back to school
Well, school started last week and it officially kicked my ass. If you’ve got family or acquaintances questioning the dedication of teachers or the need to do distance learning, please send them my way—I have plenty to say.
Like my neighbor who had the audacity to ask me if I’ll be getting paid. My response? “Yes, because I’m working,” complete with half-eye roll and snarl.
You can also share with them that it takes much longer to lesson plan for classes in which some kids will be logged in synchronously and others will have to participate asynchronously because they have siblings they’ll be helping during the school day or because they’ll be working at the grocery store during those hours or because their house is packed with people and only quiet at night. And we have to monitor student participation throughout the day (and/or night—I know we’ve got lots of night owls), ready to change a student’s absence to a “distance learning” attendance code so they get credit for participating.
You can tell them that we have to plan everything in advance with all materials and resources posted and ready to go on Mondays, predicting the future of how quickly students will pick up information and move through the content, making guesses about how engaging the assignment will be. We’ve always done that, to an extent, but it’s exacerbated now.
You can tell them that I’m still working far longer than my contracted hours because the day only has twenty-four—and I could really use forty-eight. You can tell them that my partner, Michael, has been coming into our dining room (my “office”) at six, seven, eight p.m., who knows, saying “okay, you have to put it away for today,” only to find me forty-five minutes later, rushing to the computer to add one more thing or responding to an email on my phone right before bed.
I am lucky because my class is an elective and I have the freedom to build it around the students’ needs and am not bound to curricular requirements; however, my colleagues are trying to figure out how to teach a year’s worth of learning in a semester. They’re having to make tough choices—what to skip, what amazing project or activity just can’t be shifted to a virtual setting. It’s a lot to figure out.
And yet, it’s obviously worth it because even one student or staff death due to returning too early is clearly not worth it. Obviously, at the end of the day, we all do this work, are jumping into it feet first, because the health and safety of our students and communities is paramount. And our kids need social connection, even if it’s just over a screen. They need teachers and counselors checking in and talking to them, even if dropping in for a chat and some advice looks different now.
And this isn’t meant to be a “woe is me” tale of the sorrows of my life or profession, by any means, but it is a little dispatch from your humble intervention specialist “returned” to the “classroom.” (And, side note: only teaching one class and one social-emotional advisory period has reiterated to me once again that if we only gave teachers one or two classes we could all be such superstars and really last in this profession. Right now, I can be as immediately responsive as I always wished since I only have 52 students, as opposed to 160.)
And I guess this is also a request to inform those people in your life or your circles, when you see or hear from them (to the extent that you can), that America’s teachers and counselors, and our unions, are not greedy, grubby jerks out to destroy the country and leave behind the children. We’re doing what we can in the weirdest time of our lives to give our love, care, and learning opportunities to our students because they deserve it.
prompt #16:
Since I’m obviously in a teacherly frame of mind, I want to revisit the classic poetry prompt that I’m sure many of us have completed (and taught) in at least one English class. Yes, the “I am From” poem. Although it can sometimes feel overdone, it’s actually a great way for teachers to get to know students at the beginning of a new year, and is also a powerful opportunity to reflect on identity and history.
And if you don’t remember, or you didn’t complete this assignment, it’s basically a poem that begins with the phrase “I’m from…” and then includes imagery and description of where you are from. It can be taken both literally and figuratively, and is usually used to encourage students to experiment with using both. So here we go.
You’re going to start off by making a bunch of lists. Be creative and let yourself follow those trains of thoughts.
• Favorite foods
• Favorite places
• Family events or gatherings
• Products or items that remind you of home or family
• Important people in your life
• Sayings or mottos that remind you of home or family
• Imagery that illustrates your home or location
You will probably find, as you list, that certain images call to you strongly. When you’ve finished listing, go back and identify those important images. They should probably be added into your poem/song/whatever you end up writing.
If you want, you can use the traditional structure, which generally looks something like this:
“I’m from _
From _ and _ .
I am from _ .
(Ending line that wraps up how you feel about those things).”
Or, you can play with form, rhythm, rhyme, and other structural aspects. You don’t even have to end up with a poem, if you want. See where the images take you.
ashley’s piece:
The first time we drove back to Pacific Grove, we had arrived after a daylong flight, passing the dunes in the dark,
the lights twinkled and the bay opened like a gift, but it all smeared together with my tears.
I wrapped my unhappiness around my shoulders, warding off the gray fog and praying for four years to pass fast so I could hurry up and get back to my real life.
House hidden under dark trees, lonely and bland.
But the days continued, shifted,
the calendar turned.
My memories thickened.
Todays burned brighter than yesterdays.
Early mornings greeted me with their bright scent of sea and cypress.
Friday nights sparkled under bright field lights.
Uncertain smiles turned wide,
loud laughs.
Unbridled.
Alive.
Late night walks in clouds of fog and smoke.
Warm as arms around my shoulders.
The bonfire blazed, hot and clear.