(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.
Friday, April 21, 2017
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.
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.
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 IV) delves 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.
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."
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]."
"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.
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."
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.
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).
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).
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