Tomorrow morning I am meeting with a mother whose son has, according to the school counselor, convinced her that my workload is too heavy and is the reason for this quarter's failure.
What makes this case interesting is that this particular student is the son of a nine-time NBA All-Star who, just last year, signed a 7-figure contract for a single season. Interestingly, and perhaps not surprisingly or coincidentally, I was stopped by one of our coaches who urged me to "help the kid out" since dad provides "significant contributions" to our sports program. I assume the "significant contributions" have little to do with manning the snack bar or cheering loudly. I also assume "help out" means something more than providing extra tutoring.
Curiously (take this with a grain of Wiki-salt), Dad had a little trouble during his college sophomore year, was urged by his father to focus on his studies, and managed to graduate.
I'll let you know how it turns out.
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Friday, October 26, 2007
New and Differently Dressed
I just received the prints from my first school picture since I left the 12th grade. They remind me of my changing situation, my second jerk into a completely different environment, and my excitement for a challenging future mingled with my longing for a comfortable past.
Sunday, October 21, 2007
Curried Student: An Unlikely Pleasure
During one of my classes a couple of weeks ago, I kept walking past the same spot near the door. The students were taking a test and the room was blissfully silent save for the scratching of pencils. My nose was piqued by something pleasant.
It was the smell of Grimsbury, a small neighborhood in Banbury, UK inhabited mostly by immigrants from the Indian sub-continent. We lived there in the late 1980s and often walked by rowhouses that, just then, smelled exactly like the corner of my room closest to the door. There, near the "Turn-In" and "Graded" trays, was a spectral blend of cardamom, coriander, turmeric, and pepper cooked in oil.
I kept cycling quickly through the rest of the room and slowing down as I approached but still couldn't discern where the lovely odor was coming from. The lunch lady doesn't serve curries (there is some law against serving appetizing food in public schools), the smell wasn't anywhere near the air vent, and I didn't see any other obvious source. I tried to keep my sniffing surreptitious and widened my nostrils to drag in as many molecules as possible.
Then I remembered the name of the boy sitting at the end of the table closest to the door. It isn't an Indian name, but the sound of it would blend well with Samarkand and all that name evokes. I realized at that moment that the 14 year old boy sitting 3 feet from me and worrying over how to write a sentence using the word "suffice" was unknowingly carrying the traces of generations of culinary culture in in the threads of his clothing. It was hard not to lean in and take in a good, long whiff of his jacket.
The smell pulled me back down Grimsbury's winter streets and made me outwardly smile. It also made me suddenly realize how weird and creepy it was for me to be sniffing students.
It was the smell of Grimsbury, a small neighborhood in Banbury, UK inhabited mostly by immigrants from the Indian sub-continent. We lived there in the late 1980s and often walked by rowhouses that, just then, smelled exactly like the corner of my room closest to the door. There, near the "Turn-In" and "Graded" trays, was a spectral blend of cardamom, coriander, turmeric, and pepper cooked in oil.
I kept cycling quickly through the rest of the room and slowing down as I approached but still couldn't discern where the lovely odor was coming from. The lunch lady doesn't serve curries (there is some law against serving appetizing food in public schools), the smell wasn't anywhere near the air vent, and I didn't see any other obvious source. I tried to keep my sniffing surreptitious and widened my nostrils to drag in as many molecules as possible.
Then I remembered the name of the boy sitting at the end of the table closest to the door. It isn't an Indian name, but the sound of it would blend well with Samarkand and all that name evokes. I realized at that moment that the 14 year old boy sitting 3 feet from me and worrying over how to write a sentence using the word "suffice" was unknowingly carrying the traces of generations of culinary culture in in the threads of his clothing. It was hard not to lean in and take in a good, long whiff of his jacket.
The smell pulled me back down Grimsbury's winter streets and made me outwardly smile. It also made me suddenly realize how weird and creepy it was for me to be sniffing students.
Funk Free
Thanks for the support, blog readers. I am now funk-free!
The reason for both my anger and my funk came from a day I was out to a meeting and needed two of my classes covered by a substitute. Afterward, comments about my classes from a colleague, a parent, a hall monitor, and various other drop-ins to my classroom made my head head explode, leaving a fine grey-red mist of anger lingering in the air for weeks. A sampling:
"They were the most disrespectful class I have ever encountered."
"They were like animals."
"Would it possible for my daughter to change classes? She can't concentrate due to the constant noise."
"Man, Mr. Rice, your class was terrible."
I'm not sure the form-'em-up-and-chew-'em-out strategy worked. I still find it difficult to keep them in check sometimes. I have had some apologies, but only from those students who weren't the trouble-makers.
The reason for both my anger and my funk came from a day I was out to a meeting and needed two of my classes covered by a substitute. Afterward, comments about my classes from a colleague, a parent, a hall monitor, and various other drop-ins to my classroom made my head head explode, leaving a fine grey-red mist of anger lingering in the air for weeks. A sampling:
"They were the most disrespectful class I have ever encountered."
"They were like animals."
"Would it possible for my daughter to change classes? She can't concentrate due to the constant noise."
"Man, Mr. Rice, your class was terrible."
I'm not sure the form-'em-up-and-chew-'em-out strategy worked. I still find it difficult to keep them in check sometimes. I have had some apologies, but only from those students who weren't the trouble-makers.
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
Perhaps you'd like to hear why I handed out the ass-chewing.
I don't feel like going into it right now.
I am in a funk. Not 1960's-Motown-Funk-with-capital-F, and not a dude-you-reek funk either. This funk is the kind that sticks and pulls: the kind that drags and sucks and slowly crushes. Some of my students sensed it. One girl, who dropped by after the last bell for some clarification on an assignment, looked at me, paused for a half second, and said, "Mr. Rice, you're not going to leave us, are you?"
No, I'm not going to leave them. I wonder, however, just where I am in the new-teacher continuum. Is my funk common at this stage? I thought I would have this gig down by now. Instead, I am behind the other ninth-grade English teachers whose students are generating wonderful little essays in MLA format and plowing into illuminating discussions about the nature of man as reflected in literature. I still have not finished introducing the elements of fiction or even gotten into a structured approach to essay writing. Most of classes are failing to even turn in assignments and I have the wrestling coach breathing down my neck to figure out some way to get his boys to pass so they can compete. I can see how some teachers either opt out or cave in.
On the other hand, I have a group of kids who start rolling into my room at 0600. They are a mix of all four grade levels and usually end up hanging out and listening to music, discussing the books they are reading, and generally socializing. Today we discussed Eliot's "The Wasteland" and "The Hollow Men," and listened to "Time Warp" and part of "The Boondock Saints" soundtrack. Most of these students are interesting, if a little naive, and have an eagerness to grow and engage: an eagerness, if you will, to both be and become. They are both willing to teach and willing to learn. Predictably, they are some of the "scary" students: Mohawks, bondage pants, corsets, trench coats, unnaturally colored hair, and one who often wears an evil-Alice-in -Wonderland black skirt, stockings, and heels. Most write and draw and chase knowledge. Many of them have terrible grades.
They contribute to my funk not because of who they are but of the system that does not allow for the education we could give each other if allowed to simply take our informal, before school activity and make it the primary learning platform. Instead, they shuffle off at the bell to make their ritualistic rounds.
On the other hand, my funk is also fueled by students who would get absolutely nothing but a nap if I were to implement such a loose arrangement in my classes.
I don't feel like going into it right now.
I am in a funk. Not 1960's-Motown-Funk-with-capital-F, and not a dude-you-reek funk either. This funk is the kind that sticks and pulls: the kind that drags and sucks and slowly crushes. Some of my students sensed it. One girl, who dropped by after the last bell for some clarification on an assignment, looked at me, paused for a half second, and said, "Mr. Rice, you're not going to leave us, are you?"
No, I'm not going to leave them. I wonder, however, just where I am in the new-teacher continuum. Is my funk common at this stage? I thought I would have this gig down by now. Instead, I am behind the other ninth-grade English teachers whose students are generating wonderful little essays in MLA format and plowing into illuminating discussions about the nature of man as reflected in literature. I still have not finished introducing the elements of fiction or even gotten into a structured approach to essay writing. Most of classes are failing to even turn in assignments and I have the wrestling coach breathing down my neck to figure out some way to get his boys to pass so they can compete. I can see how some teachers either opt out or cave in.
On the other hand, I have a group of kids who start rolling into my room at 0600. They are a mix of all four grade levels and usually end up hanging out and listening to music, discussing the books they are reading, and generally socializing. Today we discussed Eliot's "The Wasteland" and "The Hollow Men," and listened to "Time Warp" and part of "The Boondock Saints" soundtrack. Most of these students are interesting, if a little naive, and have an eagerness to grow and engage: an eagerness, if you will, to both be and become. They are both willing to teach and willing to learn. Predictably, they are some of the "scary" students: Mohawks, bondage pants, corsets, trench coats, unnaturally colored hair, and one who often wears an evil-Alice-in -Wonderland black skirt, stockings, and heels. Most write and draw and chase knowledge. Many of them have terrible grades.
They contribute to my funk not because of who they are but of the system that does not allow for the education we could give each other if allowed to simply take our informal, before school activity and make it the primary learning platform. Instead, they shuffle off at the bell to make their ritualistic rounds.
On the other hand, my funk is also fueled by students who would get absolutely nothing but a nap if I were to implement such a loose arrangement in my classes.
Wednesday, October 3, 2007
Let the Ass-Chewing Commence
I turned all the tables in my classroom on their sides and pushed their tops against the wall. I stacked all the student chairs and placed them against the wall with their seats toward the wall and backs to the room. My classroom floor, like the deck of sailing man o' war, is now cleared and ready for tomorrow's battle. There is a sign posted on the window of my classroom door that reads:
3rd & 7th PERIOD CHILDREN. STAND QUIETLY ON EITHER SIDE OF THE HALLWAY AND WAIT FOR ME TO CALL YOU IN.
I practiced lining up my eighth period class to see how many columns there will be tomorrow when I put third and seventh in formation for the most phenomenal ass-chewing many of the ungrateful, self-absorbed, narcissistic, blame-shifting, sickly suburban spawn have ever encountered.
Oh, and there's a PowerPoint slide to go along with that ass-chewing. You know, technology makes education F-U-N!!!!!
I'll let you know how it goes.
3rd & 7th PERIOD CHILDREN. STAND QUIETLY ON EITHER SIDE OF THE HALLWAY AND WAIT FOR ME TO CALL YOU IN.
I practiced lining up my eighth period class to see how many columns there will be tomorrow when I put third and seventh in formation for the most phenomenal ass-chewing many of the ungrateful, self-absorbed, narcissistic, blame-shifting, sickly suburban spawn have ever encountered.
Oh, and there's a PowerPoint slide to go along with that ass-chewing. You know, technology makes education F-U-N!!!!!
I'll let you know how it goes.
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