This is a first. I just finished applying for the job I'm already doing. I have been asking innumerable people innumerable questions trying to gain an understanding of the districts actions: specifically, the reducing of teaching personnel beyond the minimum required for the district to function (e.g., meet the needs of the present (and even more so, future) enrollment. I am by no means making light of the near-impossible dilemma facing the administration as the result of the financial decisions of the local and federal governments; however, is there (can anyone tell me?) a justifiable reason for laying off every probationary teacher only to turn around and spend the money/resources to rehire the indispensable ones? Is this (in terms I have heard utilized by experienced teachers) a C.Y.A. move?
Whatever the reason that the higher-ups feel the we-down-heres have no need of knowing; I hope that it is in the best interest, not of us the educators, nor of them the peddlers of politics, but of the center and aim of original public education: the students. Has anyone stopped to consider the legacy we are leaving for the generations who will inherit this land when we are dead and gone? Yes: LEGACY! No, I am not making a mountain out of a mole-hill. This will have ramifications both detrimental and far-reaching and the fault will be attributed to our account.
This is not, and never has been, about us. It is about them. We've had our time, our chance. This time, this moment is theirs. We have no right to take it from them.
Saturday, April 23, 2011
Friday, April 1, 2011
Looking back . . .
I don't think anyone saw it coming. Even those of us who expected the worst kept a guarded sense of denial about how bad things were. Honestly, I had become comfortable with the idea of teaching for the next 30 years, like my mentor before me. It doesn't feel real yet.
I am grateful, however. Grateful for the chance to be apart of the lives of the students I was privileged to teach and lead. I told them that I became a teacher, not because I had to get a job, but because I wanted to be a part of something bigger than myself. I wanted to change lives in ways that mattered and lasted. I told them that I thought there were some things wrong with the public education system and I wanted to be a part of the solution.
Like math, life is not about finding the fastest route to the answer; but understanding the problem and discovering the best reconciliation. It's about becoming the solution by feeling your way through the inner-workings of the dilemma rather than memorizing some other guy's formula. It's about girding yourself with the courage to think independently in the face of uncertainty and, often times, an intimidating sense of inadequacy. It's about realizing that you can do more than you thought you could.
I think I may have reached one or two . . . about life, that is. I taught pre-algebra to 80 6th-graders this year. Most of them learned it. That's important, I guess. Still, at the end of each day, what gnaws at me is the question lying closer to the heart than the mind: Did I equip them with any tools to solve the heavier, self-deternining problems that many of them entered my class with? And, to be sure, the 11 and 12 year olds of today carry more on their backs than a child should. Way more than any child can.
I hope I lightened the load, even a little.
I am grateful, however. Grateful for the chance to be apart of the lives of the students I was privileged to teach and lead. I told them that I became a teacher, not because I had to get a job, but because I wanted to be a part of something bigger than myself. I wanted to change lives in ways that mattered and lasted. I told them that I thought there were some things wrong with the public education system and I wanted to be a part of the solution.
Like math, life is not about finding the fastest route to the answer; but understanding the problem and discovering the best reconciliation. It's about becoming the solution by feeling your way through the inner-workings of the dilemma rather than memorizing some other guy's formula. It's about girding yourself with the courage to think independently in the face of uncertainty and, often times, an intimidating sense of inadequacy. It's about realizing that you can do more than you thought you could.
I think I may have reached one or two . . . about life, that is. I taught pre-algebra to 80 6th-graders this year. Most of them learned it. That's important, I guess. Still, at the end of each day, what gnaws at me is the question lying closer to the heart than the mind: Did I equip them with any tools to solve the heavier, self-deternining problems that many of them entered my class with? And, to be sure, the 11 and 12 year olds of today carry more on their backs than a child should. Way more than any child can.
I hope I lightened the load, even a little.
Saturday, March 26, 2011
Aliens Have Abducted My Students
Interesting. I am convinced that, during Spring Break, the city of New Braunfels was covertly invaded by extraterrestrials who successfully abducted all middle school-aged children, replacing them with bio-engineered duplicates specifically (and diabolically) designed to DRIVE THEIR TEACHERS NUTS! What happened?! They were so sweet and innocent before they went on Spring Break. I need an aspirin and a weekend . . .
Saturday, March 12, 2011
Open and Honest
Every once in a while a blogger wonders if, upon reading his previous entries, he should delete that last one. "Perhaps I was too negative," he wonders. "What if those I work for see my opinion about certain issues as personal attacks on them or as the irrational outbursts of a pessimist?" Maybe it would be wise to put a sock in my personal convictions for the sake of self-preservation and just lay low. Perhaps, maybe, who knows.
I believe that honesty, however anachronistic, is still the best policy. I believe that the thoughtful opinions of those who spend the day-to-day on the front lines and have a genuine, heart-felt concern for the things that could and should be better are of the greatest value. I believe that political correctness is a ruse employed by those who are more interested in dodging the axe rather than going down with the Truth. I believe the Truth is worth going down with and those who embrace it to their detriment are the finest company to be had.
So here is the truth: I became a teacher because I want to be a part something bigger than myself. I want to make the most of the short time and breath I have been given to make someone's life a little (or, if I give it a solid go, a lot) better. I want to pass on to the next generation what I have been given: an understanding of my own significance, a foundation on which to discover and develop my purpose, and, out of that, the chance to give of myself until I ultimately have nothing left save a deep sense of a job well-done, a life well-invested.
So how can a guy fulfill such a lofty, idealistic ambition as a middle school math teacher? I'm not sure; you would have to ask a guy who teaches math. I, on the other hand, am a mentor of the children who enter my room each and every day. True, every day, offer instruction in pre-algebra. Every day, I plan for the next math lesson, design math projects, and assign math homework, and tutor students who struggle in math so that they, hopefully, can pass the state's math test with the score by which they will be identified as often as the name their mother gave them at birth. But this is not what drives me to be in my classroom early in the morning and remain long after my contract time is up.
What gets me up in the morning is the knowledge that, while many of my students will forget to bring their pencils and homework assignments to class today, they will bring with them, each and every day, the crushing weight of a world that is unfathomably more complicated and less innocent than the one I grew up in. More of them than I care to admit come from places and people than can hardly be considered homes and families, at least not according to my understanding of a home and family. For many of them, school is safer, warmer, and contains more love and protection than any other place in the world. They fill my classroom before and after the school bell has rung just to be somewhere and with someone that will listen to them, believe in them, offer them a modicum of hope, and, if not but for a brief respite, a moment to let their guard down and simply be a twelve-year-old child.
Who would imagine that a child's middle school math teacher's classroom would be a haven? When I needed protection and acceptance, security and someone to let me know it would be okay, I ran home. These kids run anywhere but home. What kind of childhood is that?
Earlier this week I was told that, chances are, I may not be teaching next year. The politicians need money, so, of course it makes sense to take it away from that public service that is superfluous and disposable: the education of our children. What can I say except, I am grateful to and honored by the administrators and parents who entrusted their children to me each and every day this year. I hope the kids found something in our times of hard work and laughter and candid conversation to take and make their own. I hope they found at least a small part of themselves, at least enough to open their eyes to their immense value as precious and irreplaceable. I hope they leave my room on the last day with the courage and resolve to face any problem and fight for the solution.
I hope every one of them slays thier dragon.
I believe that honesty, however anachronistic, is still the best policy. I believe that the thoughtful opinions of those who spend the day-to-day on the front lines and have a genuine, heart-felt concern for the things that could and should be better are of the greatest value. I believe that political correctness is a ruse employed by those who are more interested in dodging the axe rather than going down with the Truth. I believe the Truth is worth going down with and those who embrace it to their detriment are the finest company to be had.
So here is the truth: I became a teacher because I want to be a part something bigger than myself. I want to make the most of the short time and breath I have been given to make someone's life a little (or, if I give it a solid go, a lot) better. I want to pass on to the next generation what I have been given: an understanding of my own significance, a foundation on which to discover and develop my purpose, and, out of that, the chance to give of myself until I ultimately have nothing left save a deep sense of a job well-done, a life well-invested.
So how can a guy fulfill such a lofty, idealistic ambition as a middle school math teacher? I'm not sure; you would have to ask a guy who teaches math. I, on the other hand, am a mentor of the children who enter my room each and every day. True, every day, offer instruction in pre-algebra. Every day, I plan for the next math lesson, design math projects, and assign math homework, and tutor students who struggle in math so that they, hopefully, can pass the state's math test with the score by which they will be identified as often as the name their mother gave them at birth. But this is not what drives me to be in my classroom early in the morning and remain long after my contract time is up.
What gets me up in the morning is the knowledge that, while many of my students will forget to bring their pencils and homework assignments to class today, they will bring with them, each and every day, the crushing weight of a world that is unfathomably more complicated and less innocent than the one I grew up in. More of them than I care to admit come from places and people than can hardly be considered homes and families, at least not according to my understanding of a home and family. For many of them, school is safer, warmer, and contains more love and protection than any other place in the world. They fill my classroom before and after the school bell has rung just to be somewhere and with someone that will listen to them, believe in them, offer them a modicum of hope, and, if not but for a brief respite, a moment to let their guard down and simply be a twelve-year-old child.
Who would imagine that a child's middle school math teacher's classroom would be a haven? When I needed protection and acceptance, security and someone to let me know it would be okay, I ran home. These kids run anywhere but home. What kind of childhood is that?
Earlier this week I was told that, chances are, I may not be teaching next year. The politicians need money, so, of course it makes sense to take it away from that public service that is superfluous and disposable: the education of our children. What can I say except, I am grateful to and honored by the administrators and parents who entrusted their children to me each and every day this year. I hope the kids found something in our times of hard work and laughter and candid conversation to take and make their own. I hope they found at least a small part of themselves, at least enough to open their eyes to their immense value as precious and irreplaceable. I hope they leave my room on the last day with the courage and resolve to face any problem and fight for the solution.
I hope every one of them slays thier dragon.
Sunday, February 13, 2011
One More Little Thing + One More Little Thing + One More Little Thing + One More Little Thing . . .
The worst part about being me is that, when it comes to writing, I'm not very good at keeping my mouth (pen) shut. Example: The only reason for this entry is to fulfill an obligation. As much as I wish I had the luxury of extra time to maintain 4 separate blogs, but that is, to put it lightly, fantasaical.
Someone somewhere must realize that, before additional tasks can be plopped onto the already-loaded plate of a teacher, something else must be first removed. Instead, what is handed down to a teacher by those he works for is often justified by statements such as, "It's just a little thing. It won't take much time." or "If you manage your time well, you can fit it in."
Do the phrases "snowball effect" or "it all adds up" mean anything to anyone? Quantity does not guarantee quality, and I am confident that the quality of teaching in the public education system is being compromised by the quantity of tasks being loaded onto to teachers by numerous sources and people who do not take the time to consider that their "little extra something" is being added to an "already massive something." Something needs to be changed.
I thought we were supposed to be student-centered!!
Someone somewhere must realize that, before additional tasks can be plopped onto the already-loaded plate of a teacher, something else must be first removed. Instead, what is handed down to a teacher by those he works for is often justified by statements such as, "It's just a little thing. It won't take much time." or "If you manage your time well, you can fit it in."
Do the phrases "snowball effect" or "it all adds up" mean anything to anyone? Quantity does not guarantee quality, and I am confident that the quality of teaching in the public education system is being compromised by the quantity of tasks being loaded onto to teachers by numerous sources and people who do not take the time to consider that their "little extra something" is being added to an "already massive something." Something needs to be changed.
I thought we were supposed to be student-centered!!
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Balance. Ahhhhh . . .
Balance. The word itself is a breath of fresh air. It's good to finally be able to breathe.
Since August, I have slowly but surely learned the art of juggling. You know what the secret is? Throw down some of those stinkin' balls!
What I am trying to say is this: After getting to know the seasoned teachers that I am privileged to call colleagues, I am convinced that there is nary a single teacher out there that has found a method for keeping every ball hurled at them suspended, every plate spinning, every iron red-hot, and every loose end tied off. And this is just how it is.
This was difficult for me to process at first. In my previous career, everything was by the book and it took an act of congress to add anything to the repertoire. Change came slow; therefore adjustment was easy. Not so in education where change is the only constant. It slaps you up-side the head when you least expect it (and even when you do) and job descriptions are shockingly fluid (like the hot coffee you spilled down the front of your knickers when the last change head-whapped you).
Prioritize. Be not afraid of loose ends. Come to terms with the endless, ever lengthening list. It is the nature of education. Be bold enough to say "Enough!" and don't you dare let your work come within ten miles of your weekend with your beautiful wife and little boy.
Balance. Ahhhh.
Since August, I have slowly but surely learned the art of juggling. You know what the secret is? Throw down some of those stinkin' balls!
What I am trying to say is this: After getting to know the seasoned teachers that I am privileged to call colleagues, I am convinced that there is nary a single teacher out there that has found a method for keeping every ball hurled at them suspended, every plate spinning, every iron red-hot, and every loose end tied off. And this is just how it is.
This was difficult for me to process at first. In my previous career, everything was by the book and it took an act of congress to add anything to the repertoire. Change came slow; therefore adjustment was easy. Not so in education where change is the only constant. It slaps you up-side the head when you least expect it (and even when you do) and job descriptions are shockingly fluid (like the hot coffee you spilled down the front of your knickers when the last change head-whapped you).
Prioritize. Be not afraid of loose ends. Come to terms with the endless, ever lengthening list. It is the nature of education. Be bold enough to say "Enough!" and don't you dare let your work come within ten miles of your weekend with your beautiful wife and little boy.
Balance. Ahhhh.
Sunday, December 5, 2010
H.S.S.S.S.C.R.V.M.S.T's
I am convinced that teacher's lead shorter lives. It isn't that the years of our life expectancy are abbreviated by the stressfull factors of our field (though that is a certain possibility), so much as it is that the years we enjoy happen to be themselves abbreviated, truncated, . . . shorter.
Abbreviation, truncation, shorter version of the above ramble: Time flies when you're a teacher.
Perhaps it is more accurate to describe the life of a teacher as fast.Like the bullet from Angelina Jolie's gun in Wanted or Keanu Reeves in the Matrix, teachers, if they are to successfully accomplish their mission, must move at a rate of speed disproportionate to the world around them.
A real-life example: One day, I was (speed) walking down the hall during my conference period, on my way to wade through the small wheel-barrow load of paper that had accumulated in my box over the last several minutes. Up ahead, a student, bathroom pass in hand, was making his way towards me en route to the boys room. As the distance between us closed, he suddenly jerked around as if someone had tapped him on the shoulder. After surmising that the hallway was completely devoid of life save himself and me, the speed-walker yet to pass him, he shot his glance back my way.
"What the heck was that?" popped the perplexed pupil.
"What do you mean?" I said. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
"I think maybe I have!" quipped the leary lad." I felt this breeze across my face, and something brushed against my arm. But when I turned around, there was no one there! Am I going crazy?"
"Relax," I consoled. "Chances are you just walked in range of an air vent when the AC switched on or . . ."
He cut in. "I don't think so! I heard a voice and could smell . . . , " He gave a shudder. ". . . coffee breath!"
His shocked countenance gave way to increasingly fearful notions as he recounted the incident.
"You heard a voice? What was it saying?"
His eyes looked off to the side and his hands wringed thoughtfully at his chest as he attempted to reconstruct what had happened in such a finite moment in time.
"It said something over and over, something about Christmas. Oh yeah, I remember! It said, "Two weeks until Christmas; two-weeks until Christmas . . ." I think it kept repeating, but I can't be sure. It all happened so fast!"
"Ah, I see." I placed my hand on his shoulder, helping him get a handle on the moment. "That was definitely not the AC and it was certainly no ghost. Most likely, you came in close contact with a H.S.S.S.S.C.R.V.M.S.T." You're lucky to be alive!"
"A what!?" he asked, bewildered.
"A Hyper-Sonic-Super-Stressed-Stoked-on-Caffeine-Ready-for-Vacation-Middle-School-Teacher. The school's full of 'em. In short, they are teachers who have been forced to develop super-human capabilities in order to keep up with the demands of public education. Most of the time, they are moving so fast, the only clue to their presence is a passing, mumbling, coffee-scented blast of air. That's why it's always a good idea to steer clear of the center of the hallway."
"Oooooh, " he chimed, the pieces of the puzzle coming together in his head. "That's why my teacher's always telling me to walk on the right side! Well, what about you? You're not moving at hyper-sonic speeds. You're just speed-walking."
"Oh, well, that's because I'm new. I won't get my hyper-sonic license until next year."
Abbreviation, truncation, shorter version of the above ramble: Time flies when you're a teacher.
Perhaps it is more accurate to describe the life of a teacher as fast.Like the bullet from Angelina Jolie's gun in Wanted or Keanu Reeves in the Matrix, teachers, if they are to successfully accomplish their mission, must move at a rate of speed disproportionate to the world around them.
A real-life example: One day, I was (speed) walking down the hall during my conference period, on my way to wade through the small wheel-barrow load of paper that had accumulated in my box over the last several minutes. Up ahead, a student, bathroom pass in hand, was making his way towards me en route to the boys room. As the distance between us closed, he suddenly jerked around as if someone had tapped him on the shoulder. After surmising that the hallway was completely devoid of life save himself and me, the speed-walker yet to pass him, he shot his glance back my way.
"What the heck was that?" popped the perplexed pupil.
"What do you mean?" I said. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
"I think maybe I have!" quipped the leary lad." I felt this breeze across my face, and something brushed against my arm. But when I turned around, there was no one there! Am I going crazy?"
"Relax," I consoled. "Chances are you just walked in range of an air vent when the AC switched on or . . ."
He cut in. "I don't think so! I heard a voice and could smell . . . , " He gave a shudder. ". . . coffee breath!"
His shocked countenance gave way to increasingly fearful notions as he recounted the incident.
"You heard a voice? What was it saying?"
His eyes looked off to the side and his hands wringed thoughtfully at his chest as he attempted to reconstruct what had happened in such a finite moment in time.
"It said something over and over, something about Christmas. Oh yeah, I remember! It said, "Two weeks until Christmas; two-weeks until Christmas . . ." I think it kept repeating, but I can't be sure. It all happened so fast!"
"Ah, I see." I placed my hand on his shoulder, helping him get a handle on the moment. "That was definitely not the AC and it was certainly no ghost. Most likely, you came in close contact with a H.S.S.S.S.C.R.V.M.S.T." You're lucky to be alive!"
"A what!?" he asked, bewildered.
"A Hyper-Sonic-Super-Stressed-Stoked-on-Caffeine-Ready-for-Vacation-Middle-School-Teacher. The school's full of 'em. In short, they are teachers who have been forced to develop super-human capabilities in order to keep up with the demands of public education. Most of the time, they are moving so fast, the only clue to their presence is a passing, mumbling, coffee-scented blast of air. That's why it's always a good idea to steer clear of the center of the hallway."
"Oooooh, " he chimed, the pieces of the puzzle coming together in his head. "That's why my teacher's always telling me to walk on the right side! Well, what about you? You're not moving at hyper-sonic speeds. You're just speed-walking."
"Oh, well, that's because I'm new. I won't get my hyper-sonic license until next year."
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