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Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Monday, May 10, 2010
Compassion, part 2
I recently read a book by Ariel Gore and, in it, I stumbled across a stunning observation about compassion. Compassion comes from experience, Gore notes. Compassion is hard-earned.
I am enamored with this depiction. Weeks later, it still resonates.
Maybe this is why compassion is so difficult, because it forces us to recollect, to return, to revive. It requires us to drag into the present moment those places and things we thought we had long left behind. Watch a woman who has lost her husband to cancer council another whose is quickly losing hers.... I know how you feel, she'll say.
It's a sacrifice. A gift.
Compassion with middle school students is a little bit like this, I think. Less devastating, perhaps, but consequential just the same. Who wants to revisit middle school... anyone? I've yet to meet a single person who cares to relive this miserable middle phase.
Yesterday I took a student into the hallway who was having one of her frequent 'bad' days. I could have lectured her for cursing at me, yelling, disrupting my class. Instead I looked at her and said, I know how you feel. She cried, I wrote her a pass to the office, and later when she walked down my hallway she looked at me and smiled.
Compassion is requisite for relationship.
Sadly, compassion doesn't fix anything. It doesn't cure cancer. It doesn't negate consequences or the inevitable pain of middle school life. But perhaps it does provide some resolution for someone. I would like to think so, at least.
I would like to think that there is purpose--restoration even--in the going back, the bringing forward, the identifying with someone outside of ourselves.
I am enamored with this depiction. Weeks later, it still resonates.
Maybe this is why compassion is so difficult, because it forces us to recollect, to return, to revive. It requires us to drag into the present moment those places and things we thought we had long left behind. Watch a woman who has lost her husband to cancer council another whose is quickly losing hers.... I know how you feel, she'll say.
It's a sacrifice. A gift.
Compassion with middle school students is a little bit like this, I think. Less devastating, perhaps, but consequential just the same. Who wants to revisit middle school... anyone? I've yet to meet a single person who cares to relive this miserable middle phase.
Yesterday I took a student into the hallway who was having one of her frequent 'bad' days. I could have lectured her for cursing at me, yelling, disrupting my class. Instead I looked at her and said, I know how you feel. She cried, I wrote her a pass to the office, and later when she walked down my hallway she looked at me and smiled.
Compassion is requisite for relationship.
Sadly, compassion doesn't fix anything. It doesn't cure cancer. It doesn't negate consequences or the inevitable pain of middle school life. But perhaps it does provide some resolution for someone. I would like to think so, at least.
I would like to think that there is purpose--restoration even--in the going back, the bringing forward, the identifying with someone outside of ourselves.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Compassion, part 1
A teacher and friend observed in my classroom this week and afterward we ate lunch. I ate my sandwich, warily. She had her clipboard in hand. And before she even slid it across the table to show me, I already knew. She had listed: Positive comments=0. Negative comments=22.
"Ah! I am so not cut out for this!" I exclaimed, throwing my hands up in the air. This wasn't the first time I had been called out on my negativity in the classroom. I knew it was true, but I was having a really hard time changing my behavior.
"Think about it this way." she said. "What do you want the kids to do?
I thought to myself for a minute.
"I want them to learn English," I said, "but you saw what just happened in my classroom. There is no learning happening in there right now. It's chaos!"
"So in order for learning to happen, what do you need the students to do?" she asked again.
"Well, to start, it'd be great if they would sit still" I said, snorting a little.
"Okay, good," she said. "I was hoping you would say that. Here are the students I saw sitting still during the class period." She turned her clipboard around so I could see it, five names she had listed under 'sitting quietly'. "Did you know," my friend asked, "that I never heard you speak these students' names during the period?"
"What would happen," she said, "if you stood at the front of the classroom and--instead of calling out the students who were acting poorly (Dante, get back in your seat. Sarah, keep your hands to yourself. Sasha, where's your pencil?)--you only spoke the names of students who were doing what you asked...?
"So, like..." I probed.
She demonstrated--calmly, assuredly, in a pleasant speaking voice. "Alondra, thank you for sitting quietly. Luis, I appreciate your attention. David, thank you for keeping your desk on the floor."
I laughed, knowingly.
And for the rest of the day I couldn't stop thinking about it. It made so much sense. Why hadn't I thought of it before? Don't we all like to be recognized for what we're doing right? Don't most of us respond to positive affirmation? And, at the very least, wasn't I likely to be a happier teacher if I wasn't spewing negative reinforcement all the time...?
Worth a try, at the very least.
"Ah! I am so not cut out for this!" I exclaimed, throwing my hands up in the air. This wasn't the first time I had been called out on my negativity in the classroom. I knew it was true, but I was having a really hard time changing my behavior.
"Think about it this way." she said. "What do you want the kids to do?
I thought to myself for a minute.
"I want them to learn English," I said, "but you saw what just happened in my classroom. There is no learning happening in there right now. It's chaos!"
"So in order for learning to happen, what do you need the students to do?" she asked again.
"Well, to start, it'd be great if they would sit still" I said, snorting a little.
"Okay, good," she said. "I was hoping you would say that. Here are the students I saw sitting still during the class period." She turned her clipboard around so I could see it, five names she had listed under 'sitting quietly'. "Did you know," my friend asked, "that I never heard you speak these students' names during the period?"
"What would happen," she said, "if you stood at the front of the classroom and--instead of calling out the students who were acting poorly (Dante, get back in your seat. Sarah, keep your hands to yourself. Sasha, where's your pencil?)--you only spoke the names of students who were doing what you asked...?
"So, like..." I probed.
She demonstrated--calmly, assuredly, in a pleasant speaking voice. "Alondra, thank you for sitting quietly. Luis, I appreciate your attention. David, thank you for keeping your desk on the floor."
I laughed, knowingly.
And for the rest of the day I couldn't stop thinking about it. It made so much sense. Why hadn't I thought of it before? Don't we all like to be recognized for what we're doing right? Don't most of us respond to positive affirmation? And, at the very least, wasn't I likely to be a happier teacher if I wasn't spewing negative reinforcement all the time...?
Worth a try, at the very least.
Friday, March 5, 2010
Youz lonely madam
"Ms. Spotts! Ms. Spotts!" It's Ahmed, one of my favorite English Language Learners. I am in the middle of a very inspiring lesson on quotation marks and he has just interrupted. I'm irritated.
"Yes, Ahmed," I say begrudgingly. He tips his head, looks at me. "How come you so lonely always, madam?"
"What, Ahmed!?" And just like that I've engaged the distraction, taken the proverbial bait.
"Look et you. You'z lonely." He says again.
"Lonely? Ahmed, I'm not lonely," I say. "Maybe it looks like I am lonely because I am always thinking about things, you know? I always have so much going on in my head."
Ahmed thinks about that for a minute. "No," he finally says. "I think youz lonely."
I am stunned. Almost laughably so. Even as I turn back to the whiteboard and continue my thrilling lecture on punctuation I can't help but think to myself, can't help but wonder: how did he know?
I am finding that teaching is a lonely job, more than I could have ever predicted, imagined, planned. Its lonely in the way that sometimes love is lonely. Sometimes it doesn't meet us halfway.
I don't know about you, but I am not afraid of hard work. In fact, its something I actually crave. But when hard work doesn't promise reciprocation, when the degree of our effort doesn't always match the degree of return, that's when hard work becomes even harder, that's when the loneliness begins.
Teaching is an awful lot like love.
Perhaps it is because relationships are prerequisites for instruction; because love dictates students' capacity to learn. Loving (middle school students) is never easy. It requires patience, resilience, grace. It requires introspection in the best and worst kind of ways, the kind that asks us to change.
For more: http://laureleestreet.blogspot.com
"Yes, Ahmed," I say begrudgingly. He tips his head, looks at me. "How come you so lonely always, madam?"
"What, Ahmed!?" And just like that I've engaged the distraction, taken the proverbial bait.
"Look et you. You'z lonely." He says again.
"Lonely? Ahmed, I'm not lonely," I say. "Maybe it looks like I am lonely because I am always thinking about things, you know? I always have so much going on in my head."
Ahmed thinks about that for a minute. "No," he finally says. "I think youz lonely."
I am stunned. Almost laughably so. Even as I turn back to the whiteboard and continue my thrilling lecture on punctuation I can't help but think to myself, can't help but wonder: how did he know?
I am finding that teaching is a lonely job, more than I could have ever predicted, imagined, planned. Its lonely in the way that sometimes love is lonely. Sometimes it doesn't meet us halfway.
I don't know about you, but I am not afraid of hard work. In fact, its something I actually crave. But when hard work doesn't promise reciprocation, when the degree of our effort doesn't always match the degree of return, that's when hard work becomes even harder, that's when the loneliness begins.
Teaching is an awful lot like love.
Perhaps it is because relationships are prerequisites for instruction; because love dictates students' capacity to learn. Loving (middle school students) is never easy. It requires patience, resilience, grace. It requires introspection in the best and worst kind of ways, the kind that asks us to change.
For more: http://laureleestreet.blogspot.com
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Stretch
Stretch.
I am under the pile, under that teacher pile. You know, the one that comes between January and Spring Break. The one that makes you suddenly start pondering, wondering... what would happen if I just didn't show up today?
This is such a long stretch.
Meanwhile, I took one of those dreaded surveys last week, one of those horrible, dreaded professional development surveys. Professional Development, hmph. what's the antonym of professional Development? Whatever it is, that' s what those things should be called.
After the survey I spent my long drive home thinking about Best Practices and all the things that I should be implementing in my classroom, but that I'm not, because I am too tired and too busy and too defeated to think about any of them by the end of the day. And when all my critical self-talk started to become so disconcerting that I couldn't bear to think about it any longer, I decided I had to do something about it. So I went to yoga.
Stretch.
Even after patterned breathing and peaceful stretching, even after a hot meal and a hot shower, I still couldn't get one of those stupid questions off of my mind. Number seven, I think it was. Positivity. What is the ratio of positive to negative comments in your classroom?
Yikes. I hadn't ever counted or measured or considered or frankly even cared about comparing until that stupid survey made me do it, but the next day I charted myself. And, sure enough, my tally marks gave me away. Even at my most diligent my numbers looked something like this: 13 negative, 2 positive.
So, here's my question. How do I stay positive and honest too?
I am a critic, a cynic at heart. Further, I participate in a system that venerates critical gaze. I've invested a great deal of time and money to programs, universities, professors, classes that have coached my disparaging temperment, refined my judicious eye. Pessimism comes easy for me.
Perhaps now is the time to practice optimism, compassion.
Stretch.
This morning I made the students stretch to start the class period. We were about to start our big language assessment for the state and the kids were acting all nervous and squirrelly so I made them stand up right there at their seats and stretch their arms to the sky, down to the ground, up to the sky again. I made them hug their knees. I smiled.
We all took a deep breath...
I am under the pile, under that teacher pile. You know, the one that comes between January and Spring Break. The one that makes you suddenly start pondering, wondering... what would happen if I just didn't show up today?
This is such a long stretch.
Meanwhile, I took one of those dreaded surveys last week, one of those horrible, dreaded professional development surveys. Professional Development, hmph. what's the antonym of professional Development? Whatever it is, that' s what those things should be called.
After the survey I spent my long drive home thinking about Best Practices and all the things that I should be implementing in my classroom, but that I'm not, because I am too tired and too busy and too defeated to think about any of them by the end of the day. And when all my critical self-talk started to become so disconcerting that I couldn't bear to think about it any longer, I decided I had to do something about it. So I went to yoga.
Stretch.
Even after patterned breathing and peaceful stretching, even after a hot meal and a hot shower, I still couldn't get one of those stupid questions off of my mind. Number seven, I think it was. Positivity. What is the ratio of positive to negative comments in your classroom?
Yikes. I hadn't ever counted or measured or considered or frankly even cared about comparing until that stupid survey made me do it, but the next day I charted myself. And, sure enough, my tally marks gave me away. Even at my most diligent my numbers looked something like this: 13 negative, 2 positive.
So, here's my question. How do I stay positive and honest too?
I am a critic, a cynic at heart. Further, I participate in a system that venerates critical gaze. I've invested a great deal of time and money to programs, universities, professors, classes that have coached my disparaging temperment, refined my judicious eye. Pessimism comes easy for me.
Perhaps now is the time to practice optimism, compassion.
Stretch.
This morning I made the students stretch to start the class period. We were about to start our big language assessment for the state and the kids were acting all nervous and squirrelly so I made them stand up right there at their seats and stretch their arms to the sky, down to the ground, up to the sky again. I made them hug their knees. I smiled.
We all took a deep breath...
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Planlessness and painfulness
Its never a good idea to start the day without a plan. Still, some days (like today) I find myself inadvertently riding this sinking ship. And perhaps the most frustrating part of my current predicament is that my plan-less-ness, today at least, has little to do with my own lack of diligence. In fact, I'm looking at the clock realizing that it's 8:30am and I've already been at school for 2 hours. No, today my lack-of-plan is just reality, just an embedded little gem in the nature of what I do.
I liken lesson-planning to vacation planning; and sometimes as a first year teacher I feel a bit like a first-time travel agent, cluelessly planning trips to locations she has never visited, on airlines she's not even sure exist. I can just hear myself giving advice about what to bring when I have no idea what the weather will be like in Bangladesh this time of year. What is there to do there? I hear my client ask, and I just smile, wondering where exactly Bangladesh is located on a map. You're really going to enjoy your layover in Dusseldorf, I'll say. But the truth is, I have no idea if its on the way.
That is the heaviest part of this job, the part I carry with me when I go home at night, the part that sometimes interrupts my sleep, my leisure. That is the part that drives me out of bed in the morning, that renders me sometimes speechless, that feels like it lacks an answer. The truth is that not all problems have solutions, and for a girl who likes to fix and to solve, that conclusion is more than a little frustrating, disconcerting...
Sometimes I wish that life were more like math; that every dilemma had a formula, that my task was to determine the correct one. But the truth is that in language (and in life) equations don't always promise a correct answer. Sometimes trial and error is all that we have. Sometimes our plans, our itineraries, are just best guesses until we've navigated the terrain ourselves. Sometimes (maybe) it is the pain of planlessness that teaches us the most of all...
I liken lesson-planning to vacation planning; and sometimes as a first year teacher I feel a bit like a first-time travel agent, cluelessly planning trips to locations she has never visited, on airlines she's not even sure exist. I can just hear myself giving advice about what to bring when I have no idea what the weather will be like in Bangladesh this time of year. What is there to do there? I hear my client ask, and I just smile, wondering where exactly Bangladesh is located on a map. You're really going to enjoy your layover in Dusseldorf, I'll say. But the truth is, I have no idea if its on the way.
That is the heaviest part of this job, the part I carry with me when I go home at night, the part that sometimes interrupts my sleep, my leisure. That is the part that drives me out of bed in the morning, that renders me sometimes speechless, that feels like it lacks an answer. The truth is that not all problems have solutions, and for a girl who likes to fix and to solve, that conclusion is more than a little frustrating, disconcerting...
Sometimes I wish that life were more like math; that every dilemma had a formula, that my task was to determine the correct one. But the truth is that in language (and in life) equations don't always promise a correct answer. Sometimes trial and error is all that we have. Sometimes our plans, our itineraries, are just best guesses until we've navigated the terrain ourselves. Sometimes (maybe) it is the pain of planlessness that teaches us the most of all...
Monday, January 11, 2010
Lessons that linger
I don't think I am alone in saying that I want to teach lessons that last. I want to teach something beyond the momentary, beyond the sedintary, something that leaks into my students' lunch conversation. I want my students, five years from now... or heck, even five minutes from now... to think to themselves "remember that one day in English class when we... [fill-in-the-blanks].
But blanks. That's what I keep drawing.
Sometimes I have no ideas. Sometimes my ideas just fall flat. And, to be truthful, sometimes I am just so tired that all I can do is just make it through the day without totally losing my mind. And today I am feeling sad that my classroom lacks that sweet fragrance of "ah ha!"
Unfortunately the ah-ha moments have been more mine than my students these days.
I asked one of our behavior management coaches to come observe me during fifth period the other day, a class in which I have several students who display wildly disruptive behavior on a daily basis. He gladly obliged and offered me some seriously helpful feedback. It would be complicated to explain the specifics here, but the overarching message was this: If you want your students to be responsive, you have to be consistent. Ah-ha.
Consistency. Repetition. I feel like an actor rehearsing for a play, learning what to say and how to say it and then saying the same words in the same way about a thousand times each day.
And speaking of lingering lessons, I was in line waiting to order a coffee the other morning and the woman behind me was chatting away on her cell phone. I stepped away from the counter, clearing space for the woman to place her order. She continued her conversation, fumbling with her wallet, barely pausing to acknowledge her barista. The gentleman behind her had already expressed his subtle displeasure with her behavior, but at her oblivion, he grew suddenly furious. He yelled profanities, she retaliated, and the two entered into a remarkably familiar "he-started-it-no-she-started-it" kind of an argument. I was back in my middle school classroom all over again.
Perhaps some lessons really do just get away from us. And perhaps some linger more than we expect...
Yesterday morning, before first period, one student ran up to me in exhuberation. "Ms. Spotts! Ms. Spotts!" This students said. "Here's a question for you! Are you on cloud nine today!?!?" I smiled, remembering how I had, on a whim, explained this strage idiom to my students the day before. "Yes, Alex" I told him, laughing a little.
"I am on cloud nine! Thanks for asking."
But blanks. That's what I keep drawing.
Sometimes I have no ideas. Sometimes my ideas just fall flat. And, to be truthful, sometimes I am just so tired that all I can do is just make it through the day without totally losing my mind. And today I am feeling sad that my classroom lacks that sweet fragrance of "ah ha!"
Unfortunately the ah-ha moments have been more mine than my students these days.
I asked one of our behavior management coaches to come observe me during fifth period the other day, a class in which I have several students who display wildly disruptive behavior on a daily basis. He gladly obliged and offered me some seriously helpful feedback. It would be complicated to explain the specifics here, but the overarching message was this: If you want your students to be responsive, you have to be consistent. Ah-ha.
Consistency. Repetition. I feel like an actor rehearsing for a play, learning what to say and how to say it and then saying the same words in the same way about a thousand times each day.
And speaking of lingering lessons, I was in line waiting to order a coffee the other morning and the woman behind me was chatting away on her cell phone. I stepped away from the counter, clearing space for the woman to place her order. She continued her conversation, fumbling with her wallet, barely pausing to acknowledge her barista. The gentleman behind her had already expressed his subtle displeasure with her behavior, but at her oblivion, he grew suddenly furious. He yelled profanities, she retaliated, and the two entered into a remarkably familiar "he-started-it-no-she-started-it" kind of an argument. I was back in my middle school classroom all over again.
Perhaps some lessons really do just get away from us. And perhaps some linger more than we expect...
Yesterday morning, before first period, one student ran up to me in exhuberation. "Ms. Spotts! Ms. Spotts!" This students said. "Here's a question for you! Are you on cloud nine today!?!?" I smiled, remembering how I had, on a whim, explained this strage idiom to my students the day before. "Yes, Alex" I told him, laughing a little.
"I am on cloud nine! Thanks for asking."
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