indignant-on-your-behalf mentor have to step in on the classroom discipline - and you weren't even conscious of how openly they were disrespecting you?
Give me Monday's events any day. Pain in the ass? Sure. But not nearly so painful as feeling like you've lost ground with an entire classroom.
But today, after school, they held a smudging ceremony in the Commons area, and everyone - students and teachers and student-teachers alike - got to pull the cedar smoke over themselves and let their anger and stress waft away. I don't know if the smudging itself will help me any, but I do know that the ceremony (for which the Elder was paid, I noticed, with twenty dollars and a blanket) was exactly what I needed - a reminder of why I came in the first place.
I have chosen this. Exactly this. Everything about it. My choice. Not just in a round-about fashion, by deciding to attend university and then deciding to become a teacher and deciding to student-teach, but by specifically requesting this school district.
Only one person in my high-school has said anything about it. "Did you want to come here?" said Ms. Mouthy, in her attempt to disrupt the rest of the class.
"Yes, I requested it."
"Oh. Why would you want to come here?" [The whine implied in this sentence is not a result of contamination by this rather bitchy blog. That's really how she said it.]
"I want to teach abroad someday," I said, "and so I wanted experience teaching in another culture."
"Oh." Apparently even Ms. Mouthy couldn't find anything to criticize about that. Teacher: 1. Student: 0.
Of course, just because I've empowered myself by accepting all my actions doesn't mean that I'm always happy about it. Like today, when Perfect Mentor asked, "So, excited about being a teacher?" and got only an exhausted moan in response. The road to hell is paved with good intentions, and mine is no exception.
With that in mind, I offer you two unique routes to the ninth circle.
Monday:
About half the class period was slotted for a writing exercise, followed by some group brainstorming about nuclear war as an introduction to the next story. During the silent writing section of the class, Perfect Mentor left, and one student - known to this blog as Trouble Student - decided he wanted to talk.
"If you talk, I'll send you out into the hall," said I.
He got about two more words out before kicked him out the door.
Not satisfied with that, he wandered back into the classroom and proceeded to read the instructions to the assignment - which I'd already gone over, thoroughly - off the white board. Out loud.
"Go back into the hall," I said. "This is your warning."
Then he had to sharpen his pencil.
"Lunch detention."
He stood in the doorway and refused to move.
"Write up. Go back into the hall!"
We stood nose-to-nose for at least a good thirty seconds, with me spitting out the words "Go back into the hall!" with every breath, and him saying things like, "Oh, you almost touched me! You can't do that, you're a teacher!"
The situation effectively ended when he finally exited to the room, offering this parting shot: "You're ordering me around like a dog." Since the conversation had degenerated to me barking orders such as "Sit!" I didn't deny the charge, just said, "Well, if you're not going to behave like a rational human being..."
Tuesday:
I gave the class three options for reading the next short story: they could read silently, work in pairs, or "popcorn-read," which allows a student to read out loud as much (or as little) of the story as they'd like before selecting the next student to read, with penalties for those students who weren't paying attention and can't pick up where their predecessor left off.
They decided to popcorn read. A little disappointed that I wasn't going to get to sit on my ass and half-heartedly grade papers, like I had in the previous two classes, I took comfort in pacing the classroom, keeping a wary eye on The Couple in the back and keeping half an ear out for any obvious stumbles.
Something wasn't quite right, though. They kept snickering and giggling through the reading, even though the material wasn't even remotely funny. Finally, Perfect Mentor, who was sitting at her desk as usual and operating as the eyes in the back of my head, said sharply, "Knock it off! There isn't anything comical in this text!" The subdued laughter subsided but didn't fade entirely.
We finished a bit earlier than other periods had, so I commenced a quick discussion using my favorite technological advancement, the white-board. Because the white-board is not in the front of the room but on the side, I was in closer proximity to the boy I'll call "Mutter" than I usually am. Mutter is his name not because he actually mutters, but because he has discovered found the perfect volume for causing classroom chaos: clear enough so that everyone around him can hear and so that I can tell he's saying something insulting, but not quite loud enough for me to actually hear what's going on. Our daily interaction goes something like this:
"Mutter mutter mutter."
"What?"
"Nothing."
But today, whether it was just because I was closer or because he was feeling full of beans and needed someone to fart on, he decided to take it up a notch, not only dismissing the story as "fake" (because it's set in the future) but also trying to persuade the boy next to him to join in. Although I stepped in when that happened - "Are you going to listen to him?" - I apparently had, with my bleeding liberal heart, given everyone in that classroom way too much wiggle room. This became somewhat apparent to me when they started giving me flack for having assigned homework (apparently my first mistake) the day before that was due today with no additional work time in class. Unthinkable! Inhumane!
"Hey, you didn't write a date on the board! It just says 'Due tomorrow'!" the male portion of The Couple yelled.
That's when I finally let the class have it, starting with threatening to explain to the speaker what tomorrow meant "in very small words" and then launching in on their future inability to accomplish anything in the real world if they couldn't turn in a single, easy homework assignment on time. But apparently, it was too little, too late - or so Perfect Mentor decided about a minute before the bell rang. Rising from behind her desk like a Fury hell-bent on avenging the death of my authority, she gave the entire class a scathing denunciation for their immaturity and disrespect, to which I smiled and nodded and wilted inside as it was made perfectly clear to everyone involved how badly I needed rescuing.
So...pick your poison. A full-on, damn-near-came-to-blows confrontation with a student who has sexually harassed you in the past? Or having your clearly indignant-on-your-behalf mentor have to step in on the classroom discipline - and you weren't even conscious of how openly they were disrespecting you?
Give me Monday's events any day. Pain in the ass? Sure. But not nearly so painful as feeling like you've lost ground with an entire classroom.
But today, after school, they held a smudging ceremony in the Commons area, and everyone - students and teachers and student-teachers alike - got to pull the cedar smoke over themselves and let their anger and stress waft away. I don't know if the smudging itself will help me any, but I do know that the ceremony (for which the Elder was paid, I noticed, with twenty dollars and a blanket) was exactly what I needed - a reminder of why I came in the first place.
Labels: classroom management, Native American culture, problem students
Sunday, January 11, 2009
The Guide for Commencing Pedagogues Commences
I shouldn't be writing this. Right now, this very second, there are any number of more productive activities in which I could be engaged, including:
Yes, you read that pathetic list correctly: I have just finished my first week of student-teaching. On the Indian Reservation. With no concrete lesson plans. And a mentor teacher who was sick on Friday (but who is also, fortunately, the Perfect Mentor).
When I got together on Friday with the two other student-teachers who were sent to this (dry, small, oddly hippie-ish) region of the West and compared notes, I was quite impressed with the skill with which they had navigated the downright swamp-like social waters of middle school. The one teaching seventh grade is already wowing the skater-boys with her laid-back attitude and mad knowledge of Extreme Sports. The one teaching eighth grade seems to be not only dealing with the Mentor From Hell but also not caring. I envy her composure and grace under pressure (though I suspect that the two whiskeys she drank were helping a bit). Me? I gave my first detention, my first write-up, grabbed a kid's wrist, treated the seniors like kindergartners and made sexual jokes with a student. Go me.
In all fairness, however, I am not trying to navigate the swampy social waters of middle school but the shark-infested, pitch-black ocean of a high school where all the students are from a different culture (didn't you catch that the school's on the Reservation?). Professor Seventh-Grade will be a big help there - she's not only from the area but knows a lot of the Native Americans and will hopefully be able to gently guide me into the grown-up's social circle. Meanwhile, however, I'm stuck with the students.
The good news is that I'm the least intimidating person on Earth, and so despite differences in culture and - let's be honest - skin color, they've already opened up to me considerably. The other good news is that the majority of them are good kids and at least decent students. The bad news is: I'm the least intimidating person on Earth. Which leads to comments such as:
Me: I think such-and-such a character is sort of annoying, don't you?
Ms. Mouthy: [marginally under her breath] You're annoying.
Me: Take those snacks out of your pocket and give them to me.
Trouble Student: I'd like to see you reach for them.
Me: Stop doing your math homework in my class!
Mr. I Don't Care: Write me up. I don't care.
[This was also the unfortunate wrist-grabbing incident. Not a good time.]
That last student has already been the victim of a lunch detention and has now been duly written-up, with the principal assuring me that the only way to affect him is with after-school detention and that he will Make Him Suffer (all right, he didn't actually say that, but it would have been nice). I'm planning to make his defeat complete by asking his math teacher, with whom I'm slightly acquainted, to not give him credit/give him reduced credit for the assignment. My wrath will be devastating and final, and maybe it will make him think twice about crossing me again. Probably not. The pity is that he's not a mean kid - he can be rather nice when you catch him out of the classroom (like when he's doing lunch detention.) He's just stubborn, attention-seeking, and doesn't give a shit. Intellectually, I understand all that. But disobey a direct order in my class? Oh, hell no. I don't care who you are, I will go all Professor Snape on your trouble-making ass. Especially when I know the other students are watching...
- laundry
- grocery shopping
- picking up my toast leavings
- cleaning spittle off the bathroom mirror (I had an accident with my toothbrush)
- unplugging the shoddy toilet
- another load of laundry
- cleaning my long-suffering beta's bowls
- working on lesson plans
- grading papers
- working on my book (!!!)
Yes, you read that pathetic list correctly: I have just finished my first week of student-teaching. On the Indian Reservation. With no concrete lesson plans. And a mentor teacher who was sick on Friday (but who is also, fortunately, the Perfect Mentor).
When I got together on Friday with the two other student-teachers who were sent to this (dry, small, oddly hippie-ish) region of the West and compared notes, I was quite impressed with the skill with which they had navigated the downright swamp-like social waters of middle school. The one teaching seventh grade is already wowing the skater-boys with her laid-back attitude and mad knowledge of Extreme Sports. The one teaching eighth grade seems to be not only dealing with the Mentor From Hell but also not caring. I envy her composure and grace under pressure (though I suspect that the two whiskeys she drank were helping a bit). Me? I gave my first detention, my first write-up, grabbed a kid's wrist, treated the seniors like kindergartners and made sexual jokes with a student. Go me.
In all fairness, however, I am not trying to navigate the swampy social waters of middle school but the shark-infested, pitch-black ocean of a high school where all the students are from a different culture (didn't you catch that the school's on the Reservation?). Professor Seventh-Grade will be a big help there - she's not only from the area but knows a lot of the Native Americans and will hopefully be able to gently guide me into the grown-up's social circle. Meanwhile, however, I'm stuck with the students.
The good news is that I'm the least intimidating person on Earth, and so despite differences in culture and - let's be honest - skin color, they've already opened up to me considerably. The other good news is that the majority of them are good kids and at least decent students. The bad news is: I'm the least intimidating person on Earth. Which leads to comments such as:
Me: I think such-and-such a character is sort of annoying, don't you?
Ms. Mouthy: [marginally under her breath] You're annoying.
Me: Take those snacks out of your pocket and give them to me.
Trouble Student: I'd like to see you reach for them.
Me: Stop doing your math homework in my class!
Mr. I Don't Care: Write me up. I don't care.
[This was also the unfortunate wrist-grabbing incident. Not a good time.]
That last student has already been the victim of a lunch detention and has now been duly written-up, with the principal assuring me that the only way to affect him is with after-school detention and that he will Make Him Suffer (all right, he didn't actually say that, but it would have been nice). I'm planning to make his defeat complete by asking his math teacher, with whom I'm slightly acquainted, to not give him credit/give him reduced credit for the assignment. My wrath will be devastating and final, and maybe it will make him think twice about crossing me again. Probably not. The pity is that he's not a mean kid - he can be rather nice when you catch him out of the classroom (like when he's doing lunch detention.) He's just stubborn, attention-seeking, and doesn't give a shit. Intellectually, I understand all that. But disobey a direct order in my class? Oh, hell no. I don't care who you are, I will go all Professor Snape on your trouble-making ass. Especially when I know the other students are watching...
