Friday, April 21, 2017

"Don't cry because it's over. Smile because it happened." - Dr. Seuss

(April 19, 2017. 12:10 - 1:45 PM)

Last day at CCHS this semester. It's a little difficult for two reasons:
1. These kids have a place in my heart and I'll miss them.
2. There isn't much difference from when I first came. Yes, the kids trust me now and ask me questions freely, but they're still struggling and largely disinterested in school.

Today was slower than usual. The warm up problem (graphing a function on a calculator broken into a process of three parts) took the majority of the class period, but R and I finished it in about ten minutes. She's seen it before and has a pretty solid grasp. We chat some and I check on other students (particularly Q and E. E seems upset so I invite her over and she joins us, cheering up a little with some conversation [we did some math, too]. Q's doing well.) while we wait for Ms. S to continue. Books of the Georgia standards for this unit are handed out and explained. The class does a single page. It's coming to the end of the year and everyone (Ms. S and I included) is dragging. It's rough.
R is done- she's finished the requirement for the day and is determined not to do anything more. We talk about her life some. She's sixteen and already renting an apartment. Life is especially hard for some of these kids.
I try to pull her in for a little more math. No luck. Only ten minutes left, though. But I wonder...
"Today is my last day here," I tell R. 
"Really? No, it can't be," she asks, her eyes wide. 
"It is. I have finals and work during this time for my last two weeks in [the city]."
"But you can't leave me."
If you listen closely, you can heart my heart breaking into approximately four thousand pieces as she says this.
"But I can give you my email in case you need help with anything."
She immediately snatches her phone from her purse, unlocks it, and thrusts it into my hands expectantly. As I type my email address, her smiles returns. "You can be my personal tutor!"
I smile back at her. I'll miss her.

Ms. S was so sweet and thankful. She says that I've been able to do more than I think I have, but I'm not sure if she's being kind or genuine. I'll be coming back again regardless. CCHS has laid claim to a piece of my heart.

Monday, April 17, 2017

"If at first you don't succeed- you're normal!" - Kid President

(April 12, 2017. 12:10 - 1:45 PM)

Another day of a more empty than full classroom, but with a twist- the entire room has been rearranged. Gone are the round tables, replaced by two rows of tables for two. Ms. S says it's to help the kids focus as we head into crunch time. Speaking of crunch time, where are all the students as we enter this intensity? Ms. S says there was a "brawl." But, in her words (said with a smirk and twinkle in her eye), "it was more funny than anything else."
As we're talking, R catches my eye. She tilts her head down, gives me a close look full of playfulness, and beckons me over. No hard feelings from last week, apparently. That's good. We sit down together as Ms. S directs the class to the board for some warm-up problems.
Polynomials. Not too bad. Or so I thought. The kids get hung up on the basic algebra (a skill that goes back to sixth grade). "Don't you know how to do this?" There's a note of despair in Ms. S's voice as she pleads. She goes through the basics again with the class. I take advantage of this time to check on the student who is taking the class online, but she's not interested in my help because, she says, "You won't give me the answers."
As polynomial problems plague the class, a new small disaster sudden unfolds. Three students stroll in, at least two of them high as a kite. The third student is Q. One of the other two is someone I don't recognize, partially because he's wearing giant sunglasses. Ms. S isn't having it. The other student, eyes squinted and red, an absent smirk on his face, sits in front of Ms. S. It's J. (This isn't the first time I've seen him high.) "How many of me are you seeing? Go clean yourself up," Ms. S sends him out, frustrated but obviously holding back laughter.
This disruption partially dispersed, we return to polynomials. I work slowly and carefully with R. She doesn't bring her phone out much today, which helps.  Suddenly, a student in front of us stops working. "When are we even gonna use this?" he asks, exasperated. He's one that's usually on task and respectful, so I'm surprised by this sudden, but still mild, outburst.
Ms. S gives a curt and accurate but unsatisfactory answer. "Because the state of Georgia says so. You have to be able to do this in order to graduate."
"Hey," I say quietly. He turns to me. "Do you do work on any cars? Or do you plan on it? You can use this stuff when working on cars, for example."
"But I'm going to have a BMW and they're gonna do the work on it, so I don't need to know. Plus they've got this chart in the back that says what different things can be used for."
R laughs, stopping the BMW dream in its tracks.
I want them to be able to have hope in pursuing their dreams, but I know the way the cycle works and she's not likely wrong. Nonetheless, I intervene: "You don't know that! But we have to finish this stuff before we can get there."
We resume solving polynomials. I'm able to get R's effort for all but the last seven minutes. I can only push so much (and I have fought hard but gently for the last twenty minutes) and I accept this. These are long classes, after all. I don't let her loose me entirely though. We talk and she tells me about work. She works fifty hours a week. This sixteen year old works fifty hours a week. 
"Wow. You're a strong young woman," I say with obvious admiration.
She glows at this. "Thanks!" The bell dismisses everyone and she happily leaves.

I talk with Ms. S when they leave and make plans to come back next year. I love these kids.

Friday, April 7, 2017

"If a child can’t learn the way we teach, maybe we should teach the way they learn." - Ignacio ‘Nacho’ Estrada

(April 5, 2017. 12:10 - 1:45 PM)

I think a boat would have been more practical than my little car coming to CCHS today. This is reflected in the near-empty classroom of just five soggy students.
The girl from the last two weeks (we'll call her E) is here and ready to ask questions. Today's math was the FOIL method "back in my day," but Common Core is here and it's a different process, but the same goal.
So we're both learning today. And most days, to be honest.
E walks me through what she's done. She looks at me expectantly in the gloomy room (it looks like the end of times may have gotten a head start outside). I'll be enlisting the teacher's guide and answer sheet today. Magic paper in hand, we check her work. She's a brilliant student, but she's a little confused by the massive expanse of steps in this mathematical endeavor.
"How about we walk through some together?" I suggest. E nods in agreement. Having internalized the magic answer paper, I go through a problem slowly, asking her if she's got it every few steps. Our stumbling journey through problem number three complete, she leans back, grinning.
"You make so much sense. That's a lot easier. I didn't get it when she (Ms. S) taught it," she says matter-of-factly. A pause. "Thank you!" E happily chimes.
"Are you good to do the rest on your own and holler with any questions or...?" I ask.
"Yep!"
"Okay! I'll check on you in a little bit." R had come in while E and I were battling the polynomial beast and so I go over to her.
"Hey R! I missed you! How are you?"
R smiles. "Fineee," she draws out.
"Ready to do some math?"
"No." No hesitation or playfulness there.
"Okay... but we have to do math, so," I trail off, reaching for the worksheet.
She's unhappy. "I don't like this stuff."
"But you've done most of them already?" Her worksheet is more than halfway finished. I'm confused. She explains that she has an app that takes pictures of the problem and quickly solves them for you. Darn.
"R... You're not going to have your phone on the test, dear. We need to know how to do this." I start slowly taking her through the problems. She's immediately frustrated, but I gently work with her through some problems. Noticing that by her demeanor that if I push for more work right now, the rest of the half hour left will carry on without her participation. "Let's take a break as soon as we finish this problem, okay?" We finish (with all the delicacy of a bomb technician) and I give her some space.
"How's it going, E?"
"Good! It's so easy now!"
That's exciting. Navigating the torrential downpour was worthwhile.
Ms. S has been somewhere else, but she comes back now, announcing she's going to start today's lesson. It looks like now we'll be learning a whole new method.
I feel like a tiny student again, paper and pencil in hand, learning alongside E. I've never seen this before. In fact, I don't think I've even seen any relative of this new mathematical nuisance. But I'll learn it and then I'll teach it. And I do.
I work enthusiastically with E and gently with R. We make progress, but R's frustration peaked in a small but dramatic burst as she quit for the day. Only five minutes left in class, so I almost made it.
The bottom of the sky is falling out, so I wait to leave. I don't feel like swimming to my car. Ms. S notices this and strikes up conversation, asking why I want to be a math teacher. I laugh (oops).
"I'm an English and English Education major."
Her eyes widen. "What? Really? You should teach math." The conversation continues along this line. It's honestly so validating to listen to her.
The rain is starting to slow (but still enough to navigate a canoe through). I want to ask Ms. S about R before I leave, so I politely shift the topic. "Is everything okay with R? She's brilliant and a sweet girl, but she just wasn't having it today. She was so frustrated- I'm concerned."
Ms. S laughs. "You've had more success with her than most. She's blown up on me one day, screaming at me, then been just fine with me the next day. She has a disorder; don't worry about it. She stayed with you longer than she would have with anyone else."
The rain is still ferocious outside but at this, I'm sunny.

Tuesday, April 4, 2017

"The secret in education lies in respecting the student." - Ralph Waldo Emerson

(March 29, 2017. 12:10 - 1:45 PM)

The two books I previously read in the class for which I'm maintaining this blog haven't been particularly applicable to CCHS. The books, Queer South Rising: Voices of a Contested Place (edited by Reta Ugena Whitlock) and Madness: A Bipolar Life (by Marya Hornbacher), will likely prove relevant to my own classroom, but have been less so with my CCHS kiddos. The third and final book of this class, however, is immensely relevant to my kiddos. Start Where You Are, But Don’t Stay There:  Understanding Diversity, Opportunity Gaps, and Teaching in Today’s Classroom (by H. Richard Milner IVdelves into the role of race, among many other things, in the classroom learning experience. Here at CCHS, the classrooms are considered diverse. Other than one student and the other tutors, I'm the only white person in here. I may explicitly explore this in a later blog post.
_________________________________________________________________________

The class leans on the empty side again. Q's the only one here from our usually boisterous table. A substitute had been here Monday and Tuesday and, discouraged by the sub, not many students were here on this Wednesday. Ms. S is both frustrated and concerned. "You're seriously behind- some of you are not going to pass this semester," she exclaims. An explanation of Saturday school follows and precedes an iteration of the little yellow sticky notes of a previous class. Navigating her concerns and the class, Ms. S hands out paper, explaining, "Write what you did in this class the two days I was gone. Be honest." There is a sternness in her voice. 
Q starts to write his interpretation of the last two days. "I'm gonna say that you said that since Ms. S isn't here that you weren't doing [expletive] for us and you're gonna get fired." He smirks widely.
I laugh, "I can't get fired because I don't work here. I just show up. Well, I mean I got a background check but... yeah, I'm not getting anything for being here." 
Q's face lights up with bemused surprise. "Oh, wait man! You're really here just to help us?" His smile is radiant. 
"Yes, goofball," I smile back. He's instantly more engaged. ((It's an innate understanding that students will care about your class when they know you care about them. Start Where You Are, But Don’t Stay There explores just how useful and even necessary this investment is, especially in a "diverse classroom." To quote Milner's interview with Mr. Hill: “Teachers cannot teach [the content] until they understand and acknowledge who they are teaching [that content] to. Subject-matter knowledge is essential but not sufficient for success in the classroom.... Students have to allow teachers to teach them” (48-53).))
"So how'd you get here?" Q asks.
"I'm able to be here with a class I'm taking at [my university]."
He's interested. "So you're getting your degree to teach?" 
"Yes sir." (I say "yes ma'am" and "yes sir" to the kids when I'm particularly enthused by their questions and they can tell I'm genuine. I've never thought it may sound sarcastic until I wrote it here, but I suppose my voice and demeanor silence an interpretation of sarcasm.)
"Man, I may go back to school because you're a nice teacher." (This is a little funny because I push him and give him a hard time to get him to work, as seen in previous posts.) 
The papers are taken up and the math begins. Q and I are able to make significant progress. One of the students that had been wandering between me and her desk last week comes and sits with us as Q works. 
Their independence is improving. It's exciting. 
Numbers and variables and minutes pass by, largely uneventfully. That is, until we discover the program that had produced the worksheets was riddled with flaws. Ms. S and Q struggle together (I had admitted that I was concerned that I wasn't able to get the worksheet's answers and asked for her input.) and, with some banter, come to a correct answer together. It's entertaining and exciting. 

Saturday, March 25, 2017

"Students don’t care how much you know until they know how much you care." - John C. Maxwell

(March 22, 2017. 12:10 - 1:45 PM)

The classroom is as empty as it was last week, but this time Ms. S doesn't really have a reason why. Q is the only one from our little table here. This didn't make for any lack of things to do, however.
Today's class went quickly, most likely because Q and I were laboring so intensely over polynomial long division.
We were struggling.
I pull my chair beside Q and we launch into the numbers and 'x's. As we work, two other students come up and ask for my help. I haven't talked to them much beyond some banter before class, so I'm happy that they feel comfortable enough to come up and ask me questions. It is, however, a little odd. They came up and politely interrupted Q and I (neither of us minded) although the other two college tutors sat free in the back of the classroom. I didn't give it much thought... but I do wonder if perhaps I was more successfully presenting an open and friendly demeanor than I had given myself credit for. I can be hopeful.
The two girls don't ask just one question- one flits between my side and her seat across the classroom and the other sits down across from me. I'm happy to help, happy that the students want my help. 
All the while, Q and I are working (wandering?) our way through the problems. He's comfortable with me and we're laughing at our difficulties. Frustration is kept at bay, but the potential is there.
"This [expletive] is hard." Q's tone is somewhere between disinterest and wonder.
Words come out of my mouth before they've finished forming in my head. "No, it's not." I pause and realize my mistake. "I take that back; I'm sorry. It is hard. We both know it is. I know that you can do it though. Yeah, it's hard, but you're intelligent. This is just going to take a little more work."
"Yeah," Q nods slowly. We keep working.
Class is coming to an end. As he begins to pack his bag, I ask Q if I was able to help today.
"Yeah, thanks. It's hard though."
"Yeah, it is. But do you feel like you can do it now?"
He grins. "I guess. Yeah, I do."




Friday, March 17, 2017

“Learning is not the product of teaching. Learning is the product of the activity of learners.” – John Holt

(March 15, 2017. 12:10 - 1:45 PM)

I'm a little earlier than usual, only a few minutes, yet the usually bustling room is quietly almost empty. A student points at me and says amiably enough, "I claim you today. You'll be helping me." I'm slightly startled but happily consent. The student smiles and settles into her seat at the teacher's desk.
As Ms. S comes in, I ask her about the absences. She shrugs with a slight smile.
"They probably think I'm not here. I haven't been here the past two days."
She chuckles and begins to tell me how the substitute had struggled with the kids.
"I guess halfway through class all the students just up and left. They walked right out. The sub left a little bit later."
I'm a little shocked, but not wholly surprised. I love these kiddos, but if they don't respect you, you've lost them. The substitute must have learned this lesson in a very literal way.
The room has slowly been filling up, but today it won't have all the faces I usually see. The bell rings in the rather empty classroom and Ms. S asks the students how the last two days were. There are some vague comments about the substitute and about not much getting done. Ms. S goes into "Google classroom" (a very interesting, user-friendly, and useful resource! I plan to utilize it in the night class I teach once it's available for the public.) and looks for who has submitted the work from the last two days.
One student turned the assignment in on Google classroom. Only one other even opened the document. (As she opened Google classroom to check this, I quickly saw the assignment. It was clearly laid out in a number of steps and signed, "I miss you all. Love, Ms. S")
"Why didn't you do the assignment? You know we use Google classroom when I'm not here. I even did this from another country and you were in the classroom. Why didn't you do your work?" Ms. S asks the class. I think I hear tones of hurt and frustration hidden in her voice. She goes to her desk and picks up a sticky note pad. She rapidly passes out little yellow sticky notes to each student while explaining, "Write on this sticky note why you didn't do your work Monday and Tuesday. A tweet length explanation for each, 140 characters each, 280 total."
Students groan but comply.
Ms. S writes three warm-up problems on the board as students write. She collects the explanations as she tells the student to complete the problems on the board. (I don't know what she did with those little yellow sticky notes once the class turned them in.)
The students work on the problems. I wander around and help about half of the class, including the girl from before class. My kiddos came in late and they're not sitting organized like the other weeks, so it makes more sense to simply watch for those who may need help. Ms. S is going easy on them in light of the confusion, so there's not much need for me. The girl who claimed me (I never caught her name) is working on an online math class. She bookmarked some questions and so we work through those together, walking through how the problem is solved as a format or formula and then applying the format to that particular question. She understands quickly and appreciates it. She's sharp. The girl submits her assignment and a loading circle appears, replaced a moment later by her grade- 100. We high five and I resume roaming the classroom. Daylight savings in combination with it being the first week back from break leaves the class in the unforgiving grasp of lethargy.
I'm trying to be helpful but not overwhelming, so I watch for confused or stressed expressions and make sure the students know I'm here for them. They're in groups of their own making but they're working on the math (for the most part). It's important to let them do their own thing and flex their independence because that's how they'll stay engaged. I'm here, friendly and casual, and their questions and comfortable banter with me reflect that developing trust. It's exciting.
Ms. S notices what I'm doing, just watching "my half" of the classroom while two other tutors have the rest of the kiddos, and she asks me to go to where the other tutors are and help out a student (the same student who simply walked out during stretches in my last post).
"I know he needs help but I also know he won't ask. Will you go over and try to help him?"
"Of course!" I happily reply. I meander over to him and pull up a seat. "How's it going?"
He grunts.
"Do you have any questions or anything I can help you with?"
"No."
"You want me to look over any of your work?"
"No." He turns away from me.
"Let me know if you want or need anything!" I cheerfully offer with disappointment and concern hidden in my heart. I don't get a response.
Returning to Ms. S, I recount our disappointing exchange.
"I figured he would," she replies with a subtle sigh.
I wonder- if I had spent time with that side of the classroom, would I have had more success? My gut and heart suggest I would have, but that could be my naivety talking.
As I'm pondering these thoughts, Ms. S goes to the student. I don't want to interrupt or intrude, so I never find out how much success she has with him. One of my kiddos has a question, so I return to them. They have good questions about their math and good things about their day to share with me. It's exciting when my kiddos tell me how they're doing before I even ask. My heart is happy.
I'll help who I can and try not to be disheartened by those I can't yet reach. As the clock ticks close to the end of class and most students have abandoned their math, R starts to share pieces of her life story with me. 
It's an honor to be invited into her life. 

Thursday, March 9, 2017

"I never look back, darling. It distracts from the now." - Edna Mode, The Incredibles

(March 1, 2017. 12:20 - 1:45 PM)

Spring break is next week and you can feel the almost-vacation jitters in the room. Attention is going to be hard won today.
This week, R starts out sitting at our happily chaotic little table. I take that as a good thing, a kind of progress and friendship. I also silently hope R's good attitude and work ethic may rub off a little (is that a thing? I know so many teachers try it, but does it work?). No such luck though. Q is utterly disinterested, to the point where I am him if there's anything he wants or needs to talk about. "No," is his quick and sullen answer. 
"Okay, well you know I'm here, Q." He grunts in response. Perhaps it is just those spring break jitters- no one wants to be in this room when the weather is beautiful and vacation closely beckons. I'll be watching him a little more closely when we get back.
Ms. S tries to start the class, but it's more like herding cats than trying to capture the attention of high school students (or perhaps they're really quite similar). An interrupting phone call does nothing to help her cause. Trying to save the remaining hour, she reigns the class in with exercises and stretches.
"Everybody stand up! Stand up right now and stretch." 
Many groans permeate the air, but everyone begrudgingly rises. Well, everyone but one. Ms. S addresses him.
"[Student], stand up and stretch or leave."
He leaves.
Nothing else is said. The stretching goes on another moment and everyone sits. Ms. S begins. Today is Paschal's triangle (a polynomial thing). The material proves simple enough but woefully tedious. If I was going to have any luck with Q, Paschal had ruined it. 
Everyone starts working. I watch them work and wait for questions. R has the most- she's eager to learn but not as quick with math as T. T herself is a little off, as well. Spring break is hurting us here. As I'm answering R's question, T just gets up and leaves. She understands the material and considering where we are in the semester, I decide it's better to leave her be. R and I work through the problem together and I make notes as to what's tripping her up. J and Q have been quietly (by comparison to other weeks) working. I check on them. Q's got a pretty good grasp. I point out what's tripping him up and let him know he's doing well as I move to J. J's also going along pretty well, slowly but steadily pushing along. I make a note- he forgets the negative signs- and let him know he's golden. I make my way back around the table. Q's made some errors he's quickly able to understand. He's got it, and we both know it, but because he understands it, he's unwilling to suffer the tedium and finish the worksheet. R's asking for help again so I return to her. She's mixing up her multiplication and addition, but we sort that out. She's almost got it and because she's willing to work at it, she will have it soon. We continue to work together as I slowly make her trust herself more as she gets better. R's gotten the vast majority of my time today, but she was the only one who really wanted the help. It's about helping who you can. I'm not neglecting my other three kiddos, but I realize that much more and I would be pushing them too much. It's seeking the balance so I can do the most (but not too much).

Tuesday, February 21, 2017

"School is a building which has four walls with tomorrow inside." - Lon Watters


Here's my rendition of the room where everything happens and of CCHS itself. 
The stark gloom of the cinder block walls is balanced by the gaudy carpet floor and numerous posters. Computers line the back wall and the wall on the right (not pictured). [Students use these computers freely before class and during the lunch period.] The perspective is from the front of the classroom where the smart-board commandeers the wall and the lesson plan. Bottom right (also not pictured) is the table where so many of these stories take place. 



Thursday, February 16, 2017

"Do small things with great love." - Mother Teresa

(February 15, 2017. 12:10 – 1:45 PM)

Not every trip to CCHS screams, "Success!"
Every trip does, however, remind me that small smiles can be quiet successes in themselves.
When I checked in to CCHS, Q was out in the main foyer. "You're here! For me?" 
"Of course!" I laugh. His enthusiasm is an appreciated greeting as I head to the classroom. (I'm always there 15 minutes before class starts, so Q was between classes when I saw him hanging out in the front.)
As the clock's hands slowly turn to 12:30, the room steadily fills. There's some hushed but animated shouting, but that chaos is the soundtrack of this building. The voices aren't angry and so, in the fashion of white noise, it remains largely unnoticed. The loud conversation quickly terminates, replaced by louder angry yelling. The sound and its perpetrators crash into the classroom door.
"Don't you dare call me broke when you're living with a [expletive] in a hotel!"
The quiet chatter of the class immediately stops.
Ms. S intervenes and the loud, angry voice proves to be the sweet and intelligent T. Furious, T storms in and throws herself into the seat beside me. J and Q, also at the table, watch in amused concern. R, from the nearby table, gently comforts T, telling her not to waste her time with the boy who had called her broke. I take T's still trembling hands in my own hands and try to console her. Ms. S starts to reign the class back in when the phone rings and interrupts the challenging process. I take advantage of the moment to ask R to come sit at our little table. She happily agrees with some playful fussing. Ms. S's phone call ends and the lesson (distribution shortcuts today) begins. The teacher reads through the PowerPoint slides, points out what the students should copy into their notebooks, and writes out some example problems.
The PowerPoint concludes and worksheets are started. 
T had been noticeably agitated and distracted through the lesson (aftermath of the confrontation) and needs a little more guidance than usual (as she's often self-sustained in class). R happily makes use of my presence, clearly relieved to have me walk through some problems with her and answer her many questions. I have to push for her to try on her own and not rely on me, but, same as last week, she's good humored and willing to work. To force her to navigate the numbers on her own, I move to Q and J, checking their work and explaining their mistakes. They did well, but the conceptual questions need additional explaining. I draw out the formula, creating similar shapes around variables in the function and their corresponding values in the problem. As class comes to its conclusion, they tell me I have been helpful and they understand the material. 
T gives me a small smile as she leaves with the bell and R shares her own large smile with me as she waves good-bye.
Ms. S calls T back as she starts to leave. "Hey, T, come here. Why don't we talk about what happened?"  T immediately becomes agitated and loudly expressive again, recalling the event almost hysterically. Sensing that I don't belong in this conversation, I take my leave of CCHS for the day.

Friday, February 10, 2017

"Success is the sum of small efforts, repeated day in and day out." - R. Collier

(February 8, 2017. 12:10 – 1:45 PM)

The dreary weather has all of Athens half-asleep today.
I came and situated myself in the empty classroom at the table that was home to Q, J, and T’s banter. As class’s actual start time of 12:30 crept closer, the room slowly filled as tired but still animated students trickled in. Q sat down in a hushed huff, pulled his hood over his head and face, and laid his head and arms down at his desk. He wasn’t having it today (and with the weather today, I can’t say I really blame him). J sat down a few minutes later and T straggled in with a bag of food as class was about to start.
“Today we’re starting with a quiz. No notes because you used your notes yesterday,” Ms. S announced. The class replied with a collective groan. Tables cleared and tests handed out, I sat back and watched my three kiddos. Behind them at her own desk, R looked up at me with what might have been terror in her eyes. I knew I wasn’t supposed to help with the quiz so I mouthed an enthusiastic “You can do it!” with two thumbs up. She looked back at her papers for a few moments. Unable to idly watch her struggle any longer after another glance in my direction from those wide, frightened eyes, I walked over to her.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“I don’t know how to do this.” Uh oh.
“I’ll ask Ms. S. Give me a second,” I replied with a smile.
Ms. S came over and immediately realized the mistake. R hadn’t been here the past few days and consequently hadn’t learned any of this. This quiz was equivalent to an indecipherable foreign language. Oops.
Ms. S asked me if I wouldn’t mind taking R down to the resource room and teaching her the material. No problem! I’m always down for a new adventure.
R and I wandered down to the resource room and set up shop in front of a computer. I was a stranger to her, but at least a familiar face. We talked a little bit as I looked through her notes. (I have to re-teach myself all this math before I teach it to my kiddos- I’m an English major.) She’s a sweet girl and warmed up quickly. We started with a kind of fill-in-the-blank definition sheet that the teacher had provided.
Polynomials. Okay.
Using every student’s best friend (Google), we searched for definitions, examples, pictures, videos, and similar. In sifting through various sites and discussing the definitions and then simplifying them into a google doc (see below), we brought this weird, unintelligible language back into English. From the google doc there was more discussion until we mutually boiled the concept down into a definition in R’s words. This was a back-and-forth process permeated by “Does this make sense?” “Do you understand what it means by …?” “Now explain it back to me; teach it to me.” The back-and-forth continued until each question could be answered with sufficient confidence. It was a slow but successful process, ending in a growing confidence and resolution to work more at it. (She also has the google doc to reference, conveniently sprinkled with links to helpful websites and instructional videos.)
As I finished filling out the google doc with simplified explanations and links, I asked her to start working out some problems. They were like the problems we had done while defining the degree of polynomials, but we still worked the first few together before she was willing to navigate the worksheet alone. I checked with decreasing frequency, pushing her to trust herself as her accuracy improved. I messed with her some too, asking her if a problem was wrong when it was right so she would push herself to explain it and more deeply understand. She was irritated and a little shocked at first, but laughed heartily when she realized what I was doing. We shared smiles as we learned (her learning math as I was learning to teach) and the mood was wonderfully playful by the end of the hour. I think we were both having fun with it, which is an impressive feat for polynomials, or any math for that matter. When the bell was a minute from ringing, R looked up at me and said, “I get it! Thank you!” Her smile underlined her satisfaction with herself. It was a great moment that got even better when she raised her hand for an enthusiastic high-five.
We left the resource room more confident than we entered and trekked back to the classroom as the bell dismissed class, filling the halls with students.
“I know how to do it now, Ms. S!” she triumphantly shouted into the quiet classroom. Ms. S smiled.
That’s a success in my book.


Monday, February 6, 2017

"It doesn't matter how slow you go as long as you do not stop." - Confucius

(February 1, 2017. 12:10 - 1:45 PM)

Today was a day of exponents and exponential confusion. It was also another day of slow (but nonetheless rewarding) progress.
Q and J were at my table today to suffer through a progress check. Q had been absent yesterday and claimed his absence equated to hopelessness with the assignment. I wasn't having it. 
J slowly chugs along through his paper as Q excitedly pesters him about some drama, sharing some presumably juicy gossip on his iPhone. I overhear something about a girl as I (half jokingly, half seriously) plead with Q to do his assignment. At this I interrupt their conversation. "Q," I said (he interrupts, loudly exclaiming, "You know my name?!" I laugh.), "You're probably just trouble for this girl and she's probably just trouble for you." J laughs riotously at this and Q sheepishly smiles. I let my own smile and humor ebb slightly as I continue. "Anyways, if you don't get to work, it won't matter if you like this girl or not because you won't be able to support no girls without passing this class!"
He laughs. "I guess you right." As his phone disappeared into his bag and he reached for his pencil, I couldn't help but to be simultaneously pleased and surprised. 
We worked through the twenty problems ("Twenty?!" he had cried. "Why there gotta be so many?") slowly but almost steadily. He let me push him to get the answers on his own, only helping him when he was getting it wrong. As Q's pencil furiously scribbled the many numbers and letters, I checked on J. I showed him which questions he had gotten wrong and why, complimented his good work, and made three bullet points at the top of the paper to briefly cover his most common mistakes and what he should remember to get more correct. Whenever I helped Q or J to see and then solve their mistakes, I would ask, "Do you understand why?" The answer was usually yes, but when it was no we worked through it different times and different ways until the answer was yes. At one point, Ms. S (the teacher in the classroom), came over and said, "You sound like a real teacher." Her enthusiastic smile said as much as her words.
As the class came to an end and both boys submitted their progress checks, I asked how they felt. "I feel a lot better," J quietly said, the confident young man always considerably softer in tone when discussing math. "I think I get it now, thanks," Q said, with a self-satisfied smirk. I really do think they understand it better after that hour of help. 
It's certainly an hour of mine well spent.

Saturday, January 28, 2017

"I'm not telling you it's going to be easy, I'm telling you it's going to be worth it." - Art Williams

(January 25, 2017. 12:10 - 1:45 PM)

Building a tutor-tutee relationship on mutual respect and friendliness is essential to success here. That relationship is the heart of an environment fertile to academic development and personal success. I think today was a step in that direction. 
To show how it was a step forward, I'll take a step back (ha!) and start with day one.
Last week, I was clearly an outsider. Students weren't comfortable with me. I was a stranger invading their space, but not just a stranger; I was an outsider. My clothes (and likely my "UGA" identification tag) set me apart. I wore a blouse that clearly belonged in church on Sunday with its plain and billowing maroon fabric. Anyone playing "spot the difference" would have no difficulty seeing I did not belong. While that separation is important for a teacher, I believe a tutor should be closer to belonging. With that in mind, I wore the same nice jeans and boots today with a plain black shirt and a simple (but nearly Sunday) flannel. Perhaps it's confirmation bias, but I think the kids were more accepting. They certainly let me in a little more. I was still a stranger, but less of an outsider. They let me answer their questions, sometimes with prompting but sometimes without. I could begin to tutor.
Three students sat at my table. Energetic Q from last week, confident J, and the brilliant (sassy!) T. They were clearly comfortable with each other as quips and sass flew across the table and friendly verbal scuffles disrupted the multiplication of imaginary numbers. Their willingness to ask questions increased with my laughter at their shenanigans. While T would slide me her work for me to check (she was usually correct), Q would playfully interrupt us with his own questions. After I finished with T's equation, I moved to Q's less correct work. I was understanding, patient (this math is hard!), and a little funny (I hope) and so he asked questions without being significantly hindered by his reservations toward me. This back and forth, always permeated by their delightful dialogue, claimed much of the class. J, who had been so loud and bold at the beginning of class, sat subdued. His head hung low over the table and his frame screamed of a struggle. I delicately asked to see his work. He responded as meekly as any lamb, a quietness and uncertainty replacing the bellowing laugh from before class. As I helped J through his math in a more delicate and sympathetic manner than I had with Q, Q and T (with silent understanding) moved their chairs together and worked as a pair as I worked with J. With some imaginary numbers correctly multiplied and the process written out, J's voice began to regain some of its boyish confidence. It was difficult for me to see someone so intensely humbled (perhaps even humiliated) by their school work. He seemed to appreciate the help with a gravity that was touching in its depth.  
These kids are already working their way into my heart. While it may be challenging to sit in that classroom as students hurl profanities and frustration and make me nervous to have a classroom of my own, these kids will make it worth it.



Sunday, January 22, 2017

"From small beginnings come great things." - Proverb

(January 18, 2017. 12:00 - 1:45 PM)

My first day of service learning (student teaching of a sort) wasn't the scene that had played in my imagination on repeat for the week prior. That scene was one of quiet order and feeling helpful, but the scene that actually unfolded was more of a hushed chaos than structured experience. 
After inevitably getting lost in my search for the school and then getting lost in the school, I turned in my paperwork and was given a (math) class. Said class, however, had a substitute teacher and so the feel of the class was one of mostly respectful confusion. Their task for the seventy minutes of class was a study guide for an upcoming test. As the students quietly (and sometimes distractedly) worked, I offered help and watched for raised hands. Beyond answering the few questions, I spent that time listening to the substitute recount her experiences in various schools and absorbing the advice that came from those stories. Pick your battles. Start stern; give an inch and they'll take a mile. Don't let a student disrupt the experience of the class.
I'm developing a feel of the classroom. One student in particular, here referred to as Q, took particular interest in my identity as a college student and happily drilled me with questions regarding admissions, which I answered with equal delight. Perhaps I've found my tutee?

Monday, January 9, 2017

The Student and (hopefully) Teacher

I'm currently a second year English and English Education major. 

As an aspiring high school English teacher, I want to prepare students to succeed out there in the real world, regardless of how they define their own success, through literature in a way that brings both skillful writing and an awareness of the world. This understanding of how the world really is out there is necessary in a society that prefers to remain comfortable, to choose inaction and convenience. When students are shown both the beauty and the injustice in the world, many of them will find a kindness and understanding. Some of them will find a passion to do something about it. 

My dream is to create an impetus for change inside (and outside) of my classroom. Here begins another part of the journey to make that dream reality.