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.