Dear Secret Blogiary,
Sometimes it scares me how little my students know. I have to remind myself that they are only 13-14 years old and they haven’t been exposed to much in the way of culture.
“Mrs. W.?” Student J asked during the wind down of the lesson. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Does it have to do with the lesson?” I ask J trying to keep the exasperation out of my tone. J is notorious for asking questions that while interesting have nothing to do with the lesson or my content area.
“Kind-of,” he replies while shaking his head.
“Okay, Ladies and Gentlemen, go ahead and start reading the poem.” I sit down next to J. “Go ahead,” I say.
“Did you go to college for this?”
“This being…?”
“Language Arts…poetry…you know, this.” He gestures with his hands around the room.
“Yes,” I tell him. “My major was English. I love words.”
“Oh.” He says, then “But what about teaching? When you were in college is this what you wanted to do?”
“Oh. No!” I exclaim. “I didn’t even think about teaching until after college.”
“What did you want to be then?” J asks leaning forward on his desk, the poem he is supposed to be reading forgotten.
“Archeologist,” I say. “Like Indiana Jones.”
J stares at me for a few seconds. “Oh! You mean like the movie?”
I nod, smile and point at his book. He looks back at the poem for a minute but then as I am about stand up to move on to another group of students he looks back at me.
“Why didn’t you become an archeologist?” he asks quietly.
“No more Nazis.” I tell him.
“Oh,” J says, “What are those?”
Countdowns
Showing posts with label what happens in the classroom. Show all posts
Showing posts with label what happens in the classroom. Show all posts
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
I might be Mean, but you're still an Ass
Dear Secret Blogiary,
Without fail, every year I am accused of being a racist.
Without exception the student that accuses me of this is always a black boy who has been diagnosed as OHI: a nebulous label that essentially means the child has been diagnosed with an unknown behavioral disorder that is not a learning disability.
These are the students who are not disciplined according to the Code of Conduct because they “can’t be held accountable for their actions.” These are the students whose parents offer no support at school and tell us they’re our problem between 9:30 and 4pm.
Personally, these are the kids that desperately need to be held accountable for their actions because we are doing them a grave disservice. We allow them to continue without consequence and then shake our heads sadly when those same kids become a statistic.
The group of kids I have this year have been a problematic group since they were in sixth grade. The 6th grade teachers warned the 7th grade teachers last year and then in turn the 7th grade teachers warned us. Disrespectful, Disruptive, Disinterested, the three D’s heard over and over for the class of 2014. The 8th grade teachers came down hard the first few weeks but nothing seems to faze them as a whole. I typically end up spending most of the class dealing with behavior problems.
Clarence has been a problem since day one. Every other word from his is a curse. He thinks nothing of making sexual comments to both girls and boys in the class. He exhibits violent tendencies, immediately jumping to his feet the moment he perceives a “challenge.” He is a bully, he makes threatening gestures and comments. He refuses to do any work and cares not at all about his grade.
I have used all my interventions: changing seats, time outs, parent contact, referrals. Nothing works. Maybe if he was the only problem OHI student in the class (he is one of 12). Maybe if I was the only teacher having an issue with him, I could just suck it up and deal with it, but every teacher on my team has trouble with him. Maybe if I had administrative support and Clarence received consequences instead of “conferencing” he might settle down.
Today, I had enough. I sent him and a few others to the office and wrote more referrals. When they strode back into class right before lunch, Clarence danced in, his pants sagging down to his calves and with every step he stopped and thrust his hips forward sexually. I told him to stop and sit down and he just laughed and said he was “dancing.”
I just gritted my teeth and glanced at the clock. Only a few minutes until lunch, I thought, and I wrapped up class as best that I could. A few minutes later we were out the door, down the hall, standing in line waiting to go into the cafeteria.
I happened to be standing near Clarence.
“Mrs. W. I think you racist.”
“Really?” I reply, indifferent. “Why do you say that?”
“You don’t like me ‘cause I’m black.”
“No, Clarence, I dislike everyone equally.” I say. It is my standard response to the kids that try to pull a race card with me. I have no tolerance for those types of games.
“Really? ‘Cause you yell at me all the time. You mean, too, you always pickin’ on me.”
“Because you are disruptive. And I’m not “picking” on you, I am attempting to redirect your behavior.” Why I try to reason or explain myself is perplexing.
I moved forward in along the line getting my “wanderers” back into line. While I was doing this, another student, David, a tall gangly black boy came rushing up to me.
“Mrs. W.!” He cried out giving me a big hug.
David is also labeled OHI but his “behavior problem” is a deep need for constant attention and if he doesn’t get it, he fidgets and calls out, so while disruptive, he does follow most of the class procedures and has not once been rude or disrespectful to me or any other student.
I give David a quick one armed pat and ask him how his day has been.
He smiles down at me (did I mention this kid is TALL? Taller I think than Mister W.) and says, “Been good so far, Ma’am. Lookin’ forward to lunch.”
“Me too,” I reply as he rejoins his class in line.
Immediately after David walks off Clarence steps forward his arms open.
My eyes narrow and I step back and say, “Get. Away. From. Me.” Each word is enunciated, pointed and hard.
Maybe I shouldn’t have said it like that. I was harsh and rude. But I had had enough of him.
“Oh,” Clarence spit out, “You’ll give David a hug.”
“Yup. I like him.”
Maybe I shouldn’t have said that either.
Clarence steps toward me again and I glare at him, turn and walk away.
I got to thinking about his comment though later on. There is no way I could have taught for as long as I have at my school if I was racist. I work in a minority school and the population is roughly 85 percent black.
As a teacher, I am supposed to be fair and unbiased toward the students. And regarding grades and discipline I am 100 percent fair and balanced (like Fox but with less snark). But I am also a human. And I’ve got feelings. So, yeah, I’ll readily admit I have kids that I adore – black, white or green! And I have kids that I dislike intensely; I try not to hate, but sometimes I do. And as much as I try not to let my feelings show, it is really hard to pretend I have anything but disgust and loathing for a certain few.
Does that make me a racist?
According to Dictionary.com racism is:
1. a belief or doctrine that inherent differences among the various human races determine cultural or individual achievement, usually involving the idea that one's own race is superior and has the right to rule others.
2. a policy, system of government, etc., based upon or fostering such a doctrine; discrimination.
3. hatred or intolerance of another race or other races.
So by definition, I am not. I just have intolerance for this one particular kid.
Without fail, every year I am accused of being a racist.
Without exception the student that accuses me of this is always a black boy who has been diagnosed as OHI: a nebulous label that essentially means the child has been diagnosed with an unknown behavioral disorder that is not a learning disability.
These are the students who are not disciplined according to the Code of Conduct because they “can’t be held accountable for their actions.” These are the students whose parents offer no support at school and tell us they’re our problem between 9:30 and 4pm.
Personally, these are the kids that desperately need to be held accountable for their actions because we are doing them a grave disservice. We allow them to continue without consequence and then shake our heads sadly when those same kids become a statistic.
The group of kids I have this year have been a problematic group since they were in sixth grade. The 6th grade teachers warned the 7th grade teachers last year and then in turn the 7th grade teachers warned us. Disrespectful, Disruptive, Disinterested, the three D’s heard over and over for the class of 2014. The 8th grade teachers came down hard the first few weeks but nothing seems to faze them as a whole. I typically end up spending most of the class dealing with behavior problems.
Clarence has been a problem since day one. Every other word from his is a curse. He thinks nothing of making sexual comments to both girls and boys in the class. He exhibits violent tendencies, immediately jumping to his feet the moment he perceives a “challenge.” He is a bully, he makes threatening gestures and comments. He refuses to do any work and cares not at all about his grade.
I have used all my interventions: changing seats, time outs, parent contact, referrals. Nothing works. Maybe if he was the only problem OHI student in the class (he is one of 12). Maybe if I was the only teacher having an issue with him, I could just suck it up and deal with it, but every teacher on my team has trouble with him. Maybe if I had administrative support and Clarence received consequences instead of “conferencing” he might settle down.
Today, I had enough. I sent him and a few others to the office and wrote more referrals. When they strode back into class right before lunch, Clarence danced in, his pants sagging down to his calves and with every step he stopped and thrust his hips forward sexually. I told him to stop and sit down and he just laughed and said he was “dancing.”
I just gritted my teeth and glanced at the clock. Only a few minutes until lunch, I thought, and I wrapped up class as best that I could. A few minutes later we were out the door, down the hall, standing in line waiting to go into the cafeteria.
I happened to be standing near Clarence.
“Mrs. W. I think you racist.”
“Really?” I reply, indifferent. “Why do you say that?”
“You don’t like me ‘cause I’m black.”
“No, Clarence, I dislike everyone equally.” I say. It is my standard response to the kids that try to pull a race card with me. I have no tolerance for those types of games.
“Really? ‘Cause you yell at me all the time. You mean, too, you always pickin’ on me.”
“Because you are disruptive. And I’m not “picking” on you, I am attempting to redirect your behavior.” Why I try to reason or explain myself is perplexing.
I moved forward in along the line getting my “wanderers” back into line. While I was doing this, another student, David, a tall gangly black boy came rushing up to me.
“Mrs. W.!” He cried out giving me a big hug.
David is also labeled OHI but his “behavior problem” is a deep need for constant attention and if he doesn’t get it, he fidgets and calls out, so while disruptive, he does follow most of the class procedures and has not once been rude or disrespectful to me or any other student.
I give David a quick one armed pat and ask him how his day has been.
He smiles down at me (did I mention this kid is TALL? Taller I think than Mister W.) and says, “Been good so far, Ma’am. Lookin’ forward to lunch.”
“Me too,” I reply as he rejoins his class in line.
Immediately after David walks off Clarence steps forward his arms open.
My eyes narrow and I step back and say, “Get. Away. From. Me.” Each word is enunciated, pointed and hard.
Maybe I shouldn’t have said it like that. I was harsh and rude. But I had had enough of him.
“Oh,” Clarence spit out, “You’ll give David a hug.”
“Yup. I like him.”
Maybe I shouldn’t have said that either.
Clarence steps toward me again and I glare at him, turn and walk away.
I got to thinking about his comment though later on. There is no way I could have taught for as long as I have at my school if I was racist. I work in a minority school and the population is roughly 85 percent black.
As a teacher, I am supposed to be fair and unbiased toward the students. And regarding grades and discipline I am 100 percent fair and balanced (like Fox but with less snark). But I am also a human. And I’ve got feelings. So, yeah, I’ll readily admit I have kids that I adore – black, white or green! And I have kids that I dislike intensely; I try not to hate, but sometimes I do. And as much as I try not to let my feelings show, it is really hard to pretend I have anything but disgust and loathing for a certain few.
Does that make me a racist?
According to Dictionary.com racism is:
1. a belief or doctrine that inherent differences among the various human races determine cultural or individual achievement, usually involving the idea that one's own race is superior and has the right to rule others.
2. a policy, system of government, etc., based upon or fostering such a doctrine; discrimination.
3. hatred or intolerance of another race or other races.
So by definition, I am not. I just have intolerance for this one particular kid.
Monday, October 4, 2010
Culture Shock
Dear Secret Blogiary,
One of my students today, while we read an essay about growing up with black and white TV, calls me to his table. I go looking to help with a question; instead, he leans over his book, his dreads falling into his face and he points to a grainy black and white photograph the kind you only see in a grandmother’s album.
“Look at this, Mrs. W.” He looks up at me. “What they doing?”
I cringe a little at the poor grammar, but as I have been instructed, I correct only through modeling proper speech. I look at the photograph: a family sitting, Norman Rockwell style, around a table eating dinner. I look at him and blink.
“What do you mean?” I ask frustrated that this was not a “real” question regarding the assignment and fear he is trying to avoid the work, “They’re eating dinner.”
“Yeah, but, they all sittin’ at a table together.”
“Are you serious?” Confused now I stare at him and he looks back at me and nods.
“Yes.” I say slowly nodding trying not to appear as though I am indulging a small child. “That’s what people do when they eat dinner. They sit at the table and talk about their day. Most of the time that is the only time people have together with all the busy schedules.”
“Huh.” He looks back at the picture. “You do that?”
“Eat as a family?”
He nods and his dreads bounce, once, twice.
“Every night. And I try to make a point of having a breakfast together every week too, usually on Sunday.”
He looks at his group, all young black boys, as if to say: “the things crazy white people do” and then back at me dumbfounded. “You watch TV while you eat?”
I shake my head.
“What you do then?”
“We talk. About our day, what happened at school and work. Things that we learned or funny things that people said at work.”
“How long do it take you to eat?”
“At least half an hour, sometimes longer. After dinner, about two or three times a week, we’ll play a card or board game.”
He falls silent for a moment absorbing what I say.
“Huh,” he says finally, shaking his head and flipping back to the story.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Mrs. W.” he says, “ain’t no one in my family ever do that. We grab the food from the kitchen and sit in the living room to watch TV or text while we eat. Most of the time, my ma just text on her phone while we eat.”
I am horrified.
How do I tell him that his parents are robbing him of a good childhood? Do his parents not realize that eating with your children is one of the best ways to stay in touch with them, keep them on track? How do I convey the best part of my day is joining my family at the table. So much can happen at the dinner table, it makes me sad to realize that some kids won’t ever have that experience.
And then just as soon as I think that, I realize I shouldn’t judge. It isn’t my place. I remember my "cultural diversity" training and realize that even though we are both Americans, we do not share the same culture. Still, I am distraught and even though I have taught in this school for six years, I am continually shocked by the foundational differences.
I have no response, so I smile at him, point to the book and tell him to get back to work. And as I reflect on the moment, I wonder if I had said all the things I was thinking, would it have made a difference?
One of my students today, while we read an essay about growing up with black and white TV, calls me to his table. I go looking to help with a question; instead, he leans over his book, his dreads falling into his face and he points to a grainy black and white photograph the kind you only see in a grandmother’s album.
“Look at this, Mrs. W.” He looks up at me. “What they doing?”
I cringe a little at the poor grammar, but as I have been instructed, I correct only through modeling proper speech. I look at the photograph: a family sitting, Norman Rockwell style, around a table eating dinner. I look at him and blink.
“What do you mean?” I ask frustrated that this was not a “real” question regarding the assignment and fear he is trying to avoid the work, “They’re eating dinner.”
“Yeah, but, they all sittin’ at a table together.”
“Are you serious?” Confused now I stare at him and he looks back at me and nods.
“Yes.” I say slowly nodding trying not to appear as though I am indulging a small child. “That’s what people do when they eat dinner. They sit at the table and talk about their day. Most of the time that is the only time people have together with all the busy schedules.”
“Huh.” He looks back at the picture. “You do that?”
“Eat as a family?”
He nods and his dreads bounce, once, twice.
“Every night. And I try to make a point of having a breakfast together every week too, usually on Sunday.”
He looks at his group, all young black boys, as if to say: “the things crazy white people do” and then back at me dumbfounded. “You watch TV while you eat?”
I shake my head.
“What you do then?”
“We talk. About our day, what happened at school and work. Things that we learned or funny things that people said at work.”
“How long do it take you to eat?”
“At least half an hour, sometimes longer. After dinner, about two or three times a week, we’ll play a card or board game.”
He falls silent for a moment absorbing what I say.
“Huh,” he says finally, shaking his head and flipping back to the story.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Mrs. W.” he says, “ain’t no one in my family ever do that. We grab the food from the kitchen and sit in the living room to watch TV or text while we eat. Most of the time, my ma just text on her phone while we eat.”
I am horrified.
How do I tell him that his parents are robbing him of a good childhood? Do his parents not realize that eating with your children is one of the best ways to stay in touch with them, keep them on track? How do I convey the best part of my day is joining my family at the table. So much can happen at the dinner table, it makes me sad to realize that some kids won’t ever have that experience.
And then just as soon as I think that, I realize I shouldn’t judge. It isn’t my place. I remember my "cultural diversity" training and realize that even though we are both Americans, we do not share the same culture. Still, I am distraught and even though I have taught in this school for six years, I am continually shocked by the foundational differences.
I have no response, so I smile at him, point to the book and tell him to get back to work. And as I reflect on the moment, I wonder if I had said all the things I was thinking, would it have made a difference?
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