Being in the Delta for over a year has given me a wider insight on how I see things, places, communities, and most definitely people.
We as teachers are not here to "save" anyone. We as teachers are not here to make a judgment call on a student's background or home life. We do not make assumptions on how much someone can achieve by how much their parents earn. We as teachers are here to give them the best tools possible. Whether they want to be electricians or politicians, or even yes, football players. I am here to tell them they can do anything they are willing to work hard enough for. They.can.do.ANYTHING. They have that choice.
I've seen colleagues with Ivy League degrees who storm into these poor Delta schools with words like "savior" and "disadvantaged" etched into their minds. I've seen people with brilliant minds but poor hearts. There is nothing that makes me angrier. As a former poor student, as a former bougie corporate worker. There is nothing that stirs my passion more than being unfairly judged. I wish we as an organization would clarify what our intents are here. Are we here to help or are we here to prove a point? For the sake of our students, I hope we find our true motives.
I don't think everyone is good. I'll give people the benefit of the doubt, sure. But I think it's a disservice to those who actually try, to say that everyone is good. I think that good people are hard to find, and when you do find them you should hold on to them with all of your might. You should love them, and appreciate them. You should wish with every ounce of moral fiber that they never get hurt or taken advantage of. You should give yourself selflessly to protect something so good. And in turn, perhaps, become a little bit better yourself.
In life we won't be defined by where we grew up, how many times we made honor roll, how much money we made, or what kind of cars we drove. In life we will be defined by how we treated others. Did we treat them with fairness and compassion? Did we give more than what we owed? Did we shake hands, did we smile at strangers? My deepest hope is that they remember me as a good person before they remember me as a good teacher. My hope is that they know they made me a little bit better.
Tuesday, September 4, 2012
Sunday, September 18, 2011
Two Steps Up
I know as a teacher I shouldn’t pick favorites, but I can’t help it. I see Lawrence* every Friday. He’s in one of my 3rd grade classes. The first time he came to my class he stumbled on my steps and so I told him to be careful. As he slowly lifted his limbs and struggled for balance, I realized why he had stumbled. Lawrence is one of my special needs students and his limited motor capabilities make it hard for him to do something as simple as climbing up two steps. I reached down to hold his hand so he could keep his balance as he walked up and he simply looked at me and gave me one of the most beautiful smiles I had ever seen. In that single second, my heart was a goner.
Every week when he comes to my class he meets me at the door with a huge hug, his little round arms only coming around my knees. I can’t help but break out of my stern teacher mode to smile back at him. This past week, one of his classmates commented “You love art teacher, don’t you Lawrence?” He just smiled and continued walking to his seat as I grinned. It’s not just me who has fallen in love with Lawrence, I can tell that his classmates love him as well. David* who sits across from him always helps him and explains things when he gets frustrated. It’s a very humbling and wonderful thing to see. His impaired motor skills make it hard for him to hold pencils and paintbrushes or mix clay, and he speaks firmly but haltingly. When he gets upset he shouts and shakes his round head furiously, but when he’s excited or happy his smile can save the day.
Being a teacher is one of the most difficult things I will ever do in my life. There have been days when I’ve questioned myself and wondered if I made the right choice to switch careers. I wonder if I’m the right person to be doing this, if I’m as qualified as I’ve led them to think I am. There are days when I wonder if I’m even making a difference in the lives on my students. But on days that I see Lawrence, I don’t think any of those things. I see his smile, and suddenly, I’m happy to be here.
*names have been changed
Thursday, August 11, 2011
Your Authentic Self
School is starting in about 3 days and I should be going over plans, researching my brains out, getting into the thick of teacher preparations. I should ..... but in this moment, I'm not going to.
All the sessions on investing our students, behavior management, lesson planning, parent involvement, big goals, little goals, data trackers, even my brief summer class I taught this summer.. they've all seemed to vanish in my mind. I pushed them out and deliberately dropped them out of my mental window.
This summer was one of the most challenging things I have ever embarked on. In the crush of things, I started to hate my over-crowded mind. There were so many new skill-sets and ideas and opinions to suck in that I felt burned out. I felt older than the fresh-faced, recent college grads that were full of ideas and enthusiasm. I felt cynical and unsure of our teacher bootcamp and it really held me back. Whenever I told my students "You are the only thing holding yourself back" I felt like a complete hypocrite. My own lack of confidence in my teaching abilities held me back all summer long and no matter how hard I worked or how many revisions I made, I knew that my mind wasn't in it because I just couldn't believe in myself.
My advisor knew that my mind wasn't completely wrapped around teaching this summer. When I expressed my doubts about my own capabilities, not knowing the material I was teaching, not feeling like we had been adequately trained and given enough time to digest the content before having to spit it back out at our kids... She reminded me that there were 48,000 applicants that year for this job, and out of those I was among only 4,800 chosen. She looked at me and reminded me not to lose sight of the fact that I was chosen for a reason and wouldn't be there if I didn't possess the leadership skill that I so doubted at that moment. I kept doubting myself all summer and there were moments that I stood back and asked myself if I was really the best person to do this job.
Then my curriculum specialist said something in one of our last sessions: "Building a classroom is like building a brand. Your students really have to buy into it."
To the majority of people, it may have been just another analogy, but to me, it was a magical phrase that un-locked a lot of the things I had forgotten about myself. As a former corporate designer, building a brand is exactly the kind of thing I know how to do. In this world of newness I felt like someone had finally said something I could understand and relate to. I remembered what my advisor had told me and all of those leadership skills that I didn't think I possessed came rushing back.
In the mayhem of learning how to be a teacher, I forgot how to be a leader. I definitely lost track of my vision and most importantly my belief in myself.
So in these few days before the fall terms start, instead of freaking out like the rookie teacher I am, I'm going to give myself a little more time to just believe in me.
All the sessions on investing our students, behavior management, lesson planning, parent involvement, big goals, little goals, data trackers, even my brief summer class I taught this summer.. they've all seemed to vanish in my mind. I pushed them out and deliberately dropped them out of my mental window.
This summer was one of the most challenging things I have ever embarked on. In the crush of things, I started to hate my over-crowded mind. There were so many new skill-sets and ideas and opinions to suck in that I felt burned out. I felt older than the fresh-faced, recent college grads that were full of ideas and enthusiasm. I felt cynical and unsure of our teacher bootcamp and it really held me back. Whenever I told my students "You are the only thing holding yourself back" I felt like a complete hypocrite. My own lack of confidence in my teaching abilities held me back all summer long and no matter how hard I worked or how many revisions I made, I knew that my mind wasn't in it because I just couldn't believe in myself.
My advisor knew that my mind wasn't completely wrapped around teaching this summer. When I expressed my doubts about my own capabilities, not knowing the material I was teaching, not feeling like we had been adequately trained and given enough time to digest the content before having to spit it back out at our kids... She reminded me that there were 48,000 applicants that year for this job, and out of those I was among only 4,800 chosen. She looked at me and reminded me not to lose sight of the fact that I was chosen for a reason and wouldn't be there if I didn't possess the leadership skill that I so doubted at that moment. I kept doubting myself all summer and there were moments that I stood back and asked myself if I was really the best person to do this job.
Then my curriculum specialist said something in one of our last sessions: "Building a classroom is like building a brand. Your students really have to buy into it."
To the majority of people, it may have been just another analogy, but to me, it was a magical phrase that un-locked a lot of the things I had forgotten about myself. As a former corporate designer, building a brand is exactly the kind of thing I know how to do. In this world of newness I felt like someone had finally said something I could understand and relate to. I remembered what my advisor had told me and all of those leadership skills that I didn't think I possessed came rushing back.
In the mayhem of learning how to be a teacher, I forgot how to be a leader. I definitely lost track of my vision and most importantly my belief in myself.
So in these few days before the fall terms start, instead of freaking out like the rookie teacher I am, I'm going to give myself a little more time to just believe in me.
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Miss Lor
"Miss Lor, what's your first name?"
"Miss."
Laughs, "That ain't your first name!"
I smiled in return; that was all I was giving them. On day two of teaching summer school English, I thought my head was going to explode. We had spent the past two days giving them assessments. There were reading comprehension assessments, differentiated assessments, math assessments, bio assessments, every test known to man and child had been given out in those first two days. The students were antsy, bored, and, most of all, hot. We had jam-packed the classroom with desks in anticipation of 38 students. By Tuesday the number had whittled down to a mere 20, but still... I don't know what I would have done if all 38 students would have shown up that first day.
There's something very apparent about my students. By day two I had come to the conclusion that a brain smart enough to talk back is a brain smart enough to read. So why didn't these kids know how to read?
Even as I type the word kids, I cringe.
When I was in the 8th grade I was blessed with the best English teacher in the world.
Mr. W was the first to demand 10 page book reports that required in-depth character analysis and vocabulary comprehension. Not only were these book reports an integral part of our grade, but he required they be typed or written with a fountain pen. A fountain pen?! What was this, the 17th century? Bolder students tested his resolve by using roller-balls and gel pens, but Mr. W always knew the difference and it was reflected in our scores.
When the boys came to school with their sagging jeans, Mr. W raised one beguiling eyebrow and succinctly suggested they pull their pants up, lest they desire him to bring out the duct tape.
Mr. W taught us the beauty in diagramming a sentence. He introduced us to the eloquent and tragic world of Shakespeare. He orchestrated the yearly school musical and patiently directed us through the frenzy of square dance and enunciation. Most importantly, Mr. W taught us to always hold ourselves to high standards. To this day I can recall that to use the word kids refers to baby goats, and the word that we really want to use is children.
If you asked him "Can I go to the bathroom?", he would reply, "I don't know, can you?". The proper question was always "May I go to the bathroom?".
As I went through the notions of being trained to be an English teacher, I couldn't help but think of Mr. W.
I think about all of the exceptional educators I've had the pleasure of learning from. All of these teachers who weren't afraid to set the bar high.
Ultimately, my fear as a teacher is that my students will be paralyzed by their own fear of not reaching that bar.
My students, who are incredibly smart and beautiful. They're so full of sass that sometimes I have to check myself so they don't see me laughing at the hilarious things they do or say.
My students will reach that bar.
"Miss."
Laughs, "That ain't your first name!"
I smiled in return; that was all I was giving them. On day two of teaching summer school English, I thought my head was going to explode. We had spent the past two days giving them assessments. There were reading comprehension assessments, differentiated assessments, math assessments, bio assessments, every test known to man and child had been given out in those first two days. The students were antsy, bored, and, most of all, hot. We had jam-packed the classroom with desks in anticipation of 38 students. By Tuesday the number had whittled down to a mere 20, but still... I don't know what I would have done if all 38 students would have shown up that first day.
There's something very apparent about my students. By day two I had come to the conclusion that a brain smart enough to talk back is a brain smart enough to read. So why didn't these kids know how to read?
Even as I type the word kids, I cringe.
When I was in the 8th grade I was blessed with the best English teacher in the world.
Mr. W was the first to demand 10 page book reports that required in-depth character analysis and vocabulary comprehension. Not only were these book reports an integral part of our grade, but he required they be typed or written with a fountain pen. A fountain pen?! What was this, the 17th century? Bolder students tested his resolve by using roller-balls and gel pens, but Mr. W always knew the difference and it was reflected in our scores.
When the boys came to school with their sagging jeans, Mr. W raised one beguiling eyebrow and succinctly suggested they pull their pants up, lest they desire him to bring out the duct tape.
Mr. W taught us the beauty in diagramming a sentence. He introduced us to the eloquent and tragic world of Shakespeare. He orchestrated the yearly school musical and patiently directed us through the frenzy of square dance and enunciation. Most importantly, Mr. W taught us to always hold ourselves to high standards. To this day I can recall that to use the word kids refers to baby goats, and the word that we really want to use is children.
If you asked him "Can I go to the bathroom?", he would reply, "I don't know, can you?". The proper question was always "May I go to the bathroom?".
As I went through the notions of being trained to be an English teacher, I couldn't help but think of Mr. W.
I think about all of the exceptional educators I've had the pleasure of learning from. All of these teachers who weren't afraid to set the bar high.
Ultimately, my fear as a teacher is that my students will be paralyzed by their own fear of not reaching that bar.
My students, who are incredibly smart and beautiful. They're so full of sass that sometimes I have to check myself so they don't see me laughing at the hilarious things they do or say.
My students will reach that bar.
Friday, June 10, 2011
Delta Blues
The Delta is, apparently, the most southern place on earth.
So far I've learned about Kool-Aid pickles, the all-encompassing usage of y'all, and always always addressing others with sir or ma'am.
I've gotten a crash course of the Delta Blues and I must admit I'm smitten. There's something about twangy guitar chords and raw voice that just knows how to woo a girl.
Overall, the Delta is filled with so. much. culture. It's as thick as the humidity here, but you couldn't cut it with a knife.
There are customs and traditions and notions and ideas that I haven't even begun to explore or understand yet.
So far I've learned about Kool-Aid pickles, the all-encompassing usage of y'all, and always always addressing others with sir or ma'am.
I've gotten a crash course of the Delta Blues and I must admit I'm smitten. There's something about twangy guitar chords and raw voice that just knows how to woo a girl.
Overall, the Delta is filled with so. much. culture. It's as thick as the humidity here, but you couldn't cut it with a knife.
There are customs and traditions and notions and ideas that I haven't even begun to explore or understand yet.
Sunday, June 5, 2011
Delta Dooder Da
My mother always says to me, "You're like a knotted rope, and the harder we pull, the tighter you make yourself. It's like I can't untangle you."
My mom says this in reference to my aloofness, but most times I know she means my stubbornness. And it's true. I'm as stubborn as a hangnail, refusing to be clipped. I'm as stubborn as an un-roasted pistachio, unwilling to be opened. I'm as stubborn as my father... and my mother. I'm as stubborn as they come. The harder someone tries to get an answer out of me or to get me to do something, the harder I refuse. Eventually my mind implodes and I give into whatever secret was festering inside, but the road to that is usually difficult and filled with my dirty stares.
My stubbornness is what brings me here tonight, writing away my pre-adventure jitters. It's 12:40 AM in Milwaukee, Wisconsin and by this time tomorrow I'll be on my way to training in the Mississippi Delta. 13 hours away from home.
The story of my life is that I never knew what I wanted to be growing up. When teachers would ask me, I had a different answer every year. The world seemed so big and there were so many things I could try. Many would say this was the first sign of a flighty woman, but I say... bollocks to them! I'm just as stubborn as they come. The first time I said I wanted to be an artist but by age 7 I had been told that I would be penniless and working part-time as a mime in Paris. The second time was right after my uncle had passed and I told them I wanted to be a scientist who found a cure for cancer; but I knew I was lying because, even at age 9, I hated science. When I graduated from the 5th grade I had a bevy of teachers tell me I was going to become President of the United States, and I thought... why would I want to be that?
It was years before I had to ask myself that question again. That dirty little question popped right back into my life during my junior year of high school. It was time to be a big girl and figure out things like colleges, majors, minors, specifications, associations.... I still had no idea. But I knew I didn't want to not know.
I told one of my best friends that I was thinking of going into journalism. I loved to write and I really really really just wanted to travel. He told me I was too smart to settle for "something like journalism" and that I was wasting my brain. Say what?!?!? I must say I was only 5% flattered and 95% offended at that comment, but later that year when he asked me out I still said yes because I was such a sucker. Our adolescent love didn't last but he planted an idea inside of me that I always kept burning in the back of my mind: why settle?
I didn't really want to be a journalist, I just loved to write. And when I entered college as an art major, I didn't really want to do that either, I just wanted to paint. And when I switched into fashion design a year later, I still didn't want to do that, I just wanted a stable job and health insurance.
Here I am, 2 years out of college. I have a bachelor's and an associates in Fashion Design. Three weeks ago I quit my design job at a multi-billion dollar corporation so I could teach art to kids in the Mississippi Delta. I didn't even know where that was; I had to google-map it. And use Wikipedia.
The point is.... maybe I didn't want to settle for great benefits, a stable salary, and 65 hour weeks. I don't know much about the South, or Mississippi, or Arkansas, or the Delta in general.
The truth is I'm terrified. All of my midnight doubts are hitting me. What if I suck at this. What if I walk into that classroom and they laugh at me and they tell me to kick my stilettos up and go back to where I came from.... That won't be good.
I just want to help people. I want to ask kids what they think they'll be when they grow up. I want to believe in whatever answer they give me, and most of all, I want them to believe it too.
When I quit my job, I told my boss that I'm the type of person who walks into a job and always wants to give 200% of myself, and if I were to give 200% of myself it was damned well going to be for something more meaningful than striped polo shirts.
So here I am, not quite the President of the United States as my teachers once predicted, but ready to make changes nonetheless.
My mom says this in reference to my aloofness, but most times I know she means my stubbornness. And it's true. I'm as stubborn as a hangnail, refusing to be clipped. I'm as stubborn as an un-roasted pistachio, unwilling to be opened. I'm as stubborn as my father... and my mother. I'm as stubborn as they come. The harder someone tries to get an answer out of me or to get me to do something, the harder I refuse. Eventually my mind implodes and I give into whatever secret was festering inside, but the road to that is usually difficult and filled with my dirty stares.
My stubbornness is what brings me here tonight, writing away my pre-adventure jitters. It's 12:40 AM in Milwaukee, Wisconsin and by this time tomorrow I'll be on my way to training in the Mississippi Delta. 13 hours away from home.
The story of my life is that I never knew what I wanted to be growing up. When teachers would ask me, I had a different answer every year. The world seemed so big and there were so many things I could try. Many would say this was the first sign of a flighty woman, but I say... bollocks to them! I'm just as stubborn as they come. The first time I said I wanted to be an artist but by age 7 I had been told that I would be penniless and working part-time as a mime in Paris. The second time was right after my uncle had passed and I told them I wanted to be a scientist who found a cure for cancer; but I knew I was lying because, even at age 9, I hated science. When I graduated from the 5th grade I had a bevy of teachers tell me I was going to become President of the United States, and I thought... why would I want to be that?
It was years before I had to ask myself that question again. That dirty little question popped right back into my life during my junior year of high school. It was time to be a big girl and figure out things like colleges, majors, minors, specifications, associations.... I still had no idea. But I knew I didn't want to not know.
I told one of my best friends that I was thinking of going into journalism. I loved to write and I really really really just wanted to travel. He told me I was too smart to settle for "something like journalism" and that I was wasting my brain. Say what?!?!? I must say I was only 5% flattered and 95% offended at that comment, but later that year when he asked me out I still said yes because I was such a sucker. Our adolescent love didn't last but he planted an idea inside of me that I always kept burning in the back of my mind: why settle?
I didn't really want to be a journalist, I just loved to write. And when I entered college as an art major, I didn't really want to do that either, I just wanted to paint. And when I switched into fashion design a year later, I still didn't want to do that, I just wanted a stable job and health insurance.
Here I am, 2 years out of college. I have a bachelor's and an associates in Fashion Design. Three weeks ago I quit my design job at a multi-billion dollar corporation so I could teach art to kids in the Mississippi Delta. I didn't even know where that was; I had to google-map it. And use Wikipedia.
The point is.... maybe I didn't want to settle for great benefits, a stable salary, and 65 hour weeks. I don't know much about the South, or Mississippi, or Arkansas, or the Delta in general.
The truth is I'm terrified. All of my midnight doubts are hitting me. What if I suck at this. What if I walk into that classroom and they laugh at me and they tell me to kick my stilettos up and go back to where I came from.... That won't be good.
I just want to help people. I want to ask kids what they think they'll be when they grow up. I want to believe in whatever answer they give me, and most of all, I want them to believe it too.
When I quit my job, I told my boss that I'm the type of person who walks into a job and always wants to give 200% of myself, and if I were to give 200% of myself it was damned well going to be for something more meaningful than striped polo shirts.
So here I am, not quite the President of the United States as my teachers once predicted, but ready to make changes nonetheless.
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