Day Two and Three: Origin Story
The potent moments on Tuesday and Wednesday came from the same student.
On Tuesday, around 1:10 PM, I was just about to write out a list of perfect squares and perfect cubes that I feel like people should just know. (Why? I could give you some crap line about how I believe you need to know that just because things come in squares and cubes, or that there's some sort of profound pattern in the numbers, or something like that. But, really, it's just because I find knowing certain facts about some numbers invaluable. Come at me.)
I don't get past 6-squared-equals 36 when this student, Y, pipes up and says, "yo, Mister, I gotta ask you something."
I've heard this line before, in two different inflections. The first inflection is the goofy, lighthearted, laugh-dressed lilt that comes with a question about my tattoos or my family or chess or politics. The second ends in a downhill tone, implying a serious, direct inquiry. This was the second. "Mister, you keep talking about MCAS. MCAS, MCAS, MCAS. What if we already passed it?"
I stop, cap my Expo marker, and pull up a chair. "When did you last take the test?"
"I don't remember," she said, "but we don't know how we did yet."
I thought for a second. "I don't think they'd have put you in an MCAS preparation class at Acceleration Academy if they thought for sure you'd passed it."
Silence.
"So, you're saying we didn't pass it, Mister?"
"No," I replied. "I'm saying you need to be prepared for that possibility."
Silence again.
"Mister, let me tell you something," Y said dryly. "The MCAS is a trap. We take this test, and it's in a language we don't understand, and the people who say we need to pass it are the same people who tell us we can't take it in Spanish."
"You're not wrong," I said.
"And they don't even tell us what happens to us if we don't pass it," she continues.
"I can tell you what happens to you if you don't pass it."
The kids lean forward a little in their seats and listen. It's a secret to which they had apparently not been privy. They looked curious like kids do when they find out where babies come from, or when they find out where the booze in the house is hidden, or when they are overhearing a juicy piece of gossip or a conspiracy in the making. Except the news is bad.
I let them know exactly what I know: that they won't get their diplomas in June if they don't pass the March retest, and that they will find out whether or not they actually get a diploma from Lawrence High School in July, when the last MCAS results come out. What might come in its place is a certificate of completion, a document indicating completion of graduation requirements, but not of fulfillment of competency determinations (i.e. passing MCAS scores).
"What is that even for, Mister? Why do they give that to us?"
"I'll tell you what it's for. It's a document telling the world you didn't make it."
Silence.
"And I don't want that to happen to you," I said. "That diploma is an important document to a lot of people, because it means more than just your knowledge. It means something about who you are, and whether or not you can push through and handle these things. You can get a diploma different ways, sure, and they mean different things to different people. But this opportunity is in front of you now. All you have to do is handle the work and I'm here to help you. Are you gonna take it or not?"
-------------------------
Of course, by Wednesday, it had separated the wheat from the chaff. Three students were cruising and three were doing nothing, just as they had done. A seventh student, who stayed for one hour and left on Monday, was back. I told her to copy the perfect squares and cubes into her notebook, because I was expecting her to memorize them. Her objections could be heard upstairs, up to the next floor, and the principal had to come down and ask her to leave. When the student refused to leave, the principal stayed, and moved my whole class into a spare room until she was removed by her mother.
This was another piercing that disrupted my day. The class was a mess, and not having my fantasy-reading genius present didn't help. He helped to moderate the class and provide assistance, and he was quiet and cool and calm.
Teachers have to read behavioral tea leaves, and a little patient digging tells us all we need to know. Four of the six students were obnoxious to the nth degree, and soon I found out why. One had been working all day, and with an hour left in the day had just begun to pinch the bridge of her nose frequently. When I asked what was wrong, she said that she needed glasses but couldn't afford them. She could barely see the board.
Another student was worried because her kids (3 and 1) were with her laid-up mother.
Another is pissed because she's positive she passed the MCAS, and she could be working instead of attending school, which helps put food on her family's plates.
It's no wonder these kids were giving me the business all day. Life was giving them the business.
-------------------------
Y and I talked a little bit after the daily raffle was called at 1:45 (none of my kids won). She said she was scared not to graduate, and I told her not to think about that, because at the rate she was going she was going to make it. "What do you want to do when you graduate? What are you dreaming about?"
"I want to be a nurse, Mister."
"Wow, a nurse?!"
"Yeah, Mister. I want to go to the community college, take classes, get a job as a nurse. I want to help people."
"That's an awesome plan."
"Yeah. People were telling me I wouldn't make it. I have a bad attitude."
I scoff. "Seriously? You? Bad attitude?"
She nods. "Yeah, Mister. I can be a real asshole."
I think about her statement for a while and take it seriously. "But you're going to make it and go on and be a nurse. You know, college is really great and getting to do something like that is amazing. Are you ready for that? Do you drive?"
"I know how, but I don't have a car. My dad is buying me a car when I graduate, but only if I graduate."
I nod. I think.
"You know, this is where all that starts. Right here, right now. When you decide this isn't impossible. When you're a nurse, and your patients ask you when you decided you were going to become a nurse, this might be what you tell them. You'll thank yourself later."
She smiled.
"Thanks for working so hard today," I said.
"Thanks for teaching me, Mister," she said, and walked out the door.
She walked out right at 2 PM. Everyone else had left fifteen minutes early.
-------------------------
On Tuesday, around 1:10 PM, I was just about to write out a list of perfect squares and perfect cubes that I feel like people should just know. (Why? I could give you some crap line about how I believe you need to know that just because things come in squares and cubes, or that there's some sort of profound pattern in the numbers, or something like that. But, really, it's just because I find knowing certain facts about some numbers invaluable. Come at me.)
I don't get past 6-squared-equals 36 when this student, Y, pipes up and says, "yo, Mister, I gotta ask you something."
I've heard this line before, in two different inflections. The first inflection is the goofy, lighthearted, laugh-dressed lilt that comes with a question about my tattoos or my family or chess or politics. The second ends in a downhill tone, implying a serious, direct inquiry. This was the second. "Mister, you keep talking about MCAS. MCAS, MCAS, MCAS. What if we already passed it?"
I stop, cap my Expo marker, and pull up a chair. "When did you last take the test?"
"I don't remember," she said, "but we don't know how we did yet."
I thought for a second. "I don't think they'd have put you in an MCAS preparation class at Acceleration Academy if they thought for sure you'd passed it."
Silence.
"So, you're saying we didn't pass it, Mister?"
"No," I replied. "I'm saying you need to be prepared for that possibility."
Silence again.
"Mister, let me tell you something," Y said dryly. "The MCAS is a trap. We take this test, and it's in a language we don't understand, and the people who say we need to pass it are the same people who tell us we can't take it in Spanish."
"You're not wrong," I said.
"And they don't even tell us what happens to us if we don't pass it," she continues.
"I can tell you what happens to you if you don't pass it."
The kids lean forward a little in their seats and listen. It's a secret to which they had apparently not been privy. They looked curious like kids do when they find out where babies come from, or when they find out where the booze in the house is hidden, or when they are overhearing a juicy piece of gossip or a conspiracy in the making. Except the news is bad.
I let them know exactly what I know: that they won't get their diplomas in June if they don't pass the March retest, and that they will find out whether or not they actually get a diploma from Lawrence High School in July, when the last MCAS results come out. What might come in its place is a certificate of completion, a document indicating completion of graduation requirements, but not of fulfillment of competency determinations (i.e. passing MCAS scores).
"What is that even for, Mister? Why do they give that to us?"
"I'll tell you what it's for. It's a document telling the world you didn't make it."
Silence.
"And I don't want that to happen to you," I said. "That diploma is an important document to a lot of people, because it means more than just your knowledge. It means something about who you are, and whether or not you can push through and handle these things. You can get a diploma different ways, sure, and they mean different things to different people. But this opportunity is in front of you now. All you have to do is handle the work and I'm here to help you. Are you gonna take it or not?"
-------------------------
Of course, by Wednesday, it had separated the wheat from the chaff. Three students were cruising and three were doing nothing, just as they had done. A seventh student, who stayed for one hour and left on Monday, was back. I told her to copy the perfect squares and cubes into her notebook, because I was expecting her to memorize them. Her objections could be heard upstairs, up to the next floor, and the principal had to come down and ask her to leave. When the student refused to leave, the principal stayed, and moved my whole class into a spare room until she was removed by her mother.
This was another piercing that disrupted my day. The class was a mess, and not having my fantasy-reading genius present didn't help. He helped to moderate the class and provide assistance, and he was quiet and cool and calm.
Teachers have to read behavioral tea leaves, and a little patient digging tells us all we need to know. Four of the six students were obnoxious to the nth degree, and soon I found out why. One had been working all day, and with an hour left in the day had just begun to pinch the bridge of her nose frequently. When I asked what was wrong, she said that she needed glasses but couldn't afford them. She could barely see the board.
Another student was worried because her kids (3 and 1) were with her laid-up mother.
Another is pissed because she's positive she passed the MCAS, and she could be working instead of attending school, which helps put food on her family's plates.
It's no wonder these kids were giving me the business all day. Life was giving them the business.
-------------------------
Y and I talked a little bit after the daily raffle was called at 1:45 (none of my kids won). She said she was scared not to graduate, and I told her not to think about that, because at the rate she was going she was going to make it. "What do you want to do when you graduate? What are you dreaming about?"
"I want to be a nurse, Mister."
"Wow, a nurse?!"
"Yeah, Mister. I want to go to the community college, take classes, get a job as a nurse. I want to help people."
"That's an awesome plan."
"Yeah. People were telling me I wouldn't make it. I have a bad attitude."
I scoff. "Seriously? You? Bad attitude?"
She nods. "Yeah, Mister. I can be a real asshole."
I think about her statement for a while and take it seriously. "But you're going to make it and go on and be a nurse. You know, college is really great and getting to do something like that is amazing. Are you ready for that? Do you drive?"
"I know how, but I don't have a car. My dad is buying me a car when I graduate, but only if I graduate."
I nod. I think.
"You know, this is where all that starts. Right here, right now. When you decide this isn't impossible. When you're a nurse, and your patients ask you when you decided you were going to become a nurse, this might be what you tell them. You'll thank yourself later."
She smiled.
"Thanks for working so hard today," I said.
"Thanks for teaching me, Mister," she said, and walked out the door.
She walked out right at 2 PM. Everyone else had left fifteen minutes early.
-------------------------
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