Day Three: A Future Day Off
Just like Tuesday is my toughest day, Wednesday is almost always easier.
As soon as I arrived at CHS, my packet was ready. The people at that Copy Center are amazing. Ninety copies, stapled, hole punched, double sided. The packets were absolutely beautiful. I told the guy behind the counter that he's the best (because, literally, I've never had anyone make me photocopies as a matter of course). I leave them there for tomorrow.
I stopped in to talk to one of my colleagues about what I had written, and she loved it. I didn't feel like it was much, but I got the feedback that it was good. I'll take it. We then talk a little bit about what it's like to be a newer teacher and about being a veteran of this profession. I'll talk more about that later.
Five kids in my room. Sure, it is one more person, but in a class of eight, it is a significant percentage boost, and the kids immediately felt it. Our first task was to memorize perfect squares and perfect cubes. I immediately hand them a chart and make them work, and the kids slowly but surely completed their perfect squares and cubes. This felt lame, but the kids worked in good spirits.
I've always loved having dice in class. Kids are fascinated by toys, and dice are no exception. I brought a set of roleplaying dice with me: D20, D12, two D10s, D8, D6, D4. Some of the kids haven't seen some of these dice, so I talked about them. I explain that a D20 is great for rolling big numbers and spinning on tables, and that a D8 is basically just a diamond. A D6 is the same die they've been rolling all their lives, and a D4 is a strange pyramid that insanely painful to step on. The D20, I explain, is for the perfect squares, and the D8 is for the perfect cubes. I rolled the dice in front of each kid, and asked them to give me that number squared and that number cubed. Three full rounds around and we'd stop. We were surprisingly stuck on 19. 19 came up seven times, and six times it was answered incorrectly.
We had a blast. Seriously. Dice are fun.
The point to knowing the perfect squares and cubes for the test is that you can't use a calculator. The MCAS has questions where kids have to estimate squares and cubes, and square roots and cube roots. It's a mundane task, but the kids know the value and it's surprisingly easy once you know some tricks. They learn the number line method for estimating these things, never once look at the perfect square or cube tables, and get through the questions happily.
I did not talk one time. I just listened. They were debating and working together and checking with each other, only occasionally asking me if an answer that is off by a tenth is going to be counted wrong. All this while the lead teacher for the site is sitting and observing. She tells me later that I could go on in that class without lifting a finger and things would have gotten done.
The best teaching, I think, is done in our absence. Teachers think that the trade is doing a lot of talking, explaining, gesticulating. But I think the moments when our teaching is best is when we are doing sharp listening, waiting for the moment when we just might have to intervene to correct a conceptual misunderstanding here, or a technical error there. But, when kids are able to sort out their own understanding with what they previously know, teachers might find themselves unnecessary if the kids can carry it through. This is where the real magic lies. The best teaching moments are the ones when we can just shut up and listen.
--------------------------
"Mister, we're tired."
I get this a lot at these acceleration academies, and I got it a lot teaching in Fitchburg, too. The feeling of having been driven into the ground after a hard day. "I get it," I say. "It's been a hard day for all of us. Thirty more minutes."
"I don't see the point, Mister. I'm not gonna pass that test."
I have to glare at this kid, an Eeyore among us who is quick-witted, funny, eloquent and brilliant, but nonetheless is a Little Black Raincloud among us. I shoot back, "if I have to drive down there and see you on the MCAS day in order to get you to work hard and pass, I'll do it."
"Really, Mister?" In stereo.
I think about it. I've got sick days. I'm a firm believer in sick days as mental health days. I used to save my sick days for, well, physical sickness, because being out is a huge pain from a planning standpoint. But I can't think of what kind of urgency there must be in mid-May.
"Sure. I'll come down and visit. Let me arrange it."
My students were shocked. They didn't know what to say, but I could tell they were okay with it.
Yes, I asked for time off so I could visit my five kids here in Chelsea on the day they take a standardized test that will bend the course of everything they do in school afterward. If that's what it takes, I'll be there.
------------------------
Later that evening, Jeff Riley takes the out-of-towners out for dinner. There are quite a few of us that are old hands at this (third, fourth, fifth year veterans), but some new teachers too. We come from Maine, Indianapolis, San Jose, Los Angeles, Washington DC, Vermont, Fort Lauderdale, and other places. Two of the people at the table are observing the program from afar, and two work for Lawrence Public Schools, including Jeff.
One of my colleagues at Chelsea, Ana, is a teacher in Indianapolis. She teaches adults who have yet to receive a high school diploma. She has immediately surpassed anything I'm capable of doing. We talk about the challenges and benefits our work affords us, and then she notes that it's rare that educators are met with such fanfare. Good money, nice hotel, fancy dinner. All for a week of teaching in an environment that really isn't that hard. At the end of the day, the students we get know what we have to do; we just have to be conscious about doing it.
-----------------------
Earlier in the evening, I got an email from Jeff reading 'FYI'. In it was a list containing the names of all seniors that graduated from my class last year (which means they passed the one test in their way). Ten out of fifteen students graduated. To put that into perspective, Lawrence graduated 656 kids in 2016 (a graduation rate of 71.4%). Add another ten to that number, and the percentage climbs to 72.4%. It's a full percentage point for a full week of my effort. It's a far cry from my week last year (3/10).
When I got the email, I looked for those who didn't make it. I remember some of them were so excited to have one more chance. I wonder what happened to them.
As soon as I arrived at CHS, my packet was ready. The people at that Copy Center are amazing. Ninety copies, stapled, hole punched, double sided. The packets were absolutely beautiful. I told the guy behind the counter that he's the best (because, literally, I've never had anyone make me photocopies as a matter of course). I leave them there for tomorrow.
I stopped in to talk to one of my colleagues about what I had written, and she loved it. I didn't feel like it was much, but I got the feedback that it was good. I'll take it. We then talk a little bit about what it's like to be a newer teacher and about being a veteran of this profession. I'll talk more about that later.
Five kids in my room. Sure, it is one more person, but in a class of eight, it is a significant percentage boost, and the kids immediately felt it. Our first task was to memorize perfect squares and perfect cubes. I immediately hand them a chart and make them work, and the kids slowly but surely completed their perfect squares and cubes. This felt lame, but the kids worked in good spirits.
I've always loved having dice in class. Kids are fascinated by toys, and dice are no exception. I brought a set of roleplaying dice with me: D20, D12, two D10s, D8, D6, D4. Some of the kids haven't seen some of these dice, so I talked about them. I explain that a D20 is great for rolling big numbers and spinning on tables, and that a D8 is basically just a diamond. A D6 is the same die they've been rolling all their lives, and a D4 is a strange pyramid that insanely painful to step on. The D20, I explain, is for the perfect squares, and the D8 is for the perfect cubes. I rolled the dice in front of each kid, and asked them to give me that number squared and that number cubed. Three full rounds around and we'd stop. We were surprisingly stuck on 19. 19 came up seven times, and six times it was answered incorrectly.
We had a blast. Seriously. Dice are fun.
The point to knowing the perfect squares and cubes for the test is that you can't use a calculator. The MCAS has questions where kids have to estimate squares and cubes, and square roots and cube roots. It's a mundane task, but the kids know the value and it's surprisingly easy once you know some tricks. They learn the number line method for estimating these things, never once look at the perfect square or cube tables, and get through the questions happily.
I did not talk one time. I just listened. They were debating and working together and checking with each other, only occasionally asking me if an answer that is off by a tenth is going to be counted wrong. All this while the lead teacher for the site is sitting and observing. She tells me later that I could go on in that class without lifting a finger and things would have gotten done.
The best teaching, I think, is done in our absence. Teachers think that the trade is doing a lot of talking, explaining, gesticulating. But I think the moments when our teaching is best is when we are doing sharp listening, waiting for the moment when we just might have to intervene to correct a conceptual misunderstanding here, or a technical error there. But, when kids are able to sort out their own understanding with what they previously know, teachers might find themselves unnecessary if the kids can carry it through. This is where the real magic lies. The best teaching moments are the ones when we can just shut up and listen.
--------------------------
"Mister, we're tired."
I get this a lot at these acceleration academies, and I got it a lot teaching in Fitchburg, too. The feeling of having been driven into the ground after a hard day. "I get it," I say. "It's been a hard day for all of us. Thirty more minutes."
"I don't see the point, Mister. I'm not gonna pass that test."
I have to glare at this kid, an Eeyore among us who is quick-witted, funny, eloquent and brilliant, but nonetheless is a Little Black Raincloud among us. I shoot back, "if I have to drive down there and see you on the MCAS day in order to get you to work hard and pass, I'll do it."
"Really, Mister?" In stereo.
I think about it. I've got sick days. I'm a firm believer in sick days as mental health days. I used to save my sick days for, well, physical sickness, because being out is a huge pain from a planning standpoint. But I can't think of what kind of urgency there must be in mid-May.
"Sure. I'll come down and visit. Let me arrange it."
My students were shocked. They didn't know what to say, but I could tell they were okay with it.
Yes, I asked for time off so I could visit my five kids here in Chelsea on the day they take a standardized test that will bend the course of everything they do in school afterward. If that's what it takes, I'll be there.
------------------------
Later that evening, Jeff Riley takes the out-of-towners out for dinner. There are quite a few of us that are old hands at this (third, fourth, fifth year veterans), but some new teachers too. We come from Maine, Indianapolis, San Jose, Los Angeles, Washington DC, Vermont, Fort Lauderdale, and other places. Two of the people at the table are observing the program from afar, and two work for Lawrence Public Schools, including Jeff.
One of my colleagues at Chelsea, Ana, is a teacher in Indianapolis. She teaches adults who have yet to receive a high school diploma. She has immediately surpassed anything I'm capable of doing. We talk about the challenges and benefits our work affords us, and then she notes that it's rare that educators are met with such fanfare. Good money, nice hotel, fancy dinner. All for a week of teaching in an environment that really isn't that hard. At the end of the day, the students we get know what we have to do; we just have to be conscious about doing it.
-----------------------
Earlier in the evening, I got an email from Jeff reading 'FYI'. In it was a list containing the names of all seniors that graduated from my class last year (which means they passed the one test in their way). Ten out of fifteen students graduated. To put that into perspective, Lawrence graduated 656 kids in 2016 (a graduation rate of 71.4%). Add another ten to that number, and the percentage climbs to 72.4%. It's a full percentage point for a full week of my effort. It's a far cry from my week last year (3/10).
When I got the email, I looked for those who didn't make it. I remember some of them were so excited to have one more chance. I wonder what happened to them.
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