Watch out what you wish for....

Feb. 27: On Monday, a barely noticeable link appeared on the district website announcing voluntary transfer forms: just link here! The on-line form opened in front of me, and my fingers tore up the keyboard typing in the names of my top three choices of schools to transfer to. It was finished in five minutes. Then with a final click, I shot it off to the downtown office. There. Now for the next month, I can stew about the uncertainty and wonder whether a change of schools will be in my future.

L. insists that my school has the most difficult students in town, and that another population can only be better. A new coach at the school who's been teaching across the country for the past 26 swears the students here are the worst he's seen in his career. So a change of school can only be good, right? However, what if I change schools and have to take on 9th or 10th graders? Maybe "good" ninth or 10th graders are a handful compared to my current seniors, who are noisy but basically decent and not too horribly behaved. They've made it this far and don't want to blow it now.

What about colleagues? I know a few people at my current school and feel comfortable with them, though not intimate. I'll have to learn to try to fit in again with a new group. Imagine if the new colleagues at the new school are cold, mean, rude, and obnoxious?

What if the distance to the restroom at another school is even longer than the half a mile trek that I face now?

What if my new classroom is on a busy hallway with even more annoying noise and interruptions than I have now on my isolated second floor room in a separate wing?

What if I end up with a worse schedule?

What if I go to all the trouble of moving to a new school, and it's no different, or it's worse?

But those are the chances anyone takes with any prospective job change.

Right now I'm too exhausted to think, so I'd better close now.

First azaleas

Feb. 23: I went to bed at 8:00 last night and slept for 12 hours. I meant it last night when I said I was tired. The aftermath of the flu has also done a number on my tastebuds. I haven't been hungry all week, and the little I've eaten has tasted like sawdust. The biggest disappointment is my coffee. We usually buy flavored types, such as vanilla nut or chocolate decadence, and use vanilla flavored creamer. This morning, I couldn't smell it or taste it.

L. and I went out this morning to do the income taxes. My head was still in a fog due to a lengthy sleep and general stuffiness, but I noticed right away that the sky had that "just washed" clarity that comes after a night of rain. A few azaleas had blossomed in the front bedding. Spring time has dawned in Georgia. As for the taxes, L. decided we should stop going to the same accountant that we've been going to for 17 years because, says L., his price has crept up. As he gets older, L. seems to get more and more fiscally conservative. Mr. G's price is up to $450 this year, plus $75 for scanning, for $525, so very well, we would go to H.R. Block. I liked the previous accountant because he's nice, he knows our financial business, going back to every special bonus such as MMW, every job change, every nuance of the family money, and gosh, I just like him. What else can I say. "How do you know they'll be cheaper?" I asked. Last year, I called H & R for an estimate, and they were very vague and would certainly not give a straight answer. "Oh, it won't be more than $100 or $150," he said with certainty. "Well, you get what you pay for," I said. But we did go to H& R and okay, the cost of $308 was a little more than L. expected, but a little less than we'd been paying before, and we didn't have to wait two weeks for Mr. G. to tally the final result and call us with the news, good or bad. H & R told us right awat the amount of the refunds (thank God), and filed electronically. We got that business accomplised and drove around, watching the flowers bursting out everywhere.

At the last stop, the grocery store just to pick up a few crucial items (cat food!)until we could get to Wal-Mart, I was so tired, I couldn't stop yawning. When we got home, I fell into bed and took a nap.

Call me insane, but as I've mulled over which schools in the area to apply to for transfer next year, the middle school that P. attended popped into my mind. Yes, yes, I know, middle school students are hormonal and bratty and cruel, and I must be totally out of my mind BUT...here are the possible positives: 1) this school is an upscale one, which means that they have actual money, yes M-O-N-E-Y, for books, supplies,computers and the extras 2)the place is newer and cleaner 3)the students are young enough not to be felons or juvies yet 4) the middle-class parents stand behind the teachers by making sure the students do their homework or come to school with their supplies, and 5) I may be able to catch them in their budding literacy development before it's too late. Consider especially Point 1: Imagine a place where computers are reasonably available for the students, or class sets of novels, or parents who are willing to buy an extra novel at a teacher's request. The other points speak for themselves. I also want to try for P's former high school. Let's see what happens. There may be no openings, or it may be that no principals want me. I think many secondary school teachers and administrators feel that former college professors are useless. Also, I may be standing in line behind 100 other teachers who have many years' experience in the system and have priority.

The sight of today's azaleas all over town was a heartening reminder that the end of the school year is within sight.

Not feeling so hot

Feb. 22: Ah, Friday at last. I went to work today, though without a voice. I sound very much like the huge bullfrogs in our backyard pond who break the silence of the night with their long deep croaks. But better to be in the classroom and do little to nothing, than to call in sick again and 1) be scolded for all the trouble they have finding enough subs 2) have the sub do even less than I would do. Yesterday, when I was at home sick, I read my email and saw that the department chair had put out an email, copied to the principal, the people downtown, and everyone in the department, thanking two teachers, Ms. So-and So and Ms. This and That, for covering first block for our "absent colleagues," (she named me and Ms. E.) The tone implied that the two of us, the absent colleagues, had caused havoc by being absent, because she ended the memo stating that she'd had to spend from 7:30 to 7:45 finding coverage. I politely replied to "all" (why should the principal think I'm irresponsible?) stating that I had put in for my first absence of the year the day before on the system's computerized system, had called the AP the night before, and had followed procedure exactly, and was sorry my absence had caused an inconvenience. This morning, the other person mentioned in the email told me she'd been offended by the implications too. Oh, I'm sure the stress level is getting to everyone, including the department chair.

I've been freezing all week, right to the bone marrow. At night, getting out from under my blankets, makes me feel as if I'm one of the passengers on the Titanic jumping onto the North Sea. My teeth chatter all the way to the restroom, as the cold chills ripple through me from head to toe. Back in bed, shivering, I try not to think about stories involving cold, such as "the man" in "To Build a Fire" walking across the Yukon in minus 50 degree weather, or the latest clip of a blizzard on the weather channel, but the freezing tales just keep on coming. I think about a true story about a couple and a baby driving from California to Utah in the winter who take a side road, get lost, get the vehicle stuck in the snow, and end up walking hundreds of miles through the snow looking for help, nearly freezing to death in the process(brrrr!). With Advil pumped into me, I've been able to function during the day without an electric blanket, but I've been an ice cube at night. No, I would not do well in the North.

It's nearly 6:00 p.m., but I feel so sleepy, I could nod off now. I'll try to hang on until 8:00.

Shameir Frasier, Injured in Sugar Refinery Explosion

Yesterday, a woman who is a friend of Shameir's family called to ask if I could find Shameir's graduation photo from the 2007 yearbook. She said he was in a coma in the burn unit in Augusta after the Sugar Refinery Explosion, and it "didn't look good." I was shocked.
Shameir had been in my 12th grade Comp/Lit class last year. In fact, I used him as one of my three case studies for my teacher certification portfolio.
I left instructions for the substitute (yes, I took a sick day today) to have the yearbook students make cards and write letters of encouragement to Shameir. The woman is going to pick them up on Friday and drive them to Augusta along with some presents she has for him. Even if Shameir isn't aware of anything, his parents and family might appreciate my students' words of concern.

Below, in part, is the case study profile I wrote about him last year:

Shameir, dressed in semi-gangster-style, all black, loose pants and a dark hoodie, was smart, one of the small percentage of Groves students who had already passed all four of the Georgia High School Graduation tests. Not a mean bone in his body, he was always pleasant and cooperative, but so tired.

He told me on the first day that he had already taken 12th Grade Comp/Lit and had passed the main component of the course, the Senior Project, but had failed on the technicality that he had accrued too many absences. Thus, the main goal for him in 12th Grade Comp/Lit was to complete the British literature component and provide evidence that he had done the Senior Project for the previous teacher.

Naturally, he was bored sitting through the same course again. In addition, the rumors were rife among the teachers that he smoked dope a lot. Who could tell whether the red-rimmed eyes were from this habit, or the fact that he badly needed glasses? It was clear that he could not see the whiteboard very well, and when awake in class, he squinted heavily from across the room.

Because six SPED students were also in the class, the SPED teacher joined us each day, and worked with me to help motivate Shameir. Since he had taken the course before, had been in high school just a little bit too long already, he had trouble mustering up the motivation to complete tasks.


His grades were abysmal the first half of the semester, due to lack of effort. He did the work sporadically. The SPED teacher and I often commented to each other, in private, what a waste it was for him to fail the course a second time. It would have been easy for him to grit his teeth and do the work. We talked about what a waste it was for him to get this far in high school, and then blow it off. What would his life be like without a high school diploma? He was smart. Sometimes, during class discussions, he lifted his head off the desk, and offered a bright answer which clearly reflected insight into the question.

At mid-semester, I phoned his mother to tell her he was in jeopardy of failing. She screamed into the phone that she was at her wit’s end with that boy, didn’t know what to do with him, couldn’t understand what his problem was, said they were a good family that had raised him right, so she just couldn’t fathom what had gone awry with him. He wouldn’t tell her anything, she sighed; all she knew was that he was probably hanging around with the wrong crowd, had some job at the railroad and was tempted to drop out of school, minus his high school diploma, to pursue a career there.

The end of the semester neared. Then, the improbable happened. One morning, he announced that he was tired (nothing new) because he had stayed in the hospital all night. “Why?” I asked. “Because my baby was born,” he smiled with an ear-to-ear grin.

The SPED teacher and I congratulated him and pumped him for more details about his newborn son. Then we honed in, going for the emotional jugular.

"Shameir," we both said, practically in unison, “NOW YOU HAVE THE BEST REASON IN THE WORLD TO FINISH HIGH SCHOOL ---FOR HIM!!” We talked on and on about the importance of going to college, getting a good job, earning a decent living, setting an example, being a role model.
By the next day, he was a changed person, more energetic than I had ever seen him. First, he located his Senior Project paper from the previous year, and discovered he had not really finished the research paper. He had only received a grade for the presentation part of the project. There was still work to be done. But now he was interested in doing it. He stayed awake in class, did the activities, and even asked if he had missed any work that he could make up. The biggest shock occurred when he came to school on a Monday wearing glasses. He looked like an intellectual, not a gangster. The students were whispering, “Look at Shameir. He looks so smart with those glasses.”

The birth of his baby changed everything.

----------------

The Today Show, which I watched feverishly from the bed, featured a trip to Sugar Bush Mountain in Vermont. Matt, Meredith, Al and Ann were standing outside in the snow,, in the 21 degree weather. The very sight of the snow sent ripples of ice-cold shivers through me. Yesterday during class, I began to lose my voice and felt rushes of dizziness, so decided that I needed a sick day today. I'd been feeling sick since Monday, but had gone in anyway. The school system has a new high-tech method for doing this, called Smart Express. You just go on-line, sign on with your user name and pass word and "create an absence" for any time in the future. Once an absence is created, the system searches for a sub using an automated phone call. I hope they found one for my classes, but I'm really too sick to care! The subs are in short supply these days. Yesterday at my school, there were about 20 or 25 teachers listed as absent. I tell you, the stress and the workload is taking its toll. The students are burning out too, which is helping to burn the teachers out. The state mandates a certain curriculum for every course, and it's the teacher's job to deliver it, like it or not. One of my students was being a pain in the a** yesterday, complaining quite vocally that "This is stupid!" and "Why do you give us so much work," etc., saying that in Mr. Thing's class, they don't do any work, but just have a discussion for the whole 90 minutes. (Yeah, I'll bet.) I challenged him to a bet and asked how long he thought we could keep up a free-floating discussion about MacBeth before someone started talking about the latest food fight or someone's pregnancy. We lasted all of five minutes. So you see, I feel (I know) it's better to have them read the acts of MacBeth and do guiding questions, to analyze the components of MacBeth's character, etc.

I needed this. It's comforting to sit in my own Lazy-Boy with my own quilt, sneezing and shivering in my own home. It's been a long time since I've felt this much under the weather, but I like being at home.

GOTCHA!

Feb. 19: I've always feared that an evaluator would appear in one of my journalism/yearbook classes. And it happened today.

I've explained in earlier blogs why the journalism classes are a disaster. They're electives, so the students don't care squat about their grades, and therefore don't feel particularly compelled to do the work. As one colleague said today, "If we can't get the students in credit courses to do the work, what makes anyone think we can get the students in electives to do anything?"

In addition, I've got two oversized classes, about 40 students too many for accomplishing the goal of creating a yearbook. From the beginning, I've tried to fill the classes with journalistic assignments. The students have interviewed teachers and other students, taken photos around the building, made dozens of posters, designed mock yearbook pages on paper, written columns, letters, how-to papers, personality profiles, and more. However, we're now in our sixth month of the class, which has met for 90 minutes every other day, the little bit of steam they had in the beginning is clearly spent, and I just don't know what else to teach them! I could hand out 5 assignments per class, to fill up the time, but they wouldn't do them.

Gotcha! She walked into the classroom at 2:10, tablet in hand. I was at my desk, which is considered the ultimate taboo. "No teaching from behind the desk!" is the theme song of the school. (In regular classes, I stand for five hours straight, from 7:30 till 12:30 without getting off my feet.) The page designers were making the yearbook pages at the two computers, which is what they were supposed to be doing. The rest of the students were sitting in their chairs (well, thank God for that, anyway!) doing mostly nothing, half-heartedly diddling with the writing assignment I'd given them. I'd found some articles on school systems that are paying cash to students as incentive to study and make good grades, especially on tests. I asked them to do a T-chart listing the pro's and con's mentioned in the article and then write a 250-word letter to the Governor stating whether our school system should initiate such a program. The evaluator took notes for 20 minutes: I'm expecting something like this: "Students not engaged." "Instructor at the desk." "One student with head down."

I was venting to a colleague after the class ended. She said that a teacher's behavior has to be off the wall before she or he will not be renewed. She recalled a colleague at one of the middle schools who had a little alcoholic problem, and came to school drunk. When the administration caught on, they escorted her out of the school one day. However, five weeks later, she was hired by a different school. Then there is the occasional but very rare sexual harrassment firing. During my first year as a high school teacher, I asked a veteran teacher whether I should be worried that my contract would be renewed. She looked at me as though I was insane and said, "Honey---we can't even get rid of the bad ones."

When I told L. on the phone this afternoon, he suggested I use this as an opportunity to call the administration's attention to what a bad situation the class is by writing (nicely of course) the specific problems with the course. I've already expressed them to my department chair, in writing, but nothing has happened. I called Human Resources today to see when the Transfer Applications are being accepted, and she said either on the 21st, or the 25th.

L. has been sickish all week, with a combination stomach ailments and the flu.
Yesterday, I started coughing; coughed all day. My sister told me to take some zinc, which could ward off colds or flu before they took hold, so I ran to the store and bought some. When I went to bed last night, I was suddenly overcome by chills. My teeth chattered and my body shook. I covered up with two quilts and shivered and trembled. I felt like an ice cube. Took another Advil, and finally fell into a feverish sleep. L. said I should call in sick, but surprisingly, by 5:30, I felt better. So I went in. It's not that I think of myself as inexpendable, but this year, they're having a dickens of a time finding enough subs for all the teachers who are dropping like flies from the workload and the stress. I told you earlier about what happened to Ms. S., who called in sick, and whose sub was late. The students trashed her room, even cutting the wires to her computer, among other things.

American Idol is on tonight, as P. keeps reminding me every 10 minutes. He's obsessed with the show. When it's not on, he sits at the computer replaying the auditions or clips from the show. On Saturday, I bought tickets for all three of us to see Elton John in concert at the Civic Center next month. Then P. suddenly remembered that the concert is on a Wednesday night, so he can't go because he would miss American Idol. I'm trying to figure out how we we can record Idol. I haven't figured out yet how to set up the big screen for taping.

My nose is dripping and I'm cold again. I need to find a quilt and wrap up while I grade senior research papers.

Grandma's present

Feb. 18: If you get me away from the school long enough, I begin to dream differently. The dreams about lesson plans, handouts, difficult students and multiple observers are soon replaced with dreams about winning the lottery, traveling, hanging out with friends, and other happy ideas. A few weeks ago,(I'm wondering if this was on the long MLK weekend), I dreamed someone handed me a basket full of sealed envelopes. I opened the first, and it contained a check for over $2,000. It was health insurance refund. Each envelope in the basket contained a check from a different sources, made out to us, for amounts ranging from pocket change to huge pay-offs. And you wonder why I look forward to summertime, when my dreams break out like butterflies from a cocoon of school-related anxieties.

Last night I dreamed that a big gift box arrived from my grandmother. Inside, I found three or four beautiful leather purses, and other assorted gifts. I was so pleased, I wanted to call her right away to thank her. I could see the black rotary phone right in front of me, but suddenly couldn't remember her phone number. And then, as I began to wake up, I remembered with a wave of sorrow that she has been gone for over thirty years. I can still see her now sitting in the corner of the velvety couch watching her afternoon soap operas, plump, happy, smelling of lilac soap. She always dressed up in flowered dresses, with heels and earrings. In the early 1900's, she was one of the few women of her day who went to college to earn a teaching degree. She was also bold, for her time. Her husband was drafted into World War I and was stationed at an Army Training Base somewhere in the states, I forgot where. Missing him immensely, she and a friend took the train to this camp. She walked right in and insisted to the man in charge that she see her husband. When I read this aloud to L. from the unpublished book Grandma wrote, he laughed and said it took a lot of guts for a woman of that era to go the head Army honcho and demand to see her husband.

Grandma was also the first woman to undergo a C-section at the local hospital in Plattsburgh. Although the procedure was probably spreading across the country by this time, none had been performed at C.V. Hospital. She also describes this in her book, the hours and days of pain, the ether, the weeks of recovery after Uncle J's birth. When she got pregnant with my father three years later, the doctor advised her not to go through with another birth and offered to arrange for an abortion, but she wouldn't hear of it. Her second C-section was in 1923, and my father was born.
When Uncle J. was eight and my father was five, the school burned down one day. I remember my father telling that story many times. He and Uncle J. were taking their Saturday music lessons at the school, in different rooms, when the teacher asked my father to go to the classroom door to see what the noise was in the hallway. He did, and saw the hallway engulfed with flames. My dad remembers the teacher lowering all the children, one at a time, out the window, saying, "Okay, are you ready? I'm going to let go now." Uncle J., in another classroom, was also lowered out of the second story window, along with the other children, but landed the wrong way and fractured his skull. My father remembers finding him unconscious on the school lawn and running home to Grandma's house, which was probably no more than 100 yards from the school, bursting in the door, and yelling, "Mother! The school's on fire and J.'s lying on the ground and I can't wake him up!" He was only five years old, after all. Grandma wrote about this event in her book. As a mother myself, I can't even imagine what this was like for her. Uncle J. was taken to the hospital and was in a coma, followed by recovery, for weeks. How did she bear it? Recently, my sister told me she had found some legal paperwork in a box of her sentimental junk. This was the lawsuit between my grandparents and the state of New York, which they filed after the fire to help with medical expenses.

Later, when my father and Uncle J. were young adults, how in the world did she bear it when the two of them were drafted into World War II, my father sent to Italy, and J. sent to the Eastern front? Of course, many mothers had to endure this same heartbreak and uncertainty. At least Uncle J. and Dad both returned from the war, uninjured. In fact, the G.I. bill funded my dad's medical school.

As a child, I remember how warm and welcoming Grandma's big Victorian house was, with the creaky wood floors, the "parlor," the Oriental rugs, the smells of cooking. She always had books around. I thought I was the only person in the universe who had read Baby Ray as a child, but last summer when I read Runs with the Horseman,I discovered that the boy in the story, which is set in the 1930's, also read Baby Ray. As an adolescent, I found L.M. Montgomery's little known book The Blue Castle in her house. To this day, I love that story, about a frowsy old maid who changes her life when she discovers she has about one year to live---a common theme, of course, but so deliciously approached in this book.

Grandma and I were very close and had long talks about everything. She was very deep, so I learned a lot from her. I learned about the setting of her childhood in the late 1800's, how her twin brother had died at the age of 18 months, after one night of illness, and another brother died the same night, or ailments that are now considered minor. She remembered meeting President McKinley at the age of three when he came through town on a campaign stop. She told me of the strict ways the schoolhouses were run. She helped instill in me a curiosity about things beyond my own little world.

She loved to sit on the front porch and knit. That was always the first sight as the family car approached her house: Grandma sitting on one of the white wicker chairs on the porch, rocking and knitting, waiting for us to arrive. Her husband died in the early '50's, but she lived for another twenty-five years as a widow. I always got the impression that she and my grandfather had had a happy marriage. After his death, though, she had lots of women friends and acquaintances around town to keep her company, and there was also "S" the young economically disadvantaged girl that Grandma had taken in when S. was 17, who lived with her for twenty-some years. She belonged to lots of local clubs and was always going out for lunches or cards. I never thought of her as lonely.

A teacher, a mother, a writer...her real gift to me was as a role model.

I wish I had all the volumes of her unpublished book. I once had all five, but somehow, after dad's death, my sister and brother and I split them up, then my brother's copies ended up with my sister. I have one volume. My sister says she doesn't know where her copies are, which means they are stuffed into one of the mountains of boxes of family momentoes stacked in her garage in Denver. But fortunately, I still carry the stories in my mind.

Saturday

Feb. 16: Slept late today, as usual. Because it was such an inviting day, sunny and in the sixties, I took a long walk the old-fashioned way, with the dog, rather than on the treadmill. We walked to the docks and back. The water was at medium tide, and the gulls and egrits were sunning themselves on the dock boardwalk. Over the years, I've seen many different types of animals on the woodsy path to the docks, including deer, raccoon, rabbits, possums, storks, eagles, and some creature that looked almost like an aardvark from a distance (no way!) but fortunately, no alligators. Not long ago, a woman on Wilmington Island was killed by an alligator that crept up out of the water into the water-front yard. I remembered as I walked along when P. and I collected hermit crabs from the dock area to use for a middle school science project. That must have been at least a decade ago.

Just an ordinary Saturday, we picked up, threw in laundry, L. studied for his P.E. test in April, and I read some senior research papers. P. asked me to go with him---in his car, this time---while he took a load of our garbage to the landfill, so I rode along, and helped him heave a useless shredder and microwave into the metal bins, along with other odds and ends. Usually when we go out together, I insist that I drive and we take my car, because I fully admit it, I'm a nervous rider with P. since he's only had a license for a couple of years and I remember the days of white-knuckling it around town when he only had a permit. But today I told myself to get over it, and we set out for a pleasant trip. I found myself feeling very relaxed as we drove along. P has developed into a competent driver.

Last night, we watched one of the best movies I've seen in awhile: Journey of the Fall. My eyes were heavy and I was on the verge of falling asleep, but as this movie unfolded, I woke up fully. The story began in the seventies, after the U.S. pulled out of Viet Nam. The movie was in Vietnamese with subtitles, which I always like because the original language makes any story more genuine. The two plot strands involve a wife and son escaping Viet Nam on a boat, while the husband, who has been taken prisoner by the Communists, escapes from the prison into the jungle. There was no Hollywood-ization in this one. It was well-crafted and thought-provoking. In fact, it made me recall my early teaching days in Baton Rouge.

When I was at LSU in the early '80's, I had many Vietnamese students who had been boat people. The movie stirred my memory of Baton Rouge. When I think of Baton Rouge, I think of those sweet-olive and honeysuckle scents in the air; the pink, red,and white crepe myrtles and camillas coloring every yard; the musty smell of the English Department in Allen Hall, and the earnest international students I taught. What a contrast between them and the students I have now. The ESOL students, especially the ones who had escaped Viet Nam, fell all over themselves trying to learn the language, and worked harder than I've ever seen students work since. One summer in Baton Rouge, I managed to land a three-week job teaching an enrichment course to teenage American students---in those days, remember, there was no summer pay, you fended for yourself in the summertime!---and I invited a Vietnamese student from my previous semester class to come as a guest speaker for my enrichment class. She spoke English well enough. I remember how she stood at the front of the class and said, scoldingly, "You American students are so lazy. You take it all for granted. Well, you wouldn't if you'd lived in my country! One night, a group of soldiers came to the house and took my father away. I never saw him again. We never knew where they took him or what happened to him. Then I escaped on a boat and got over here. . . "
The American students, being self-absorbed teenagers, did not seem overly impressed, but I was! Before moving to Baton Rouge, I was very limited in my exposure to people from other countries, cultures, and ethnic groups. But at LSU, my personal education was enhanced a thousand-fold when I worked with students from every country around the globe. In teaching them, in hearing their stories, and observing their customs, I gained far more than I gave.
The Vietnamese couple who runs the nail place I've been frequenting for the past decade are smart and interesting people. I enjoy talking to them when I'm getting the old acrylics (in the South, it's required that you have "done" nails, and I finally surrendered to it). Several nail sets ago, the husband was telling me about being raised in an orphanage in Chicago, after arriving in the states as a boat person. He didn't say where the rest of his family was. It's hard not to notice the burn scar on his arm, and one wonders...Last summer, he returned to Chicago for a reunion with the boys he'd grown up with in the orphanage. The place closed in the early '90's I think he said, but the boys, now men, kept track of one another. His eyes misted as he told me about the reunion, how they sat up all night talking. And all of them had turned out very well because the strict but caring teachers at the orphange had taught them to have strong work ethics and good characters. The wife told me last time that all her siblings came to the U.S. as boat people. Their mother sent the oldest two siblings first, and when they arrived, they sent for the next two, and so on. By the time the wife, who was the youngest, and her mother came, they were able to fly over. Can you imagine sending your oldest two out onto the ocean in a rickety fishing boat, into the unknown? The sad thing is, it was better to have them take their chances out on the ocean than to worry that the North Vietnamese would arbitrarily kill or imprison them. The daily worries that eat at most Americans are miniscule compared to the magnitude of the problems people in many other countries face at this very moment.

Class of 1064, Duncan High

Feb. 15: This year, the teachers have been pushed to use Marzano's non-linguistic approach. We had a special session on it yesterday during planning. I've always used those techniques, for example, having the students translate a Spencerian sonnet into modern English and copy it inside folded construction paper to make a schmaltzy Hallmark greeting card. I've had students do board games, decks of cards, posters, even a Beowulf yearbook page, on which the pictures of Beowulf, Hrothgar and Grendel appear, and the students must fill in their Clubs and Organizations ("The Future Slaughterers of Denmark"), nicknames, etc. Although this was not a pure cut and paste and color activity, it required some nontraditional creativity. Last night, I was inspired after the session and made a mock Yearbook spread for MacBeth, with a senior ad page on one side and a list of high school history for the students to fill in on the opposite. (The real MacBeth, whom Shakespeare used as a model for his play, lived in Scotland in the 11th century, which is why he is from the "Class of 1064.") They will staple the pages inside a spread-open folder and decorate the cover as a high school yearbook. When the presenter sent a survey today asking for responses to this Marzano technique, I included in my comments that it gets expensive for teachers to provide posters, colored pencils, glue sticks, construction paper, scissors and crafty items for their 180 students, not to mention the black and white and color printer cartridges needed to keep printing things such as a MacBeth yearbook page, and would the school consider helping out with the expenses of ongoing non-linguistic techniques?

I'm overjoyed at the prospect of a long weekend. Today was a half day at school for the students. On half days, they send the teachers out in the afternoon for further training in the teaching of writing, which I desperately need (ha), but I enjoy the companionship with adults, which is minimal during a typical school day. They say loneliness is the biggest complaint given by teachers who work in the secondary schools, because they never see other adults. Planning periods are never common, and during them, teachers are too busy to socialize or even compare syllabi.
But anyway, I left school at 11:30 to go to the workshop, had lunch at Carey Hilliards with two colleagues on the way, and then attended the workshop. They usually let you out early. When I pulled in the driveway, it was only 3:30! I'm never home at 3:30, except on Professional Learning Days.

Will it be pizza or Chinese tonight?

Thursday already

Left: My adorable cat

Feb 14: Last Sunday, talked with D. and S. about their takes on the burning of the log cabin in Maine. Also talked with my sister, who wanted to know how to handle an annoying co-worker who talks manically throughout the work day about disturbing or ghoulish stories she's found on the internet. As a result of all this internet time, she also isn't carrying her weight on the job. My sister has purchased headphones and an IPOD to block out the sound of her voice, but they work in a very small office and must sit in close proximity. It's a temporary job, though, so we decided that since she had only five days remaining on that job, she should suck it up, and be grateful that she doesn't have to work with this co-worker for thirty years or something.

Today, Thursday, no Valentine's Day hysteria at school. The principal announced well in advance that no flowers, balloons, candy or other tokens of love would be allowed at school. All the local florists were called and warned not to deliver flowers. However, my seniors were as hyper as children at a daycare because they were being measured for graduation caps and gowns at lunchtime. Can't blame theme, four months from today is graduation! They are on the brink of freedom and choices. No more signed passes to be allowed to go to the restroom. No more Tardy forms and discipline records---if they're late, they're late. No more write-ups for dress code violations.

I'm terrible at enforcing the school dress code. Much of the time, I truly don't notice a wrong top or the wrong pants, because I'm so focused on the curriculum, the handouts, and the material I'm about to give, should another of many observers drop by. Other teachers have razor-sharp eagle eyes for dress code infractions. They can spot an uncollared shirt half a mile away. Some teachers do dress code inspections at the beginning of every class. Periodically, I review the list of rules, but I just haven't developed the talent for sweeping the room with my eyes and spotting Bubba's black cargo pants, especially when he's sitting down in a crowded classroom. Today, one of the top students at the school, who already holds a job at Gulfstream, asked me during first block to write her up for a dress code violation, so that the next teacher, who would ask for evidence of write-up, wouldn't come screaming at ME. The truth is, I hadn't noticed the girl's infraction because she was so tastefully dressed, but omigod, she had on a RED shell under her jacket. The teacher in her next class is a stickler for dress code and would have noticed right away. And it would have been my fault for failing to support the dress code rules.

From what I can gather, the rules are applied inconsistently, and not just because other teachers might be as oblivious as I am. According to student rumor, certain hyper-vigilant, high-level administrators have walked right by out-of-dress-code students and not paid them any mind, and other times, they'll practically jump them and do immediate paperwork for ISS. One of my seniors stopped by today to pick up her work for the next three days because she will be spending that time in In-school-suspension for wearing cargo pants. All through the hallways, the sounds of adults yelling, "Tuck in that shirt!" or "Pull up those pants, boy!" can be heard. Yet the guys with the pants around their knees give a half-hearted tug upward, walk on, and then let them drop, and no one does anything. It's February, and many guys are still getting the same admonitions. Is it working? The adults seem to feel that as long as they yell, "Hey, you! Take off that hood!", they've done their duty, whether the student pulls it off or not.

Yes, I can see why the seniors are counting down the days. Not only will the dress code no longer be an issue when they're on a college campus, they will be able to eat lunch when and where they want to without getting written up for leaving campus. They will be able to openly check their cell phone without having it taken away for 30 days and sequestered in the front office. They will be able go to the restroom when they need to, one of life's most important luxuries. They will be able to stand or walk in a hallway while classes are in session without being stopped and asked to show a pass. They will not be locked out of classrooms if they're a minute or two late.

The week flew by. On Monday, the state people were on campus for observations and interviews. We were forewarned, and I spent hours on Sunday getting together what I hoped were engaging activities, and to my surprise, no one came to my room. On Tuesday, a woman did slip in, forms in hand, and watched for 15 or 20 minutes. I felt the class was going well---at least I wasn't sitting at my desk shouting, "Be quiet, kids, and don't bother me, just finish your worksheets!" Not that I'd ever do that, but some teachers have been known to. I'd gone to some trouble finding poetry whose theme correlated with MacBeth, so we were discussing "Ex basketball player.' I was going down a list of questions about the poem, the last of which was "How is Flick Webb similar to Macbeth?" and from there, segued into a discussion of plot and types of growing conflict in MacBeth. I even had my Essential Question written on the board, along with the standards. I hope the observer noticed that.

Sometime this week, I dreamed that I was observed, this time by a man---I hadn't thought about it before that my 14 or so observations this year have all been done by women. Afterwards, this man told me that I wasn't a very good teacher because my night vision wasn't good. I asked what difference my night vision made? I teach in the day time! Then he said something to the effect that I just wasn't good, and he wouldn't give a reason. As a teacher of literature, it occurred to me later to see the potential symbolism of "light" and the "dark" in this dream.

L. brought me a card, roses and chocolate-covered strawberries when he came home from work. I had a card and a cake for him. That's all I had time to pick up, what with the long hours. I rarely leave the school before 4:00. This afternoon, I had to stop at FedEx to drop off several stacks of yearbook proofs to mail back to Dallas, and with the traffic coming down Abercorn, I didn't get home until 5:45. L. also works long hours, and got in at about 6:30.

I'm beyond myself with excitement that Monday is a day off.

Senior Superlatives Photo Day

Oh, how the seniors love the superlatives contest. The winners have a page in the yearbook dedicated to them. In November, we decided on the categories: Most Talented, Cutest Couple, Biggest Party Animal, etc. Why they would consider "Worst Driver" an honor to be won is beyond me, or Most Likely to Be Late for Graduation, but these were among the superlative categories. For the seniors, there is no such concept as "twenty years from now," but in the future, if one of the winners runs for President, a news reporter will inevitably ask, "So you were voted the Worst Driver in high school! Have you improved since then, har har?"

The superlative categories were chosen and the ballots sent to senior homerooms. During Christmas break, I counted all the votes(300 students X 23 categories, whew!). In January, the male and female winners, 1st runners up and 2nd runners up, were announced, and finally, after school day today, the winners gathered to have their photos done.



The student editor-in-chief of the yearbook decided the 50 or so winners (some had won in more than one category) should meet in my classroom for refreshments, and then step outside for photos. They were giddy with excitement. I love that youthful energy. Their vitality is always contagious, and I felt elevated by their high spirits. I've complained a lot about the job, but it's not the students I have a problem with.



I'm so excited. It's Friday night. I get to relax and pass out at 8 o'clock. There's another English teacher at the school who walks out every day at 2:30 carrying no satchels of papers whatoever. I asked her how she does it, and she said she refuses to bring work home. But how does she find any time to grade or sort papers while at school? And if she isn't making the students write or do some kind of activity which she takes up, what do they do for 90 long minutes? I'm jealous and puzzled. I want to know what her technique is and learn how to do it myself!

The lemons, the size of grapefruits, are beginning to drop onto the lawn. We use them for flavoring, for freshening the disposal, for looking pretty in a fruit hanging basket. I dreamed I looked up and saw a grapefruit hanging from one of the top branches and then it fell to the ground, and became a watermelon. Could be that fruit and fruitfulness is on my mind because L. and I planted a little baby orange tree a few months ago, and I've also recently tried planting a grapefruit seed and a pear seed, just to see what happens.

In Memoriam, the Log cabin in Maine

Feb.6. In an email yesterday, D. asked if, by the way, I knew that his dad's log cabin had burned down? No!, I wrote back in shock, hadn't heard a word about it. What happened? It was in the middle of January, D. wrote in the next email, and luckily no one was home at the time. The fire marshall couldn't determine a cause since nothing remained but a pile of ashes, but the woodstove was a big suspect. (I remembered how often I would get up in the middle of the night, back in the day, to tap the woodpipe to loosen any creosote build-up. I was always worried about that. Each tap would send chunks of creosote down the pipe.)I assume, over the years, K. and L. had upgraded their woodstove and pipes, along with the other modernizations, such as indoor plumbing.

After D. told me this news, I felt a surge of sentiment about that log cabin, even though I had left it decades ago. Because I had been there for its conception and construction back in those days of idealism, had watched it grow from a stack of logs cut from our own woods to a real dwelling, I have not stopped feeling an allegiance to it although I didn't realize it until yesterday. I associate it with my sons' childhoods. They had been little boys there, had opened Christmas presents, had tried to kill each other, had eaten the wild birthday cakes with multi-colored dyed frosting that I used to make for their parties. In addition, it was a one-of-a-kind, custom built house. No one will or ever could build one just like it again.

D. told me K. and L. were planning to re-build with the insurance money. The new one will be just the way they want it, unlike the way we had to build the log cabin on the cheap, and in a hurry, before winter of '76 set in and froze us all. I'm sure they're saddened by the loss, but excited at the new possibilities.

------

On another note, I had another unexpected observation today. I was well-prepared, even though ANOTHER observation was the last thing I expected, and the students were all awake, engaged, and when they saw the observer, went out of their way to put on a good show, bless their hearts. Of courSe, I'm sure she'll find something wrong. Let me guess, I didn't have an "Essential Question" written on the board; that would be something like "Do murderers like MacBeth always receive retribution for their actions?" Shoot, while writing all the crap on the board this morning, from the list of state standards, to the list of activities, while trying to set up my laptop and LCD (not provided by the school; my own personal equipment) I had simply not written an Essential Question. Not that I have room on my board. We've been warned that a state-wide group is coming next Monday and will observe all teachers, and will interview teachers and students. We MUST have "Essential Questions" written on the board, along with the state standards, and students should be able to repeat for an interviewer which standard their teacher was trying to teach them. Can't you just see a student saying, "She was teaching me the standard that `students will be able to analyze British literature in its various genres and point out different literary elements as a way of interpeting the meaning.'" Yeah, right.

P. is an American Idol fanatic and gets distressed if I miss a second of it, so I must stop for now and get settled on the couch with my stack of papers and some dinner.

Today is the first day of my Year of the Rat, on the Chinese calendar. The last Year of the Rat brought MMW into S's and my life!

Let me borrow that lesson plan!

Feb. 1: Yesterday, as I walked by Ms. S's classroom, I heard the sound of laughter and whoops from behind the closed door. The window on the classroom door is always blocked with a little bulletin board, so I couldn't see what they were doing that was such fun. But I thought to myself, "Whatever her lesson plan is, I'd like to try it! I wish my students could have that much fun in class."

Yeah, they were having a ball all right. Ms. S. was absent that day. A substitute had been called but had not arrived. No one knew the students were alone in the locked classroom. Predictably, a fight broke out. For half an hour, Ms. S. told me later, two students went at it around her room, while the rest of the class cheered them on. The sub finally arrived, but the students had already damaged the room, and stolen some of Ms. S's things. Never mind. I'll pass on that lesson plan.


Knock-down-drags-outs are a regular event at my school. The one-on-one's are more common, but occasionally a lot of students will join in. At the beginning of the school year, a massive fight broke out in the cafeteria during breakfast when one guy dissed another guy's cousin. The dissed guy pulled out a box cutter and stabbed the other guy, just grazing him, but, then a dozen more students jumped in and started throwing chairs, and before you knew it, a small riot was underway. The subsequent lockdown lasted for several hours.

Today we had a parent conference afternoon from 12:30 to 4:30. One of the parents, who's from around here, was reminiscing about his day, when paddling students was routine. That straightened them out! You didn't see the little punks acting like fools then. But look at 'em now when all teachers can do is go through the 5-step discipline process. Bring back the paddle!

I'm curious whether public schools across the country and at all ends of the socioeconomic scale are experiencing the same issues. A teacher from the North told me that our school is like a prep school compared to the one she came from in Connecticut. She said it was not uncommon for students to murder each other, or cuss out and threaten teachers. At least at my school, the well brought up Southern tough guys always say, "Yes, Ma'am!" when told to get to class, and then just quietly slip out the back door without incident.

It's February. The second semester grades are in. I feel as though I've turned a corner. Though still far away, the end of the school year is in sight. The sky is lighter now when I drive to work. The sunrise this morning was pink and black marble spread across sky. February is also transfer season. The teachers are invited by Human Resources to apply for transfer to other schools in the District. The principals of all the schools look through the pool of possibilities and invite teachers they are interested in for interviews--or not. Sort of like a sorority rush and bidding. What the hey, nothing to lose by trying.