Literacy Development: Independent Work Day

Second period is a tiny class, like six kids tiny. Two girls, both funny, sweet, hard-working, and low readers are sitting side by side listening sharing the ear buds to an iPod. Alina is working on history; Hannah is flipping through her anatomy and physiology book looking for the chapter on nerve impulses.

"Wait," Alina points to something in the book, "isn't that your vocals."
Hannah pauses, looks, shrieks.

"Noooo, that's not your VOCALS, that's your VA-GIN-A!" And then proceeds to laugh at her very Christian, very Ukrainian friend.

From across the room, Jarrett looks up, he's working, not sleeping which is odd, and says, "You're disgusting." Looks at me and says, "They're being disgusting."

"It's not disgusting," Hanna says, "it's anatomy."
She flips a few more pages and says, "Look Alina, it's your vocals....oh wait, never mind it's a penis."

I'm not sure any work got done after that.

State testing.

At this very moment, I am administering a state math test. I am sitting in a classroom that is not my own and babysitting 14 students, only one of whom I see on a daily basis. One is in the restroom, one is sleeping, two drawing, and three fidgeting. All of them wish they were able to text right now; hell, I wish I were able to text right now. All of us would rather be in class. I'm all about the occasional time suck in class. Using class times for games or jokes or conversation about silly things. But I HATE the waste of time that is standardized testing. These students will sit in here for another hour with literally nothing to do. All but one are finished.

It is also a strange activity from my point of view. I am in charge of kids whom I do not know. Being a teacher, and one who strives to build rapport with kids, I'm generally pretty good at managing these type of situations, but it's an odd sort of organization, as I try to remain friendly when most of what I must say to them is literally printed on a paper in front of me. I must read a script: verbatim. I am just as bored as they are. But, I am writing this blog and they are keeping the whispering to the barest minimum. They are better behaved than I.

"Do you have any food?" A kid who slept through the test just raised his hand to ask this question. There is one kid still testing. I wish I did have food for them, as nice as they are. Teenagers are silly, high school is silly. State testing is dumb.

Old

I don't feel old. Sometimes however, I am rudely reminded that, in fact I might as well be dead because, "Basically after 30, your life is over."

Ahhh, teenagers, aren't they jerks? Clever, surprising, wonderful, unruly, jerks? Most all of the ones I deal with are that sort.

One of my classes does not shy away from reminding me, constantly how very old I am. One of these lovely students sings a song, I have no idea where it's from, about a nursing home fire...the chorus of which is (I'm not kidding) "Old people burning, Old people burning."

I thought I'd share this artistic rendering of what thirty really means.

Oh, and while playing taboo with the class this was one of the conversations that took place.
Student one, giving clues: When you're thirty you are...
Student two, grinning widely and guessing: OLD!

Again, I know everyone is jealous they don't work in a high school.

Flat Stanley

I'm not a big fan of deadlines. I often choose to ignore them, especially when it comes to projects and cleaning. But, I generally have good intentions.

This is a picture of Flat Stanley. This particular version of the paper-doll traveling geography project phenomena comes from the niece of one of my best friends. I got her the week before Christmas. In the first week I took her to a Blazer game, the Portland Sat. Market and took her picture in front of one of Portland's many bridges.

I should have sent her on. I even have a priority envelop already addressed to Flat Stanley's next host...but, instead she got left in the Tri-Cities after Christmas. For two and a half weeks this would be world traveler was holed up in a closet in a 9 year old's room. Alas there was not even a single photo to authenticate her time in that exotic locale. I got her back (and a needed pair of tennis shoes) and took her out again. With me apparently she's on a sports kick, she was taken to a Winter Hawks game, rode public transportation and walked along the Columbia at the site of one of Lewis and Clark's stop-overs.

I really do like this project, and always get a kick out it when I see people with Flat Stanley dolls (this has actually happened to me about three times) but it is a lot of work for the people involved and a lot of trust by that teacher that these projects will in fact be successful. Okay, now to find a way to print the pictures, write in the journal and send the stupid (but brilliant) project out into the world (or at least to her next stop-over in San Fransisco).

Why my job is better than yours...

because really are there any other jobs where seeing a singing, ukulele playing, happy teenager sporting an angry mohawk is completely normal?

Arcadia Beach

The view looking north from my favorite day trip spot on the Oregon Coast.





It's a dramatic combination of rock and sand a few miles south of Cannon Beach, which makes it approximately 104 miles from my front door.

I have been here three times this month.

First, with the best friend I found during first semester of college: she and her 4 year old bundle of excitement and energy and joy were visiting for "girls weekend". The little one had never been to the beach. As a side note, both dogs and kids react the same upon first exposure to the beach...they wiggle around with uncontrollable glee and run. We poked things, climbed rocks, dug holes and discussed how even though it wasn't sunny we needed to remember to wear sunscreen. We know better, we declared with all indication of learning from past mistakes. Apparently, we do not and I burned so badly I peeled.

Second, with the best friend from high school: she and I once were part of a three day beach backpacking trip out of "gasp" Forks, Washington. (The trip was so long ago we weren't even aware we should be looking for vampires) At seven months pregnant her reaction to the beach was remarkable dissimilar to dogs and little girls. She dug belly sized hole in the sand squealed because she could finally lay on her stomach and then slept for an hour. I walked south with the mutt.

Third, with my brother, sister, mom and step dad, and three dogs: We picked up rocks, and took turns acting (and sometimes being) impressed by on another's finds, we waded, the mutt suffered a strange bout of dementia and was running in the opposite direction, sure he would find me. My brother practiced acrobatic feats. It was beautiful and the tide was out exposing rocks and life and beach upon which the crazy girl boxer could practice her thoroughbred impersonation. A good day.

As another side note, all three days were cloudy and fueled by peanut butter and jelly.

Fisherman Frank

Back at work today after a quick jaunt down south. I may post more about the trip later, but right now I don't have enough energy. But, here's a funny kid story... Student, who we shall call Fisherman Frank has given me grief all year. He is the sort of kid who pushes my you-will-not-be-a sexist-racist-homophobic-jerk buttons all the time.

The sort of kid whose response to my constant "We don't use the word gay to mean stupid in my class" remark with "Okay, then I'll call him a fag." The sort who is an ass to the bad ass assistant principal and is the only kid I've sent to in-school-suspension all year. But, we are making progress. At the change of the semester he remarked that what he was learning to watch his mouth during the first 18 weeks in my class. A few minutes later I was reminding him again the things we do and do not say in my class and he rolled his eyes in a purposefully exaggerated manner and said, "Yeah, yeah, I'm learning to watch my mouth, you are continuing to teach me."

Progress takes baby steps and more often than not, his remarks are intelligent instead of racist.

Today, Frank was filling out a worksheet, I was helping everyone work on it, but basically they had to read a variety of occupational areas and fill in people who would fit each category. He was making some good connections and working at a good pace.

"So uhhh, who invented that one thing?" He was sort of asking me a question and sort of talking to himself.

"What, the internet? That was Al Gore." I said, loud enough for him to hear, but not to the whole class.

A brief look of confusion crossed his face, "Huh? What, oh (groan)...(voice drops down to nearly inaudible) you're a retard." But, he was grinning as he continued to work.

I laughed, because, I had won. "Yes Frank, but you think I'm funny." He didn't argue. "And besides," I said, "You're not supposed to call me (or anyone for that matter, but that's more than I can tackle) a retard."

He grinned, and kept working, much too smart, this time, to take the bait.

this is really yesterday's post

A brief interaction from my 5th period class.

Student 1: "Yo, Ms. K, how come Kyle gets to pick a song and you've never ever once let me pick one."

Me: "Well, obviously that means I must like Kyle better than you."

Student 1: "Ms. K, that's cold."
Kyle (simultaneously): "Ha, she likes me better."

Student 2 (sweet, beautiful, wonderful girl at the back of the room): "I thought you hated all of us equally."

They obviously don't have a good handle on who I am.

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