Day One: The Piercing
Dr. Eleven: What was it like for you, at the end?
Captain Lonegan: It was exactly like waking up from a dream.
--Emily St. John Mandel, Station Eleven
-------------------------
I think this will be my last Sontag journey.
I'm here in my hotel in Tewksbury wondering how it is I get so lucky. I've had the chance to do this four times now, each time on the good graces of the last. Dinner will still happen in the North End. The same cool shit drivers are taking us to the schools. It's even a lot of the same people, flying in from DC, Miami, Indianapolis. I talked to a bunch of them in the morning and got the chance to catch up, trade pictures of kids, reflect on previous years. Somehow, amazingly, I'm still entrusted with the same assignment: Lawrence High School, eleven seniors, Mathematics MCAS still standing in the way.
I admit I'm thoroughly exhausted with teaching. I'm beyond exhausted with it. I don't know what it is, and maybe it'll go away, but I feel like I just need a break from it, like something that someone's been staring at for too long, or food that's been served too often. I'm hoping that spark will come soon, because right now, teaching is just a propane tank that's been closed and covered up with the grill that won't be used until the summer.
But this isn't just my job, it's my life. I've been teaching for twelve years (or longer, depending on how one defines my college life). That's over a third of my life. I spent my last semester of college eager to be called 'Mr. Dudley' because I knew that was a sure sign you had made it as a teacher; now it just feels like the name I no longer want to be called because I'm called it too often. It's routine in the worst way: there's nothing new to invent, no new chemistry to seek out. I feel like I've become the jaded teachers in books, the ones who are reminiscing about how great education is supposed to be. I don't want that to be how it ends, but it sure feels like it's cruising that way. That would be tragic because I'm not sure what else I can really do. So, what good does a break do when I don't know what goes in its place?
This is a hard place to be.
-------------------------
This year's group is the same, but different. On Monday, Patriots' Day, the running of the Boston Marathon, it was a barrage of rain, a downpour, when I arrived at LHS. I had a box full of photocopies of the work that I had used in Chelsea. Some of my students strolled in at 8:25. One student incredibly strong and direct and motivated. One student reading Rick Riordan translated into Spanish. Two students laughing uncontrollably. Two students five minutes late. All native Spanish speakers.
I did what I always do first: I told my students a little about me, where I'm from, what I teach, and set some norms and expectations for the week with them, asking them to lead the conversation. I began with my classic introductory exercise: I asked the students for two guesses of how old I am, and took it as data for the three big one-variable plots they'll see on the MCAS (box, line, stem-and-leaf). After that, it was all a mess, starting with the first assessment: two students could not do a single problem in the initial work, and the others didn't do much better than that. And, around 9:30 AM, just before a break, my motivated student raised her hand, asks a question, and just as she began to speak, I heard a ball bearing land on the floor and bounce three times. The student covered her mouth in shock.
I looked at her, surprised, and asked, "did you see where that went?"
"No, Mister. We have to find it!"
"Was that a piercing you lost?"
She opened her mouth. There was one piercing on either side of her tongue. One had a stainless steel ring with a ball on each side, and the other had nothing, just a gaping hole in a tongue I didn't have any interest in seeing.
"Mister, is it okay to cry?"
I did my best to hide my incredulous look. "Yes, it's okay to cry."
"Please help me find it, Mister!"
When the break bell rang at 9:30, down everyone went to the floor. Desks were moved. Cords were unplugged. A broom and dustpan came out, and the floor was swept. Trashcans were upended and heads were craned sideways, parallel to the dusty tiles. Nothing. 9:40 came, and the student was still sans ball bearing.
"Mister, I don't think I'll be able to eat."
"Why not?"
"Because I can't get food in there." She thought a while. "I can't focus. This is all I can think about."
While the rest of the class worked, she looked, and swept, and got down on hands and knees, and looked some more. At around 10:30, I told her that she should consider it lost. "We can't do this anymore; you're here to work."
"Mister, that was expensive. I haven't even had it a month!"
I told her that I'd help her look at lunch. She sat down and began to work and continued to cry.
I delivered a few notes on measures of central tendency, and gave out another practice set. The work began to get easier and the kids felt some momentum going into the end of the day. At 1:40, the kids all packed up. It was a lot of moaning and whining and complaining, but somehow, a bit of progress was made.
To close, two students, including the one who was piercing-less, decided to do one last scope of the room. Her friend decided to move one more bin, and almost in plain sight, there it was: the piercing that had thrown a wrench into my day. It was returned to its owner, and I got a jubilant "thank you for helping me look, Mister. Thank you so much."
"Will you be back tomorrow?"
"Oh yes, yes Mister. I'll be back. Just you watch," she said, wagging a finger.
-------------------------
In my time as a teacher, I tend to think that teaching is less content expertise and more an exercise in managing the volatility of teenagers. In that age group, you have to expect anything and everything to happen, and still roll with it (no pun intended) in a way that implies a measure of stability and temperance, even when it might not be there. You have to act like it's not really happening, like it's not moving the needle. I remember those teenage years, feeling like everything was of monumental importance, or none at all. I remember the range of emotions, from seashore to mountaintops and back in a split second. I remember how much I thought my possessions were worth, and it didn't make a difference if they were worth $5 or $500, dammit, it all felt like a fortune when your only job came in the winter when no one wanted to shovel the freshly fallen snow. I remember feeling like any words I uttered were appropriate because I was free to say them, and any opinion I could put to paper was right.
How did my teachers deal with these swings? How did they deal with my bullshit, day in and day out, let alone the collective shenanigans of me and my classmates, let alone with the doses of grace and dignity that made me admire them and want to be them? Sure, it's always new, every day. Something messed up always happens, and you have to be the adult in the room (literally and figuratively), and not lose your shit or your temper in the process. Is that what teaching really is, at its core? Modeling who to be, or how to be?
-------------------------
If I choose to go with the way I'm feeling
Does it really mean that's the way it is?
Is it just a trick that my eyes are playing on my mind?
Following the passage of least resistance,
Following the pack just to pass the gate,
It's a little late for a change of plan, don't you think?
I got lost following you,
Time could have stopped and I never knew.
I got lost, following you...
--KT Tunstall, Lost
Captain Lonegan: It was exactly like waking up from a dream.
--Emily St. John Mandel, Station Eleven
-------------------------
I think this will be my last Sontag journey.
I'm here in my hotel in Tewksbury wondering how it is I get so lucky. I've had the chance to do this four times now, each time on the good graces of the last. Dinner will still happen in the North End. The same cool shit drivers are taking us to the schools. It's even a lot of the same people, flying in from DC, Miami, Indianapolis. I talked to a bunch of them in the morning and got the chance to catch up, trade pictures of kids, reflect on previous years. Somehow, amazingly, I'm still entrusted with the same assignment: Lawrence High School, eleven seniors, Mathematics MCAS still standing in the way.
I admit I'm thoroughly exhausted with teaching. I'm beyond exhausted with it. I don't know what it is, and maybe it'll go away, but I feel like I just need a break from it, like something that someone's been staring at for too long, or food that's been served too often. I'm hoping that spark will come soon, because right now, teaching is just a propane tank that's been closed and covered up with the grill that won't be used until the summer.
But this isn't just my job, it's my life. I've been teaching for twelve years (or longer, depending on how one defines my college life). That's over a third of my life. I spent my last semester of college eager to be called 'Mr. Dudley' because I knew that was a sure sign you had made it as a teacher; now it just feels like the name I no longer want to be called because I'm called it too often. It's routine in the worst way: there's nothing new to invent, no new chemistry to seek out. I feel like I've become the jaded teachers in books, the ones who are reminiscing about how great education is supposed to be. I don't want that to be how it ends, but it sure feels like it's cruising that way. That would be tragic because I'm not sure what else I can really do. So, what good does a break do when I don't know what goes in its place?
This is a hard place to be.
-------------------------
This year's group is the same, but different. On Monday, Patriots' Day, the running of the Boston Marathon, it was a barrage of rain, a downpour, when I arrived at LHS. I had a box full of photocopies of the work that I had used in Chelsea. Some of my students strolled in at 8:25. One student incredibly strong and direct and motivated. One student reading Rick Riordan translated into Spanish. Two students laughing uncontrollably. Two students five minutes late. All native Spanish speakers.
I did what I always do first: I told my students a little about me, where I'm from, what I teach, and set some norms and expectations for the week with them, asking them to lead the conversation. I began with my classic introductory exercise: I asked the students for two guesses of how old I am, and took it as data for the three big one-variable plots they'll see on the MCAS (box, line, stem-and-leaf). After that, it was all a mess, starting with the first assessment: two students could not do a single problem in the initial work, and the others didn't do much better than that. And, around 9:30 AM, just before a break, my motivated student raised her hand, asks a question, and just as she began to speak, I heard a ball bearing land on the floor and bounce three times. The student covered her mouth in shock.
I looked at her, surprised, and asked, "did you see where that went?"
"No, Mister. We have to find it!"
"Was that a piercing you lost?"
She opened her mouth. There was one piercing on either side of her tongue. One had a stainless steel ring with a ball on each side, and the other had nothing, just a gaping hole in a tongue I didn't have any interest in seeing.
"Mister, is it okay to cry?"
I did my best to hide my incredulous look. "Yes, it's okay to cry."
"Please help me find it, Mister!"
When the break bell rang at 9:30, down everyone went to the floor. Desks were moved. Cords were unplugged. A broom and dustpan came out, and the floor was swept. Trashcans were upended and heads were craned sideways, parallel to the dusty tiles. Nothing. 9:40 came, and the student was still sans ball bearing.
"Mister, I don't think I'll be able to eat."
"Why not?"
"Because I can't get food in there." She thought a while. "I can't focus. This is all I can think about."
While the rest of the class worked, she looked, and swept, and got down on hands and knees, and looked some more. At around 10:30, I told her that she should consider it lost. "We can't do this anymore; you're here to work."
"Mister, that was expensive. I haven't even had it a month!"
I told her that I'd help her look at lunch. She sat down and began to work and continued to cry.
I delivered a few notes on measures of central tendency, and gave out another practice set. The work began to get easier and the kids felt some momentum going into the end of the day. At 1:40, the kids all packed up. It was a lot of moaning and whining and complaining, but somehow, a bit of progress was made.
To close, two students, including the one who was piercing-less, decided to do one last scope of the room. Her friend decided to move one more bin, and almost in plain sight, there it was: the piercing that had thrown a wrench into my day. It was returned to its owner, and I got a jubilant "thank you for helping me look, Mister. Thank you so much."
"Will you be back tomorrow?"
"Oh yes, yes Mister. I'll be back. Just you watch," she said, wagging a finger.
-------------------------
In my time as a teacher, I tend to think that teaching is less content expertise and more an exercise in managing the volatility of teenagers. In that age group, you have to expect anything and everything to happen, and still roll with it (no pun intended) in a way that implies a measure of stability and temperance, even when it might not be there. You have to act like it's not really happening, like it's not moving the needle. I remember those teenage years, feeling like everything was of monumental importance, or none at all. I remember the range of emotions, from seashore to mountaintops and back in a split second. I remember how much I thought my possessions were worth, and it didn't make a difference if they were worth $5 or $500, dammit, it all felt like a fortune when your only job came in the winter when no one wanted to shovel the freshly fallen snow. I remember feeling like any words I uttered were appropriate because I was free to say them, and any opinion I could put to paper was right.
How did my teachers deal with these swings? How did they deal with my bullshit, day in and day out, let alone the collective shenanigans of me and my classmates, let alone with the doses of grace and dignity that made me admire them and want to be them? Sure, it's always new, every day. Something messed up always happens, and you have to be the adult in the room (literally and figuratively), and not lose your shit or your temper in the process. Is that what teaching really is, at its core? Modeling who to be, or how to be?
-------------------------
If I choose to go with the way I'm feeling
Does it really mean that's the way it is?
Is it just a trick that my eyes are playing on my mind?
Following the passage of least resistance,
Following the pack just to pass the gate,
It's a little late for a change of plan, don't you think?
I got lost following you,
Time could have stopped and I never knew.
I got lost, following you...
--KT Tunstall, Lost
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