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.
Sunday, September 30, 2007
Late Work
It's October Eve already. I can't hope to catch up on all you've missed, good reader, and so I beg your forgiveness and offer you this anecdote.
Last week, my new boss and I disagreed on the meaning of "fair late work policy."
I expect work to be handed in on time, especially since I normally give at least one week's notice before anything is due. I spell this out, as well as when I do allow late work, in my course expectations. Of course, many students turned in the first homework assignments a day or more late. I accepted the work and gave them a score of zero rather than showing it as missing in my electronic gradebook.
One of my students complained to her mother that I was being unreasonable. I spoke with the mother on the phone and gave her both my policy and my strategy to inculcate a sense of urgency and promptness. Specifically, I know that my students will not turn in work on time, at least until they understand that I am serious about requiring them to do so. Therefore, I give simple assignments worth few points at the beginning of the semester. That way, when a student gets a zero for turning an assignment in late, his or her grade falls to an "F" but can be easily corrected by submitting later, more valuable assignments, on time. In fact, students who fail to turn in the first three assignments of the year can still come around and potentially get an "A" for the first quarter as long as they act on the understanding that I do not accept late work except under specific circumstances normally involving and excused absence or extreme family stress verified by a meeting or phone conversation between me and the student's parent.
My boss, an assistant principle by the name of Ms. C_, received a phone call from an aggrieved parent who asserted that my late work policy was not fair to her daughter, who was confused by the assignment due date (I brief due dates verbally, write them on the whiteboard next to the classroom door, post them on my classroom website, and remind students daily of upcoming suspenses). My boss worked hard to convince me that my policy was unfair and that in normal working conditions, bosses normally accepted work after it was due but with penalties attached. She asserted that this was also true in the military. I'm not sure where she got her information about the military attitude toward timeliness and meeting one's obligations at or before the required date and time.
In any case, she failed to convince me of her argument but, as her subordinate, I agreed to take on the late policy of Mr. S_, a colleague with high standards who is also supervised by Ms. C_. She agreed that would be an acceptable course.
So now I will take work one day after it is due but it will receive only 50% of whatever grade it would have received had it been turned in on time. Interestingly, Mr. S_ had the same policy I did: no late work, until Ms. C_ forced him to take on a policy she considered fair. Mr. S_ posted his policy as an addendum to his course expectations, but did not disseminate the information to his students. They have no idea they can turn assignments in late for half-credit; they turn their assignments in on time.
I suppose this is what passes for intrigue in this new profession of mine.
Last week, my new boss and I disagreed on the meaning of "fair late work policy."
I expect work to be handed in on time, especially since I normally give at least one week's notice before anything is due. I spell this out, as well as when I do allow late work, in my course expectations. Of course, many students turned in the first homework assignments a day or more late. I accepted the work and gave them a score of zero rather than showing it as missing in my electronic gradebook.
One of my students complained to her mother that I was being unreasonable. I spoke with the mother on the phone and gave her both my policy and my strategy to inculcate a sense of urgency and promptness. Specifically, I know that my students will not turn in work on time, at least until they understand that I am serious about requiring them to do so. Therefore, I give simple assignments worth few points at the beginning of the semester. That way, when a student gets a zero for turning an assignment in late, his or her grade falls to an "F" but can be easily corrected by submitting later, more valuable assignments, on time. In fact, students who fail to turn in the first three assignments of the year can still come around and potentially get an "A" for the first quarter as long as they act on the understanding that I do not accept late work except under specific circumstances normally involving and excused absence or extreme family stress verified by a meeting or phone conversation between me and the student's parent.
My boss, an assistant principle by the name of Ms. C_, received a phone call from an aggrieved parent who asserted that my late work policy was not fair to her daughter, who was confused by the assignment due date (I brief due dates verbally, write them on the whiteboard next to the classroom door, post them on my classroom website, and remind students daily of upcoming suspenses). My boss worked hard to convince me that my policy was unfair and that in normal working conditions, bosses normally accepted work after it was due but with penalties attached. She asserted that this was also true in the military. I'm not sure where she got her information about the military attitude toward timeliness and meeting one's obligations at or before the required date and time.
In any case, she failed to convince me of her argument but, as her subordinate, I agreed to take on the late policy of Mr. S_, a colleague with high standards who is also supervised by Ms. C_. She agreed that would be an acceptable course.
So now I will take work one day after it is due but it will receive only 50% of whatever grade it would have received had it been turned in on time. Interestingly, Mr. S_ had the same policy I did: no late work, until Ms. C_ forced him to take on a policy she considered fair. Mr. S_ posted his policy as an addendum to his course expectations, but did not disseminate the information to his students. They have no idea they can turn assignments in late for half-credit; they turn their assignments in on time.
I suppose this is what passes for intrigue in this new profession of mine.
Sunday, August 26, 2007
Summer's Done
I am already looking nostalgically back on my summer vacation. For the first time since I left high school, I had three months off. Three months to do what I wanted. Three months to over-estimate my available time.
Still, I managed to fit in what I wanted most to accomplish: 1) spend lazy time with my family, 2) go to Anime Expo, 3) hang out with two old friends in the Bay Area, and 3) design, build, finish, and install a seven-piece cabinet and shelf unit.
Enjoy the pictures.
Still, I managed to fit in what I wanted most to accomplish: 1) spend lazy time with my family, 2) go to Anime Expo, 3) hang out with two old friends in the Bay Area, and 3) design, build, finish, and install a seven-piece cabinet and shelf unit.
Enjoy the pictures.
Hell Week
Students officially arrive in my class for the first time on Monday at 0700. I've been working since 15 August and still feel anxious and unprepared. I am also excited. I am excited because these are my first full-year students and we have the opportunity to do some great things together. I will be able to watch them grow academically, socially, and emotionally. That's if I don't screw it up.
I want to get through five novels, one play, some poetry, a research project, review the eight parts of speech, reinforce and build grammar skills, build a robust vocabulary capability, develop voice, build confidence with the basic five-paragraph essay, take the personal essay to a more personal level, and perhaps most importantly, get them to realize the power of words.
Time restrictions have already forced me to dump two of the novels, what's next?
I have also been selected as the Freshman Grade Level Leader. I receive no extra pay for this auspicious position but do get an extra preparation period. The extra prep period gives me 170 more minutes and 70 - 80 less students than I had last year. My duties are a bit nebulous, but it appears I am required to keep the lines of communication open between our supervising administrator, one of three assistant principals, and the ninth grade teaching staff. In addition, I am there to help my colleagues solve day-to-day problems. I will provide them with basic software tutelage, simple supplies, and procedural clarifications.
In any case, tomorrow is a day for first impressions. Tomorrow I am driving a new shop, setting expectations, and introducing procedures. Tomorrow I am using my military persona to its fullest: efficient, mission-oriented, by the book. The first two homework assignments are already posted. It's Hell Week in Mr. Rice's room.
And in that vein, here's a quick checklist for my first day out:
1 ea. Plain dark slacks, pressed
1 ea. Plain long-sleeve shirt, pressed and starched
1 ea. Conservatively patterned tie, double Windsor knot, extending when at attention to within 1 inch of the top of belt buckle
1 ea. Plain black belt
1 ea. Plain black leather shoes, dusted and shined to a low gloss
1 pr. Plain black socks
Comfortable underwear
Haircut, high and tight, blended on sides and back
Shower
Shave with five-blade, ultra smooth razor
Deodorant, solid stick, double application
I want to get through five novels, one play, some poetry, a research project, review the eight parts of speech, reinforce and build grammar skills, build a robust vocabulary capability, develop voice, build confidence with the basic five-paragraph essay, take the personal essay to a more personal level, and perhaps most importantly, get them to realize the power of words.
Time restrictions have already forced me to dump two of the novels, what's next?
I have also been selected as the Freshman Grade Level Leader. I receive no extra pay for this auspicious position but do get an extra preparation period. The extra prep period gives me 170 more minutes and 70 - 80 less students than I had last year. My duties are a bit nebulous, but it appears I am required to keep the lines of communication open between our supervising administrator, one of three assistant principals, and the ninth grade teaching staff. In addition, I am there to help my colleagues solve day-to-day problems. I will provide them with basic software tutelage, simple supplies, and procedural clarifications.
In any case, tomorrow is a day for first impressions. Tomorrow I am driving a new shop, setting expectations, and introducing procedures. Tomorrow I am using my military persona to its fullest: efficient, mission-oriented, by the book. The first two homework assignments are already posted. It's Hell Week in Mr. Rice's room.
And in that vein, here's a quick checklist for my first day out:
1 ea. Plain dark slacks, pressed
1 ea. Plain long-sleeve shirt, pressed and starched
1 ea. Conservatively patterned tie, double Windsor knot, extending when at attention to within 1 inch of the top of belt buckle
1 ea. Plain black belt
1 ea. Plain black leather shoes, dusted and shined to a low gloss
1 pr. Plain black socks
Comfortable underwear
Haircut, high and tight, blended on sides and back
Shower
Shave with five-blade, ultra smooth razor
Deodorant, solid stick, double application
Thursday, July 26, 2007
"Hey, Hey , You, You, I Don't Like Your Girlfriend"
As of this moment I am listening to Avril Lavigne's most recent CD, The Best Damn Thing. The first track, "Girlfriend," drove me to write this little commentary.
Aside from the decidedly "Mickey" beat, girls are doing themselves no favors by taking "Girlfriend" as an anthem. The piece reinforces the teen stereotype adults carry in their hip pockets. In "Girlfriend," Lavigne neatly rolls up the vapid, clumsily scheming tart-vamp, an 18th century French aristocratette in-training. This is the self-centered, under-educated, aggressively apathetic teen bemoaned by many of my colleagues. They see most of the student body interested only in, and controlled by, the melodrama du jour.
I don't believe teenage girls are that simple-minded but, as Ms. Lavigne so artfully intones in the title track:" . . . you're not . . . gonna get any better/You won't . . . you won't get rid of me never/Like it or not even though she's a lot like me."
Perhaps all the little Avril's out there just take a little more growing up and some dedicated, educated and understanding guidance.
Aside from the decidedly "Mickey" beat, girls are doing themselves no favors by taking "Girlfriend" as an anthem. The piece reinforces the teen stereotype adults carry in their hip pockets. In "Girlfriend," Lavigne neatly rolls up the vapid, clumsily scheming tart-vamp, an 18th century French aristocratette in-training. This is the self-centered, under-educated, aggressively apathetic teen bemoaned by many of my colleagues. They see most of the student body interested only in, and controlled by, the melodrama du jour.
I don't believe teenage girls are that simple-minded but, as Ms. Lavigne so artfully intones in the title track:" . . . you're not . . . gonna get any better/You won't . . . you won't get rid of me never/Like it or not even though she's a lot like me."
Perhaps all the little Avril's out there just take a little more growing up and some dedicated, educated and understanding guidance.
Saturday, July 14, 2007
Watching Music
Music stirs us. It stirs every base and subtle emotion. We have evolved an aural palette, abhorring discordant sounds and easily slipping into harmonious melodies. To most of us, simply enjoying music is enough. We engage in music in the same way we savor good food or enjoy another's touch. We rarely think about why music can stir us to war, or seduce us to pleasure. Whether it is the pipes and drums of a Highland regiment on the battlefield or the crooning of Barry White in a softly lit chambre d'amour, we respond in the gut and our body releases chemicals to arouse our courage or our ardor.
Add to music the presence of our fellows. Our lusts, killing or sexual, are not so easily aroused by music in the absence of others. We would not so quickly charge a bristling English army armed with a spear, kilt, and a digital recording of Scotland the Brave without a stout comrade at our side. Live buglers at military funerals are always preferred over the best recording of Taps. Interestingly, the digital bugle was developed to fill in when a live bugler is unavailable to give the appearance of a live performance. Now one can be lowered into the ground with a Milli Vanilli version of full military honors.
Perhaps this explains why we generally prefer live performances, even if they are video recordings, over audio recordings. Human beings all recognize and respond to the human face. Indeed, our brains create human faces given only the slightest provocation. So when we couple these two strong stimuli: faces and music, it is no wonder some of us are willing to pay so much to become part of an audience rather than simply popping in a CD.
If you are wondering what prompted this entry, as I am certain you are, groove on over to YouTube and open up a couple of Andy Mckee pieces: Drifting, and Africa (yes, that Africa). Then listen to each piece without watching the video.
After you are done, watch and listen.
I can feel a difference.
Add to music the presence of our fellows. Our lusts, killing or sexual, are not so easily aroused by music in the absence of others. We would not so quickly charge a bristling English army armed with a spear, kilt, and a digital recording of Scotland the Brave without a stout comrade at our side. Live buglers at military funerals are always preferred over the best recording of Taps. Interestingly, the digital bugle was developed to fill in when a live bugler is unavailable to give the appearance of a live performance. Now one can be lowered into the ground with a Milli Vanilli version of full military honors.
Perhaps this explains why we generally prefer live performances, even if they are video recordings, over audio recordings. Human beings all recognize and respond to the human face. Indeed, our brains create human faces given only the slightest provocation. So when we couple these two strong stimuli: faces and music, it is no wonder some of us are willing to pay so much to become part of an audience rather than simply popping in a CD.
If you are wondering what prompted this entry, as I am certain you are, groove on over to YouTube and open up a couple of Andy Mckee pieces: Drifting, and Africa (yes, that Africa). Then listen to each piece without watching the video.
After you are done, watch and listen.
I can feel a difference.
Friday, July 6, 2007
Wood Working on my Dormant Dork
You may remember my earlier whinging regarding pay and benefits. Now, a month after leaving the classroom, I am enjoying a vacation unheard of in almost any other field. In two days, I will have been on summer break from one month and still have another six weeks to go before I have to be back for orientation.
My major summer wood working project is well underway: three cabinets with drawers, doors, and bookshelves flanked by two pillar shelving units. I am trying my hand for the first time and, true to form, am eschewing pre-production planning or design. Furthermore, I am using only the best #2 pine one-inch boards I can dig out of the mass of bowed and twisted rejects at my local Home Depot. I could have gone with birch ply, but why take the easy route when one can twist and pound kiln-dried, knot-filled, slabs of wood into usable pieces of furniture? I love the way each board is usually 1/8" to 1/2" narrower or wider than its sister from the same pallet. What makes it even more challenging is my lack of a joiner or planer or table saw. I suppose I should consider using an adze and timber saw next time, just to up the ante.
I have also been re-exploring my dormant dork. Four days at Anime Expo helped me see just how far I had strayed from my origins. I felt like a traitor. My daughter cosplayed (new verb, don't bother looking it up until Webster gets around to adding it) a character from Naruto as well as two tragic Shakespearean women. I went as a middle-aged American male: slacks and a polo. I figure I was seen either as a the clueless-guy-who-brought-his-kid or the closet hentai aficionado there to ogle the Japanese schoolgirls. I'll let you decide which one.
You may have noticed I didn't mention any preparations for the next school year. Lesson plans are languishing and I can feel the the slow buildup of guilt and its accompanying anxiety beginning to push my hand away from the drill and saw and wood glue and clamps and Japanese schoolgirls and toward the computer keyboard.
My major summer wood working project is well underway: three cabinets with drawers, doors, and bookshelves flanked by two pillar shelving units. I am trying my hand for the first time and, true to form, am eschewing pre-production planning or design. Furthermore, I am using only the best #2 pine one-inch boards I can dig out of the mass of bowed and twisted rejects at my local Home Depot. I could have gone with birch ply, but why take the easy route when one can twist and pound kiln-dried, knot-filled, slabs of wood into usable pieces of furniture? I love the way each board is usually 1/8" to 1/2" narrower or wider than its sister from the same pallet. What makes it even more challenging is my lack of a joiner or planer or table saw. I suppose I should consider using an adze and timber saw next time, just to up the ante.
I have also been re-exploring my dormant dork. Four days at Anime Expo helped me see just how far I had strayed from my origins. I felt like a traitor. My daughter cosplayed (new verb, don't bother looking it up until Webster gets around to adding it) a character from Naruto as well as two tragic Shakespearean women. I went as a middle-aged American male: slacks and a polo. I figure I was seen either as a the clueless-guy-who-brought-his-kid or the closet hentai aficionado there to ogle the Japanese schoolgirls. I'll let you decide which one.
You may have noticed I didn't mention any preparations for the next school year. Lesson plans are languishing and I can feel the the slow buildup of guilt and its accompanying anxiety beginning to push my hand away from the drill and saw and wood glue and clamps and Japanese schoolgirls and toward the computer keyboard.
Thursday, June 7, 2007
White Mexican
As Alice Cooper reminds us every year about this time, "school's out for summer." Unless they die, however, school is not out for my freshman students "forever." For many of them, their freshman year isn't even really over since they get to retake several subjects again. I know roughly 100 who get to re-take freshman English. It seems not too many are going to go to summer school. Instead, they will be going to a colleague who has been selected, for the 2007/2008 school year, to take on this year's crop of failing freshman. This colleague was hired the same day I was and came on board after over a decade of teaching English Composition at UNLV.
I hate cliche but could not resist a silent "out of the frying pan . . ."
Interestingly, a rather large number of my failing students expressed an interest in having me as their Freshman English teacher next year for their second attempt. I asked them if they wouldn't rather have a less demanding teacher. They all replied that I was "cool" and made class "fun" even though I assigned "too much work." I told them I planned on making the course even more demanding next year but they didn't seem to mind. My favorite compliment was from a young Mexican-American male who told me he didn't mess around in my class because I gave him respect and therefore he respected me. In one essay, he wrote that I was "like a white Mexican."
Gracias.
I hate cliche but could not resist a silent "out of the frying pan . . ."
Interestingly, a rather large number of my failing students expressed an interest in having me as their Freshman English teacher next year for their second attempt. I asked them if they wouldn't rather have a less demanding teacher. They all replied that I was "cool" and made class "fun" even though I assigned "too much work." I told them I planned on making the course even more demanding next year but they didn't seem to mind. My favorite compliment was from a young Mexican-American male who told me he didn't mess around in my class because I gave him respect and therefore he respected me. In one essay, he wrote that I was "like a white Mexican."
Gracias.
Sunday, June 3, 2007
Semester Exams
The second semester is almost over. All that remains are four days of semester exams: 105 minutes for each class. I won't say I'm feeling particularly sad but I do feel as if it all went too fast and I didn't get enough accomplished. I suppose I have to leave some work for the 10th, 11th, and 12th grade English teachers.
I have had fewer supplicants at the end of this quarter than I did the last. Most seemed resigned to their fate, like death-row inmates staring at the execution chamber: in this case the door to six-week summer school course. Some say that summer school isn't as bad as it seems. True, they have to get up early and go to school, but they get to finish off a year's worth of material in much less time. I wonder how summer school teachers manage to cram it all in.
I suspect they don't. In fact, many of the students seem to know that less will be expected of them and they can generally expect at least a "D" even if they do very little work. This frustrates me and makes me come within a few miles of wanting to surprise them on their first day of summer school: "Good morning, I'm Mr. Rice, and I'll be your summer school English I teacher." But a few miles is as close as I care to get. I want a few weeks to unwind and build next year's curriculum map and lesson plans.
I have had fewer supplicants at the end of this quarter than I did the last. Most seemed resigned to their fate, like death-row inmates staring at the execution chamber: in this case the door to six-week summer school course. Some say that summer school isn't as bad as it seems. True, they have to get up early and go to school, but they get to finish off a year's worth of material in much less time. I wonder how summer school teachers manage to cram it all in.
I suspect they don't. In fact, many of the students seem to know that less will be expected of them and they can generally expect at least a "D" even if they do very little work. This frustrates me and makes me come within a few miles of wanting to surprise them on their first day of summer school: "Good morning, I'm Mr. Rice, and I'll be your summer school English I teacher." But a few miles is as close as I care to get. I want a few weeks to unwind and build next year's curriculum map and lesson plans.
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