Front Porch

A piece that, in some form or fashion, will be a part of my manuscript made its way to Front Porch Journal. Read it here!

It sort of follows this How To Succeed in Middle School motto: Don't Use the R Word.

I ended up on Pitt's Creative Writing webpage. I'm laughing hysterically at some story my classmate is telling. Does this happen in real life? My favorite part is the caption underneath the photo.

You can see the entire website here

I'm a Bouncer

Writing Exercise...

Bouncing on an Empty Stomach

Nothing was certain during those first years. Even the simplest of lessons (circle the noun or underline the verb or please write your name in the upper right hand corner) couldn’t be trusted. Anything was bound to happen: a fire drill, a lock down, a loss of electricity, an overheard projector malfunction. Jada forgot her pencil. Or, Adam forgot his meds. Or, Darius forgot his deodorant again. And today, with the Louisiana humidity that could penetrate even the thickest of concrete walls, the smell in your classroom is pungent and sour. It makes you gag. You realize that you should have had the foresight to wear a bandanna around your nose like the cowgirl teacher you want to be. Lassoing, wrangling, whipping sense into these unruly minds. Nothing was certain. Nothing was quite predictable. Insanity, yes. That was certainly predictable. But not its route, not the course it would take.

Nothing was certain during those first years. Except this. For whatever reason (because you’re young or stupid or eager) you insist on plunging into the hormonal hellfire of a middle school brawl. Girls on girls. Boys on boys. Sometimes, even, boys on girls or girls on boys. The logistics never mattered. Sixth graders. Eighth graders. Special ed. Regular ed. It is you who would abandon your classroom. As if to say to your class through the language of the honed teacher-look you deliver before you run out the door: Be good. Be still. Keep writing. I’ll be back once I bounce these fighting knuckleheads out of my hallway. It could be anywhere. Your classroom, the hallway, the gymnasium, the basketball courts. You take ownership over whatever space you occupy. You’re allowed to, you decide. You’re new. You’re young. But, you’re a teacher. And you will not stand by and watch even the most idiotic of adolescents beat each other while everyone else, teachers and students alike, stand by and take it for a show.

The administrators will continue to say, “Ms. Field, just stand back next time. Shout ‘Stop, stop’. That’s all we require of you. No need to get yourself hurt.” But, you’ll continue as a bouncer. Because of adrenaline or because you know that this is one surefire way to defend your authority.

# # #

It’s just past six thirty. The sun is mildly creeping upwards. A haze shrouds the sun, draping its offensiveness. Never mind the studies that repeatedly report that yes, in fact, adolescent development would appreciate a school day that began at a decent hour. The bell will ring at its programmed time, in just a few minutes, and our day together will start, whether anyone is ready or not. Once a week I stand on these basketball courts with three other teachers. We are to spread out. Spread our dominance over chaotic quadrants of students. Boys to the right, girls to the left, and separated by grade. Sixth, seventh, eighth. I’m always on the boys’ side. Ms. H. is always on the girls’. And the other two, when they show up, stand somewhere near the door and away from the kids. They sip coffee, yawn and talk about the stuckness of their careers.

I walk up and down the rows of the boys’ side. I’m like a warden, clasping my hands behind my back and lifting my chin toward the hazy sun. It’s just me and Ms. H. The other two won’t come out until the bell is thirty seconds from ringing. I suppose it is their veteran status that gives them this leniency.

There is more chatter from the girls’ side. It swells in crescendo. They are clearly more awake, or someone is stirring drama.

The boys’ side stands unaffected. There’s R. I was responsible for his expulsion last year. Once, he fell asleep in my class and when I gently roused him he lifted his hand, cocked his thumb and pointed his index finger right at my chest. He fired several imaginary shots at me, lifted his head, yawned and got back to work.

“How’s it going, R.?” I ask. “Good year so far?”

“It’s a’ight,” he says backing up toward the chain link fence. He’s eyes are half drawn shades. He’s sleepwalking or high or both. I continue my rounds.

There’s B. He was transferred to my class when he couldn’t hack it in the Advanced English class.

“What’s up, B?” I say. He high-fives me and smiles. “Do your homework last night?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” he says. “Did it like a rock star.”

“All right, B. See you in class.”

I continue to weave up and down the rows and address crucial issues like dress code and gum chewing. Spit it. Tuck it in. Pull them up. Hand it over. Put it away. I’m a series of incessant imperative phrases.

I look over to Ms. H. and the girls’ side. There is a cluster in the eighth grade section. Clusters are usually bad news. And then, the earrings come out. This is the worst indicator of all. Something messy is about to go down. The first girl rips out her hoops, throws them to the concrete below. The second girl hands her earrings to a friend who stands behind in support. They are each doing a familiar dance. Catcalling out to one another, inviting the other to start the show. Ms. H. is in between these girls. She looks so small. I eye my rows of boys as if to say: Be good. Be still. I’ll be back once I bounce those girls off these courts.

I run to join Ms. H. “Ladies,” she’s says. “Cool it. Not here. Not now.” Her arms spread to make invisible boundary lines.

“Back up, ladies,” I say. “This is not happening. Calm it down.”

The first girl, the one whose hoop earrings on are the ground, charges toward the other. I swing around her so as not to become swept into the messy vortex. I grab her from behind. I must look like I’m administering the Heimlich maneuver. Neither Ms. H. nor I know these girls. We can’t use their first names. “Uh uh,” we say. “Nuh uh, oh no. Oh no you did not.” We sassy up our dialect. It’s what happens. We can’t help it. But then Ms. H. goes quiet because my girl, the one I’m bear-hugging is already there, in the eye of the hurricane. Ms. H. is on the ground. I can see this because I’ve levitated upwards toward the hazy sun. I’m a parasite on the Girl With The Hoop Earrings. Feeding off her intensity. Yelling into her ear, “Stop! Stop it! Back down.” Imperative phrases are the most assertive. My cheek is nestled into her hair. It smells like strawberry. My stomach, prompted by my nose, sloshes in its emptiness. When your feet aren’t sure when they’ll touch down to the ground, you don’t interpret this sloshing as innocent hunger. It becomes nausea. It makes you sweat the kind of cold clammy sweat that comes before you pass out. Ms. H. climbs up the other girl like a tree. She swats Ms. H. away with her fingernails, which have been recently pressed on with glue. Ms. H. tucks her chin and uses her hands for eyes. She’s standing now. Our faces are close, but mine is still higher up. I’m still waiting for my feet to drop. The hazy sun becomes a pointillist painting. I’m no longer a bouncer. I’m bouncing on the back of an eighth grade girl.

# # #

Nothing was certain, except for the fighting. Those were bound to happen, and we, the young or stupid or eager new teachers stepped in. Every time. But, we couldn’t have predicted the divots in Ms. H.’s wrists. Or that she would have to be taken to the hospital for insurance purposes. We couldn’t have predicted that this morning of all mornings I should have eaten something. Bouncers don’t pass out on the job. “For Pete’s sake, ladies. You’re too little to be getting up in that mess,” the Principal would say. “Next time stand back and yell. Jesus. Stand back next time.” And then he laughs.

TFA in Pittsburgh

Do you feel like you're with your people?

I asked this of Charles, and I suppose of myself. Your people. Our people. I liked the way this question felt as it presented itself more rhetorically than literally. Charles didn't have to answer, but he did anyway.

A couple evenings ago we milled about the Shadow Lounge in Pittsburgh's East Liberty. Our getup didn't quite fit the ambiance of our surroundings. The bar: heavy candles and lush pillows, gothic chandeliers, ornate wall mountings, dim, sexy lighting. Us: square-framed glasses, scarves drooping like drapery, scuffed loafers, collared peaks outside cable knit sweaters. We looked uniformly preppy and young. Some with pens and notebooks at the ready, you know, just in case a teachable moment presented itself. Is it possible to look idealistic? I think we did. And the muted lighting only highlighted our similarities: all of us late twenties to mid thirties, all of us having served as Teach For America teachers around the country, and all of us, for whatever reason, finding ourselves in Pittsburgh.

There are around fifty TFA alumni in the Western Pennsylvania area. 50. Who knew? We came to Pittsburgh for various reasons, of course, but the most common seemed to be graduate school or a spouse/partner who ended up here for graduate school. While my Pittsburgh life has been spent writing about education, most of these folks are out there actually doing incredible work. Rock star work. Pittsburgh is lucky. I hope it knows that.

Among these rock stars: the Project Manager who was instrumental in starting the brand new Pittsburgh Science and Technology Academy, the guy who heads up the Edible Schoolyard Project in Pittsburgh schools, the Education Director of the Pittsburgh Parks Conservancy, principals, board members, teachers, and several district-level employees who are spearheading projects and initiatives left and right. I am in awe of these people. I am in awe that they are here, in this city, and I didn't even know it. And their presence is a true testament to the long term effectiveness of TFA. Even though Pittsburgh isn't a TFA region (yet) TFA is still present and working for educational equity in a variety of ways right here.

Pittsburgh Public Schools Superintendent Mark Roosevelt came to talk about the progress of the district and answer any of our questions. Pittsburgh Public School district is receiving a seriously hefty grant from the Gates Foundation that will be allocated solely to improve teacher effectiveness. Pittsburgh went through an intense selection process for this grant and is one of a very select group of districts to receive a chunk of the $500 million dollar campaign to cultivate better teachers. This is really exciting for Pittsburgh schools. TFA is centered around the notion that highly effective teachers in low performing classrooms is the ticket to stopping the perpetuation of low expectations and significantly changing the life paths of the most vulnerable students.

TFA in Pittsburgh. Hmm. Who knew? I like it. Pittsburgh earns a point in my grade book.

Who's the Boss? Tony Danza with the help of his Co-Teacher, of course.

Boys and girls: before we begin, it may be helpful to start humming the tune of "Hold me closer, Tiny Dancer."

Got it? Good.

And now, because it's only natural, please substitute "Tiny Dancer" with "Tony Danza."

Great. Good job.

And now, because it's most likely going to happen whether you like it or not, please replace "Hold me closer" with "Teach me English."

Hold me closer, Tiny Dancer

Hold me closer, Tony Danza

Teach me English, Tony Danza

Maybe Tony can use these statements when teaching the difference between interrogative, declarative and imperative sentences.

Yep. Tony Danza is going to be an English teacher for one academic year, er, one television season. While school officials make their final decision on whether or not they'll allow such a thing, Tony is currently attending new-teacher orientation at one urban Philadelphia high school.

This potential entry into the classroom is to be the premise for a reality television show on A&E called Teach. In this article , Tony admits to being utterly terrified of entering the classroom. I mean, why shouldn't he be, really?

My initial reaction to this news went from ecstatic to irritated to kind of giddy all rather quickly. Of course, I (who happen to be writing a book about public education) feel an urgency to put schools back on stage -- particularly the schools and the classrooms that need the most help. But really? Tony Danza? Teaching English? Really? Who is this reality show about? The unqualified teacher? The career-confused actor? The failing and flailing students? (Only half of the students in this particular district are proficient in reading and math). Or, will this show simply display the unfortunate and common spectacle that occurs when a rookie with no experience is placed in one of the toughest classrooms in the country?

Tony Danza, I wonder if you know that this little scenario you've cooked up is not especially extraordinary. It is entirely banal and typical. Every fall, thousands of new teachers hang their posters on their bulletin boards and only some of them are more qualified than you. I hope that scares you at least a little bit. Sure, you were once a television star, but once your novelty wears off, you will simply be what we all start out as: the terrified and well-intentioned teacher who resolves to tap dance his or her way across the chalkboard backdrop of that underfunded, under-resourced classroom.

If this experiment works (and I mean the documentary-like exposure rather than Tony's ability to Michelle Pfeiffer his way into the rapping hearts of his students), I think this show could be amazing. Teaching is a show. It's a performance. It has to be. Those who are handed the red pen must parade around the front of the room with a confidence that is often a complete sham. That Helping Verb Hand Jive isn't going to teach itself, now is it?

This is what Tony has to say: "My goal is to be a really good teacher...If we can be really real about it and really honest about it and put the kids first and really show what a teacher goes through, it might be something that is a positive." Well put, Mr. Danza. I only hope that Tony's charade is as gritty and terrifying as it should be. After all, certified or not, actor or not, who is ever truly ready for what happens in any classroom? And, this process of learning and crying and laughing and quitting and grading and starting all over again should be something we all get to cringe at from the comfort of our IKEA couch.

19. Interview Someone...Like the President

An 11 year old interviews President Obama on issues in Education. His right foot taps when he's asking a question, and I think the only time he strays from his notes is when he passionately declares, "I love mangos." But overall, I think he was much calmer and pulled together than I'd ever be in a million years. Adorable and applicable all at once...

The Cart Lady

I haven't been blogging because I'm furiously trying to accumulate 200 pages of my manuscript so that I can spend the year revising. I thought I'd share a snippet of the beginning of a piece I'm writing about my second first day as a teacher - when the hurricane mess calmed a little bit and I was handed a shiny new class all my own. It's called Borrowed. Here is the intro...

It wasn’t until three weeks in that I became the cart lady, the traveling teacher, the education vendor. Just short of an actual bell or melody of ice cream truck tunes to lure children toward my vehicle of educational treats, my cart had the look of a concession stand at the circus or the food trolley on planes and trains and downtown plazas. Frank the Focused Flamingo, a hot pink Beanie Baby, sat with his legs dangling off the left edge of my cart. He was to sit on the desks of only the most attentive, engaged pupils as the ultimate reward. The Good Karma bucket, a recycled popcorn pail that I kept stashed with both used and unused raffle tickets and a purple bingo marker, took its post right beside the flamingo. The bucket was like Frank – a bright motivational tool that could win you prizes through good, kind deeds. For balance, a plastic three-tiered organizational system occupied the middle of the top shelf. And thirty sixth grade literature textbooks were stacked on the bottom two shelves – heavy and bulky to slow my sharp turns and keep me rolling at an appropriate pace down the hallways to my borrowed classroom...

Young Writers at Heart

To date, I've taught 11 year olds, twelve year olds, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen and eighteen year olds. These ages encompass a gumbo pot of 6th graders, 7th and 8th graders if you count summer school and just three high school students. And now I am the teacher of those who span the ages of my parents through my grandmother.

Five weeks ago I skipped a whole bunch of years. I'm talking 40 or so. My new students, the young ones, are in their mid fifties. I can't be exact, but I think my oldest might be nearing 80. I have entered into the world of adult education, and have never been more terrified in my life. Sure, middle schoolers have the potential to randomly snot rocket on top of their desks, punch their neighbor just for kicks, light a bathroom trash can on fire. There are weapons and fist fights and blood and bomb threats. There are nasty notes and vomit and a soiled pair of pants or two. Middle school is scary. Being a middle school teacher is scary. But, teaching people who are experienced and worldly and wise and who have lived a hell of a lot more than your little 25 year old self? Now that is terrifying.

"It's aaaa-lude, not eee-lude. You typed here elude but you meant allude." J. points this out before I even finish reading the sentence out loud.

"You're right. Woops!" This is not the only typo I'll find today, and this makes me cringe. I am a writer teaching a writing class. Typos are for amateurs. I continue reading aloud, scanning for errors and slinking downward toward the floor.

In a 6th grade classroom, if my students weren't so busy hanging off the sides of their desks they still wouldn't have noticed my slip in vowels. My high schoolers might have, but rather than pointing out the error mid-lesson, they have the courtesy to simply snicker after class at the teacher's clear ignorance of the English language. My new students call me out immediately. Every time. Every typo. Every slip. To young students, seeing a teacher make a mistake is a valuable lesson: this teacher is human, she doesn't know everything, it's okay if I make mistakes too. For my new students, I'm afraid every little slip, every little typo just accentuates the fact that I'm only four years out of college. I'm young and unmarried and childless and all I have to offer is the wisdom I've learned from my published professors rather than my own published life.

Before class has even officially begun, J. leafs through the packet I'd made for today's class. I am proud of this packet. It is organized, follows the order of the topics we will discuss. It will make it easier to lunge into the material rather than waste time handing out papers every five minutes. But, there is already a problem on the second page. And J. is not ashamed to point it out.

"If you want to start the opening exercise," I tell the few students who are at least 25 minutes early, "go ahead and turn to the second page where you'll find a brainstorming chart. I want you to brainstorm some topics for your first piece of writing. You'll see columns for listing the conflict and characters as well."

"That is not a brainstorm," J. quips. "A brainstorm is a group of people shouting out ideas together. It's a group activity. This is not a brainstorm."

"Well..." Class has barely started and already my heart rate and blood pressure are inching upwards into dangerous territory. "Well, that might be one kind of brainstorm. Today I want you to do more of an individual brainstorm - a listing of ideas for your piece of writing."

I want to tell him that 6th graders do different types of visual or written brainstorms all the time. We draw bubbles and maps and arrows and write down our ideas so they are there when we forget them three minutes later. But, J. has not been in 6th grade for quite some time. Perhaps he's just not used to the various tricks teachers have up their sleeves to reach all types of learners. Still, I get the feeling he thinks I'm a kid and not the qualified instructor of this course.

But, alas, there are no referrals in adult education. No principal's office or phone calls home. I smile at J. and tell him he can do his own brainstorm out loud when he goes home. Today he will be writing it down.

When your students are older than you, the best defense you have is proofreading your materials seventeen times. Those eyes may be 40 years older than your last group of kids. But, boy are they sharp.

"Warning Label"

Thanks, Ms. Jones, for sharing this trailer! 8th grade special education students in a Bronx middle school created a documentary about the history of special ed and the consequences of labels.

Watch the trailer below...



The whole (20 min) documentary is here:

Pep Your Step

There is a phantom motivational graffiti artist around Squirrel Hill. Each day that I've walked into town I've found a new one. Here are all of them so far...

18. Increase Your "Brain Smarts"

Last night, before the main event, I had my after-school program students write thank you notes to the presenters and tour guides who have made their program really exciting. So far, they've learned how to take blood pressure from the Chatham Physician's Assistants. They've visited the "helipad" of a hospital and watched an emergency helicopter take off in flight. They've even toured a medical simulation center. Out of a handful of notes, here is my favorite...

17. Teach the White Lady Things

"And don't be afraid to be, you know, assertive," says Mr. T. "Or else they'll..."

"Eat me alive," I say.

"Run you out of here," he says.

It doesn't matter that I've just explained that I used to teach middle school. I've been a substitute. Taught high school and summer school. A group of 4th graders made me cry once. I am experienced. I am made of steel and tricks and looks. Oh do I have the looks.

But, I am a white lady. So, according to Mr. T., I need to be schooled.

# # #

Kejean studies the fabric of his chair and grunts at my questions. "What do you think you want to be when you grow up?" I ask. He squirms as his 6th grade toothpick legs brush the carpet of the Principal's office. 

"Sports," he says and goes back to studying his chair.

"Look at Ms. Katie when she's talking to you," Mr. T. orders. "You've got to make eye contact, Kejean. We've been working on that. Come on now." Mr. T. pats the back of his thinning gelled waves and places one hand on his hip. "Use your words, Kejean." 

"And what's plan B if sports doesn't work out?" I ask. Say astronaut. Say neuro-chemical-molecular-astro-physicist. Just say something academic, firmly requiring college, firmly requiring that the mind, rather than the body, stays nimble and fit. 

"Football," he says. 

"Alright then," I say and then smile and look at Mr. T. He nods his head affirming Kejean's career of choice and purses his lips. 

"And that'll be a very typical answer coming from our kids," Mr. T. tells me. By "our kids" he means black and, most likely, nearing, if not sitting right on the poverty line.

"Oh. Right." I say, even though I know that Kejean's 4 foot 9 aspirations of playing ball and skipping college to go pro are the dreams of my former students. Save the aspiring robotic engineer, most of my 12-year-old little men wanted to shoot hoops for the big bucks. That or throw down a mean rap.

I've explained this to Mr. T. I get these kids more than you think, I want to say. But, he translates anyway, so I listen. 

Our paperwork checks out so we take Kejean and Tazhe with us. Tazhe covets the passenger side door of our van even though I'm standing right beside her. "She's coming?" Tazhe asks when she notices I'm competing for her seat. She looks me up and down. 

"That's Ms. Katie," Mr. T. says, "Remember her from last week?"

Tazhe starts to laugh. "I thought you was my teacher," she says. It's May. How could Tazhe have mistaken me for a teacher at her school? Mr. T. doesn't translate this one, but I figure it out on my own. 

"She's in the 6th grade," Mr. T. says. "Twelve years old." He shakes his head. "She's too grown up for twelve." He's referring to the fact that her breasts are spilling out the top of her v-neck t-shirt - that she's as tall as I am.

"Girls are maturing earlier and earlier," I say. And I know this fact just as well as I know Kejean's future plans involve a football or basketball. I've read the studies that explain that adolescent girls are hitting puberty even earlier than the rest. And girls who hit puberty earlier aren't equipped with the developmental skills to deal with their changing bodies and advancing males. Tazhe has more to deal with than outgrowing her training bra. But, I don't say this. I respect that I am here to get to know these kids. I am here to receive an education from Mr. T.

Our van, with cigarette butts in the ashtray and empty Cheeto's bags on the floor, proclaims "Baptist Church" on its side. We pull up to one school, then the next, collecting kids for our after school program. Rico, Jade, Rayon, Ta'Shauna. Mr. T. turns up the radio and bops his head to the beat. I realize that a side effect of no longer teaching is being embarrassingly unaware of top 40 radio hits and the latest hip hop dance. There was a time when I knew how to laffy taffy and do that zoom zoom dance. I knew at least the chorus to the current Soulja Boy song and could name drop Lil' Boosie when I needed to get my students' attention. But, today, I am not prepared for the song that makes the kids bounce across the bench seats of our van. "Birthday Sex" does not seem okay, regardless of the lettering on the side of our vehicle, regardless of the fact that we're an academic mentoring service.  It feels good feels good girl let me hit that g-spot g-spot, girl. Then: Get ready for action / Don't be astounded / We switching positions / You feel so rounded...

Mr. T. looks at me, then at the road, then at me, all while chuckling. He watches my reaction like a tour guide. I shake my head like I imagine I'm supposed to and give a little smile. He thinks he's schooling me, so I play along. It's not the lyrics or the dancing or the fact that everyone is singing along that stumps me. It's that we're in a church van. We're driving to a church. A Baptist church. But, Mr. T. believes he's giving me a cultural immersion, so I pretend to wince at the song and wince the dancing. I'm really wincing at the Baptist part of this scenario. Nothing else.

Later, I tell Mr. T. I'll be making some phone calls to the students' parents. He pauses, then gestures with his hand for effect. "Let me know if any numbers are disconnected. You see, that's a big problem we have with our kids here. Their numbers are always changing."

"Right." I say. "That's similar to my former..." But Mr. T. has already left the room.

# # #

There are 5 weeks left in our after school program, and I'll continue to let Mr. T. teach me what he assumes I don't understand. If I were assertive enough, I'd ask him to scrape deeper than the surface of our shared students - beyond their physical development, predictable adolescent dreams, dance moves and disconnected phone lines. Teach me what lies beneath - show me the rings of their trunks, the veins of their leaves. Teach me their narratives - their hidden stories and circumstances - so that we can, together, pen something meaningful. As for tonight I will pull out the strictest, firmest teacher-look I can muster, respect Mr. T.'s cultural curriculum and absorb. I am a student, too.

16. Make Your Teachers Do Ridiculous Things...

Since Monday, three Southeast Middle teachers have lived and breathed this window-less haven day in and day out. Yes, that's right, they are spending every day and every night for one week trapped inside because 95% of the student body achieved their goal of attendance, behavior and effort during the state test, LEAP. 

Read their adventures within the building here. 

The local news even captured the administrators living up to their end of the bargain. While the entire school assembled in the gym, Mr. Milton's (Principal) head was shaved into a mohawk and dyed blue. Mr. Shelton (Assistant Principal) dressed in a lovely blue dress and sported a woman's wig. The kids about died, and how I loved seeing some of my former students and co-teacher on TV!

The Newest Corps

Over 35,000 people applied to TFA this year (a 42% increase from 2008). Could the increase be a testament to hard economic times? A higher commitment to public service?  Both? Watch a recent clip about TFA from CBS news...

Watch CBS Videos Online

Use Your Words

I like words. I like markers. I like filling up classroom walls with ongoing brainstorms and lists and examples. The Multiple Meaning Word Wall was a classic. Every morning, during this portion of the curriculum, I'd stand on a table (which was enough to get the students to wonder if I'd fall to my death, thus paying close attention to me) and have students call out multiple meaning words. We'd fill up the chart paper little by little. Sooner or later we'd start to lose steam and just admire our weeks' work. We'd tear down the paper when it came time to move on to homophones, or figurative language or synonyms.

Apparently the Multiple Meaning word activities are still charging on at Southeast. Ms. Heinzen reports: I think you might like this one. When doing an observation I walked into a classroom and they were working on the multiple meaning of "handle" and the sentence said, "Chris Brown man-handled Rihanna." I love Middle Schoolers. 

Me too.

Poetry Tree featuring figurative language leaves, 06-07

15. Idolize Your Teachers

I spent Valentine's Day weekend in Chicago celebrating my writing relationship - my often touchy and emotional whirl with words. At AWP (Association of Writers and Writing Programs), I was courted, not by chocolates or red roses, but by panels of writers and teachers who were there to jump start my feelings about being a part of this love affair that has, lately, made me wonder why I entered into this complicated relationship to begin with. It worked. Partly due to the vast numbers of people who believed in writing and teaching writing (and know what an MFA is). Partly due to the fancy (no free internet) glitz of the Hilton. Mostly, however, my love affair with writing was rekindled upon bumping into some of my writing idols - those Greencastle writing forces who helped me add writer to my list of titles.

You don't just bump into people at AWP. It's way too big. But, during a mid-session bathroom break, I spotted Barbara Bean, the last professor I took at DePauw, a cheerleader and a critic - the best kind of professor. Then, in a session about why Nonfiction writers often get it wrong, in walks Peter Graham. "You don't know me, but I graduated from DePauw and was a writing major," I said after tap-tap-tapping him on the shoulder. I didn't tell him I most desperately wanted to write a memoir like his wife's, Lili Wright's Learning to Float. I didn't tell him that I often gazed through the window that separated me and my professor's personal lives and decided that I wanted an existence just like that. I didn't tell him that Pittsburgh is not Greencastle. Its potholes and rain and lack of small karaoke bars make it really hard to cling onto the vision of an idyllic professorship at a small Liberal Arts college. I did tell him to say hello to Greg Schwipps, advisor-extraordinaire, who, 10 years after completing his MFA will publish his first book, What This River Keeps, this spring. 

For the first time since becoming an MFA candidate at Pitt, I felt a little more like a writer.  A little more like this writing business is a part of my identity. And, since it was Valentine's Day, I chalked these sightings up to fate - the stars had, of course, aligned. In this relationship, there are cheerleading critics that, though distant, can send a little spark to help me keep working through the kinks of this shaky marriage.

Maybe I never fell in love with writing. Maybe I fell in love with the teachers of writing, the idea of being like my teachers and the exhilaration of feeling both humbled and successful during a workshop. I fell in love with the writing experience. Valentine's Day weekend was a perfect opportunity for a little boost - a little reminder of why I write and why the experience of writing can contribute to a long lasting, healthy courtship with words.

Black and Gold to the Rescue

Photo from this NYTimes article

The Super Bowl is 48 hours away. Pittsburgh is wetting itself. Sure, I've known a die-hard Colts fan or two in my life. I've lived in a state that claimed the New Orleans Saints (and then started calling them the Aints after too many disappointing seasons). My father was given the opportunity to go pro after college football if he agreed to gain 70+ pounds. (My dad's metabolism just doesn't work that way). So, I'm not totally out of sync with all-matters-football. But I have never experienced the sheer mania that comes along with living in Steelers Country. 

I'm often annoyed with this city's team spirit. Not only was Charles practically threatened to be beaten up by a robust female co-worker if he didn't wear the team's colors to work the Friday before the playoffs, Pittsburgh Public Schools will be delayed two hours on Monday, Feb. 2. The website notice prefaces this upcoming delay with, "For the safety of our students..." when it should read, "Because our teachers may be too hungover from game festivities to get to work on time and because we can't have teachers vomiting on their pupils..." You know a city's football culture is big when the superintendent, using hindsight as her guide, proactively cuts the school's hours the Monday after the big game - win or no win.

I'm tired of the bee-colored scarves, loud bumper stickers, matching stocking caps. I loath the yellow jerseys, yellow yard flags, yellow towels. (I'll probably get in trouble for saying yellow instead of gold.) But that loathing was before today, before I found out that the Steelers' mustardy gold "Terrible Towel" actually serves a purpose.

Fans can't get enough of these towels. They hang limply on cubicle walls. They are fashioned to windows and lockers and rear ends. Mostly, they can be found within a tightly gripped fist swinging round and round like a lasso. I'm fairly certain the Terrible Towel does everything except dry or wipe things down. 

But, that's okay. These towels are providing tens of thousands of dollars each month to Allegheny Valley School, a nonprofit system of group homes across the state that provide programs and residences to people (10-90 year olds) with severe developmental and intellectual disabilities. Economic crisis or not, AVS runs strong thanks to late Myron Cope (longtime Pittsburgh broadcaster), who invented the towel in 1975 and handed over the towel's trademark in 1996. Thus, virtually all proceeds from towel sales go directly to AVS, who pledged to use the money to assist residents, rather than fund construction projects. Cope's decision was personal: his 41 year old son Danny has resided at AVS since he was 2. 

With the Super Bowl comes the opportunity to sell ridiculous amounts of Terrible Towels, and a Steelers victory is projected to produce 500,000 orders from fans - meaning a hefty check to continue supporting Allegheny Valley School. 

I am not one to purchase sports paraphernalia of any kind. Count me out for jerseys, jackets and hats. But I may just buy a Terrible Towel - at least I'd know it has a story and a purpose. And maybe I'd inch a little closer to welcoming this football-crazed town as my home.

The Principal's Office

Thanks to this fabulously sequenced blog, I learned about a show called The Principal's Office which airs on TruTV Friday nights at 10PM. Shot in the style of the mock-umentary CHALK (a definite must-see for school staff of any sort), The Principal's Office captures those classically awkward real-time moments when a student is summoned for disciplinary action. The best thing about this show is that it features real principals and real students from real schools. I have a feeling I don't get this channel, so I'll contently watch clips from my computer.

There's just nothing like enforcing the dress code AND a kid who openly acknowledges his ODD (just warms my heart - chains and all!) ...

And if you haven't seen CHALK - check out the trailer (those are real statistics, people) ...

Obama "Effect" on Test Takers

This NYTimes article, Study Sees an Obama Effect as Lifting Black Test-Takers, is a bit startling. It's exciting, don't get me wrong, but it leaves me unsettled and wondering how its message might be interpreted in schools where the teaching quality already wanes. 

Researchers have documented this "Obama effect" via a 20 question test given to black and white students both before and after Obama's nomination. Before Obama's nomination, a typical achievement gap emerged as white students' scores proved significantly higher than black students' scores. After Obama's nomination, that same 20 question test given to both black and white students yielded results that showed no sign of an achievement gap between the two groups of students. Black students performed significantly higher that time around. According to the article, the research indicates that Obama has "helped blacks overcome anxieties about racial stereotypes that had been shown, in earlier research, to lower the test- taking proficiency of African Americans..." Specifically, the earlier test results (Pre-Obama) showed white students answering 12 correct out of 20 compared to only 8.5 correct for black students. Post-Obama, black performance improved, which rendered that former "white-black gap 'statistically nonsignificant'".

Further studies will prove whether this phenomenon has a lasting effect. It makes sense to link anxiety, self-image and expectations to test performance. But, how could mending self-esteem possibly reverse all the effects of teachers who preach low expectations in their classrooms? How could this one factor (momentous and signifiant as his presidency may be) reverse the failed policy and accountability and teacher quality that has been at the core of the achievement gap from the start?

I want these results to be true. I want these results to translate to all pockets of the classroom, including all the high-stakes standardized tests that hold students back from the next grade. But, I don't want this study to discount the work we still have to do on the ground. I'm a believer that Obama means amazing things, but he shouldn't mean that the only thing holding black students back in the classroom was the absence of an African American's presence in the White House. That would discount the legislation and leadership Obama has to offer. It would make the mending of our deep and cavernous achievement gap simple and finished. This study is interesting. And it's really important. But it seems to imply that the achievement (or lack of achievement) of African American students simply resides in a student's self-esteem or ability to be inspired or his sheer willpower to achieve. And isn't it much, much more complicated than that? 

14. Throw One Back

Teachers with Tequila, 2007

"Pencils Down, Bottoms Up" is a brilliant opinion piece for all teachers and former teachers to enjoy. Alexander Nazaryan discusses a ritual of many teachers, young and old alike: visiting the local bar and throwing a few back. Why do teachers drink? Nazaryan explains...

The classroom is the bully pulpit from which we articulate an ironclad triumvirate of maturity – attention, organization, responsibility – that the real world renders pretty much unrealistic. In the bar, we finally loosen our ties, and life’s beautiful imperfections return.

Nazaryan, a young teacher himself, scouted out a local establishment close to school where he and his colleagues could throw a few back. That was, until his students spied him through the windows. The teacher group relocated to a darker, drapes-drawn type of bar in the East Village. That was, until the squirrelly TFAers drove them away...

But the bar was near a large middle school, and it routinely filled up with the feisty teachers who braved those hormone hurricanes. The wear showed in their drinking habits. Teach for America became Drink for America. Spill Your Beer for America. Shout and Shove for America. Many of these fresh-faced pedagogues sported golf shirts emblazoned with their school name, disconcertingly similar to the uniforms students often wear. They snapped triumphant pictures of empty bottles, turning the bar into Spring Break: Costa del Bushwick. Our timid, slightly older group felt like the unpopular kids with nowhere to sit at lunch.

So they settled on a more anonymous, dim-lighted sort of bar where they offered to help set up in order to enter before the bar technically opened. 

This piece reminds me of all our southern establishments - Zippy's (southern punch margarita please?) and Superior Grill (happy hour two for one margarita hold the salt please?) and Bistro Byronz (raspberry vodka freeze please?). But, best of all, it reminds me of the adventures, the escapes, the frivolously planned excursions involving glittery costumes and Ragini's accessories and really really big sunglasses. 

The NYTimes piece is more about the community than the booze. It's about the little hideaways and long conversations that have nothing or everything to do with the chaotic confetti that spewed about your classroom that day. It's about being in those proverbial trenches with others and then hoisting yourself out of those trenches, plopping down on a stool or a porch, decompressing, and filling up on good conversation and, if you choose, a stiff cold one.

Cheers!

Teachers with Margaritas, 2005

13. Write Letters

On the way home we stopped in Alabama and bought a new puppy. We named him Cation since we bought him on vacation. - A.H.

Something wonderful happened today. I shuffled down the steps to check the mail, certain that I'd retrieve a fistful of grocery store coupons, desperate pleas to sign up for new credit cards, monthly bills - the usual. But what I hand picked out of the mailbox was so enjoyable, so wonderful, that I stood goofy grinned in my apartment as if I'd just received an Ivy League acceptance letter.

A.H., former-student-extraordinaire, sent me not only a one-page typed letter, but photographs too. A school photo, naturally. And the greatest photo of all - A. holding a baby alligator with its mouth taped with some sort of duct/electrical/packing tape combo. 

In other fantastic news besides the puppy named Cation, A. reported on a hermit crab, a lost wedding ring to the ocean, two dead hermit crabs, a fractured knee cap and wrist, snow in Louisiana, horse camp (twice), a Wii, a language class he's really "ticked off" about, and a failed Confirmation test at church. You know, just ordinary occurrences for a Middle School year.

I just love this kid. So much so that I don't even care that he typed Ms. Fields. Twice. He said he hopes I'll move back and teach high school so that I can be his teacher again. Man. Who knew that such a strong boost of confidence could come from this unlikely, squirmy, adolescent source?

P.S. This is how I imagine the baby alligator's face when being held by Mr. A.H.

12. Get Justice

A quick note to follow up my post called "Be Aware, Read the Fine Print" ...

So, after feeling like a total sucker for getting roped into that freecreditreport.com service that I did not use but paid for for a year, I submitted a complaint to the Better Business Bureau. Fully prepared to just bite the lost money and get over it, this morning a notice arrived by email stating that the BBB had my back and the company would be issuing a full year's REFUND! Can it be that a sleazy company is actually forced to pay up when a consumer feels cheated!? 

Bottom line: The bombs and the sleazes are still out there. But so are those who give the bombs and sleazes a swift kick in the pants when they've been naughty.

Studying Adolescence

"So let's go around the room, introduce ourselves, and share something about our adolescence, okay?" Last night, in a nationality room of the Cathedral of Learning, a group of adults began class by reminiscing about that awkward chunk of time somewhere between the years of 8 and 18. A few had examples of acting out: "I frequently took my parents' car without their permission." and "I was a bully." Some proclaimed their sainthood: "I was a really quiet goody goody." Others discussed their activities: hair modeling, tennis, cheerleading.

Since 2005, adolescence has consumed a large portion of my brain. Memories of the late 90s, Pioneer Panthers, and Retin-A acne medicine moved aside to include my often quirky and wacky 6th grade students. So, when asked to recall a memory from adolescence, I immediately and instinctively sorted through my Southeast catalogue. I remembered the socially awkward times like B. throwing up twice on the first day of school and V.'s you know what in the middle of a lesson on prepositions. I remembered glimpses of identity and world view formation like when J.J. came out in his IEP meeting and when K. tried desperately to figure out the ethnicity of the new girl as he questioned, "Is you a mix?" I remembered all the notes intercepted, the girl drama, the boys who punched each other in the face. Yet, in the midst of the confusion and theatrics, there was some genuine enlightenment going on. I think. 

But the question asked me to recall my adolescence, and everything (even being bullied by C. from two doors down) seemed lame compared to the topsy turvy adolescence I lived as a teacher. So, I said, "I learned how to play the flute as an adolescent. And I joined the band." Weak. Nerdy. And so not filled with the angst and attitude that's to be expected...

But, I'm really excited for this semester. I'm taking my first ever graduate level Education class. I don't know anybody yet, but that's okay because the professor brought in chart paper and taped it around the room. We wrote on it with brightly colored markers that smelled like bubblegum and jolly ranchers. The only thing missing (and really bringing it home to TFA) was a "gallery walk"- but the chart paper and markers made me feel like I was back in education, back around people who want education at the forefront of their careers. And we're going to really dig in to the theory and psychology of adolescence, which I have decided will be great fuel for my writing.  

The experts will prove me wrong, but I'm convinced we twenty-somethings are a part of some sort of extended-adolescence. Sure, the growth spurts have stopped, the braces have been removed and the acne has calmed down. But the awkward identity formation, the confusion, the flux between angst and apathy and plain silliness...

...seems too familiar.