Before last week's tests began, my students worked so hard and did me proud. My advisor observed me the day before the math testing began. They started that day with a math lesson on measurement, then we did storytelling, which they hadn't done in a while, and learned about the word "artifact." They did an activity around how to look at artifacts.
Then, after lunch, they did a very challenging artifact study, behaving as if they were in a museum studying artifacts. We had to go back and reorganize the items, and ask that students not touch them, as that caused problems during the lesson, but we were able to regroup so that everyone was able to study them closely without touching. Nice recovery.
They were incredibly focused during the study, and did some beautiful work. They didn't want to stop, even though that artifact study went over an hour, and including the morning introduction, they had been doing artifact work for two hours. Between that and measurement, their brains were full, but they still did some scientific observation as part of their animal studies at the end of the day! Amazing.
The next day, Shamiqua* was really discouraged by the first day of the math test. She dragged her feet, and her coat, getting to the cafeteria. I had her and another girl, Oksana*, who is not known for her patience (unless *she* is trying to get ready, in which case she becomes enraged if you rush her at all- but anyway!). Shamiqua is shuffling down the hall at a glacial pace, coat dragging behind her; Oksana and I are 20 feet ahead, waiting for her to catch up. I figured Oksana would have some impatient comment for poor Shamiqua.
But no. In what was, for her, a very rare show of empathy, this is what Oksana did. She walked back to Shamiqua and stood beside her. Then, she matched her pace, step for step, all the way to the cafeteria. It took about 10 minutes, and every other class in the school, it seems like, pushed past them on the stairs, but it didn't matter. They were in their own slow space, not talking, but sharing nonetheless. I told Oksana she was my superstar for the day, and she gave me one of her very rare, non-smirking, very beautiful smiles, and said, "Why?"
*names are not real
Saturday, April 27, 2013
Wednesday, April 17, 2013
A Happier Time
We're fully in the throes of testing now, on Day 2, and it's starting to wear on everyone. The kids are grouchy and on edge, the teachers' tempers are frayed. I was thinking back to happier moments earlier, before they ever saw that darn test and felt real fear.
It was Movement, which is a time of the week that the kids really love. Pedro, who teaches it, has a great way with the kids, girls and boys alike, getting them to be in the moment in an authentic way that they can understand. He had them pair off and do an activity that goes like this: Student A says "one," Student B says "two," Student A says "three," and they start over, two people counting to three. They really have to pay close attention to each other.
One of my students, Jean-Pierre, did something really sweet. He was working with Carlos, who is an English Language Learner. So, completely unbidden, instead of saying, "One, two, three," he did his counting in Spanish. Really sweet. Carlos' English and Spanish abilities are about equal (he has a language delay), but it showed a lot of social intelligence on Jean-Pierre's part to come up with this on the fly.
All the adults in the room (six of them) wanted to high-five Jean-Pierre, and all of us gave him a ton of praise. He looked at us suspiciously, accepting the praise grudgingly. I asked him point-blank whether he knew what he had done to deserve all that. "No," he said, with a frown. I told him what a smart thing it was that he did. He gave me a rare, beautiful smile.
Seeing how these kids are struggling with the testing, I feel like I may never see that smile again.
It was Movement, which is a time of the week that the kids really love. Pedro, who teaches it, has a great way with the kids, girls and boys alike, getting them to be in the moment in an authentic way that they can understand. He had them pair off and do an activity that goes like this: Student A says "one," Student B says "two," Student A says "three," and they start over, two people counting to three. They really have to pay close attention to each other.
One of my students, Jean-Pierre, did something really sweet. He was working with Carlos, who is an English Language Learner. So, completely unbidden, instead of saying, "One, two, three," he did his counting in Spanish. Really sweet. Carlos' English and Spanish abilities are about equal (he has a language delay), but it showed a lot of social intelligence on Jean-Pierre's part to come up with this on the fly.
All the adults in the room (six of them) wanted to high-five Jean-Pierre, and all of us gave him a ton of praise. He looked at us suspiciously, accepting the praise grudgingly. I asked him point-blank whether he knew what he had done to deserve all that. "No," he said, with a frown. I told him what a smart thing it was that he did. He gave me a rare, beautiful smile.
Seeing how these kids are struggling with the testing, I feel like I may never see that smile again.
Tuesday, April 9, 2013
Shoes
My student Hannah came to school today looking cute, wearing a new pair of flats. Unfortunately, they were too small and it immediately became apparent that they were hurting her feet. She was miserable by third period, and one of the paras went to see if there were some flip-flops in the building, since it was so warm.
While she was crying, I remembered that I had a pair of very flimsy flats in my bag. These are the kind they sell at the drug store for women who wear high heels, so they can wear them home when they break a heel or just can't stand it for another second. I had them from my old job, and didn't want to throw them out, so I stuck them in my school bag. They'd been there for months.
I gave them to Hannah (they were a little big but not too much). She was so happy. The paras told me she was swinging her feet, admiring her comfy shoes and grinning from ear to ear all the way through third period and lunch.
It's the little things!
Monday, April 8, 2013
Holy moly
Wow, time flies. It feels close to the end already. Students begin their first year of testing next week (third graders), which is 3 days out of each of the next two weeks. Then they go on a 3-day grade-wide camping trip (which my fourth-graders are going on). They return the first of May. My placement ends on the 17th.
I feel like this has gone too fast. The fall felt fairly slow, even with the week we missed for Sandy. I have only barely gotten to know these kids. Help!
I will plan to visit them in June. But still: I am marveling at how fast it's gone. I could teach them all summer and still be fascinated, and want to come back every day to learn more. I can only hope for their sakes that they're sick of me already:)
I feel like this has gone too fast. The fall felt fairly slow, even with the week we missed for Sandy. I have only barely gotten to know these kids. Help!
I will plan to visit them in June. But still: I am marveling at how fast it's gone. I could teach them all summer and still be fascinated, and want to come back every day to learn more. I can only hope for their sakes that they're sick of me already:)
Friday, March 22, 2013
Extreme Teaching
It's Spring Break, finally, and I am looking forward to the break. Not that I don't love my students. My placement at ABPS is wonderful. All the adults in the room work really well together, which is huge, since there's 5 of us. It's a joy and a pleasure and I learn so much watching Mr. Lee. But it is a workout: my husband calls it Extreme Teaching. New sport on ESPN 2.
Seriously: just for starters, you have a few students who need a lot of language to stay engaged, and you have a few who get about two words out of every sentence or phrase you utter. Everyone else is in between, so you have 30-45 seconds to focus their attention on something visual, and about 6 minutes before you lose them- pretty small window for a lesson. Then you have students who are really only engaged with movement or processes; others who hate such things and prefer to draw or look at visuals. I have a reading group that is four kids: two get easily discouraged, two who have noticeably fewer oral-language skills than the other two, and one who absolutely cannot sit still for longer than it takes him to read the text. It's tough. I have a math group of three students and they are in the same group because they don't have place value yet, but there the similarities end.
Individually they're unique, engaging, funny and wonderful. Some of them come from less than ideal circumstances, a few stories that will really break your heart in there as well. Most of them are mercurial in their moods- something small that you didn't catch can throw them into a black, unproductive mood for a long time. They cry a lot. They hit sometimes- too many times. They aren't as nice to each other as I'd like them to be. They're pretty darn hard on themselves, too.
So while I am already missing the morning hugs I get from many of them, I am also ready for a break.
Although I have to say, the moments that they are kind, and the displays of mature, calm behavior, (which are not at all infrequent) shine like stars in contrast to the many, many conversations we have as a group about mindfulness, about conflict and being conflict-solvers, about wasting time and saving time.
It's quite something to watch how they respond to these ideas. Even the students without a great deal of language can understand from the many, many examples we discuss. I think, on balance, these kids try harder for more of the day than your average students: there's fewer of them, nowhere to hide and Mr. Lee does not give them a pass. But it never seems to get easier to see how many things are so hard for them. I know they will miss school, too, although they may not miss me specifically. I hope they have some fun this week.
Seriously: just for starters, you have a few students who need a lot of language to stay engaged, and you have a few who get about two words out of every sentence or phrase you utter. Everyone else is in between, so you have 30-45 seconds to focus their attention on something visual, and about 6 minutes before you lose them- pretty small window for a lesson. Then you have students who are really only engaged with movement or processes; others who hate such things and prefer to draw or look at visuals. I have a reading group that is four kids: two get easily discouraged, two who have noticeably fewer oral-language skills than the other two, and one who absolutely cannot sit still for longer than it takes him to read the text. It's tough. I have a math group of three students and they are in the same group because they don't have place value yet, but there the similarities end.
Individually they're unique, engaging, funny and wonderful. Some of them come from less than ideal circumstances, a few stories that will really break your heart in there as well. Most of them are mercurial in their moods- something small that you didn't catch can throw them into a black, unproductive mood for a long time. They cry a lot. They hit sometimes- too many times. They aren't as nice to each other as I'd like them to be. They're pretty darn hard on themselves, too.
So while I am already missing the morning hugs I get from many of them, I am also ready for a break.
Although I have to say, the moments that they are kind, and the displays of mature, calm behavior, (which are not at all infrequent) shine like stars in contrast to the many, many conversations we have as a group about mindfulness, about conflict and being conflict-solvers, about wasting time and saving time.
It's quite something to watch how they respond to these ideas. Even the students without a great deal of language can understand from the many, many examples we discuss. I think, on balance, these kids try harder for more of the day than your average students: there's fewer of them, nowhere to hide and Mr. Lee does not give them a pass. But it never seems to get easier to see how many things are so hard for them. I know they will miss school, too, although they may not miss me specifically. I hope they have some fun this week.
Friday, March 15, 2013
Tortured Metaphor, or How to Teach Reading Comprehension
It's like this: you're in a forest, with your teachers and also your students. Your teachers say, "Please teach your students about trees. Teach them about trees using the example of an elm." OK, fine, but I really like pine trees, and, well, oaks are good too, and here's a beech, and you know what, none of them has leaves right now, so which one is an elm again? And your teachers say, "OK, but make sure you pick a kind of tree that's right for your students."
This is what I feel like when asked to teach reading comprehension. It's not clear to me what trees, or strategies, will work well. All the trees seem appealing; I want students to love them all equally. That is to say, it's very difficult for me to distinguish between texts and techniques. I know very well that the only thing to do is go in and try it, and get a sense of it for myself. I did dive in, during a lesson that my advisor was observing, and thank goodness she was there because she saved my bacon during guided reading. Whew.
The three teachers I know the best: E, E and A, all have this same clarity of mind. I've seen them all perform magic in front of students, occasionally saving a derailed lesson of mine in the process. I've seen science lessons where, with just a plant in front of him, A has them all on the edge of their seat, asking just the right questions, having just enough discussion, making them think just hard enough. It's art, for sure.
I know it comes from years of experience, and the only way out is through, as they say. It's like being a white belt again: I just have to put my head down and train until I start to have some skills of my own. But in the meantime... the trees. It's tough walking around this forest!!
This is what I feel like when asked to teach reading comprehension. It's not clear to me what trees, or strategies, will work well. All the trees seem appealing; I want students to love them all equally. That is to say, it's very difficult for me to distinguish between texts and techniques. I know very well that the only thing to do is go in and try it, and get a sense of it for myself. I did dive in, during a lesson that my advisor was observing, and thank goodness she was there because she saved my bacon during guided reading. Whew.
The three teachers I know the best: E, E and A, all have this same clarity of mind. I've seen them all perform magic in front of students, occasionally saving a derailed lesson of mine in the process. I've seen science lessons where, with just a plant in front of him, A has them all on the edge of their seat, asking just the right questions, having just enough discussion, making them think just hard enough. It's art, for sure.
I know it comes from years of experience, and the only way out is through, as they say. It's like being a white belt again: I just have to put my head down and train until I start to have some skills of my own. But in the meantime... the trees. It's tough walking around this forest!!
Wednesday, February 27, 2013
The Noise Contradiction
My students and I are conflicted about noise, in different ways. First of all, there's noise, and then there's noise. I also think that noise in the context of a special education classroom is different than it is in other classrooms.
Noise vs noise: I constantly militate against the idea that learning = silence. It's mostly in my own head, because as a practical matter, kids make noise by default and teachers require then to stop making noise in order to accomplish some instructional basics. But I do remind myself, often, that kids learn from each other and from their own expressions, thoughts, and ideas, and they can't do this silently. Engagement is learning is noise. However, as we all know there is a qualitative difference between the sound of kids learning and the sound of kids making a racket. I try not to wish for quiet, never mind ask for it, when kids are engaged. I get a good chance to practice this when I substitute teach: the class "feels" a little out of control, but when I am subbing for Art, they're *supposed* to be talking, moving around the room and showing each other their work. I talk myself down. Then it's easier to stop and listen when it's my math lesson, being observed by my advisor, to make sure that it's "engaged noise" I'm hearing.
Noise in context: The children in my class are often very sensitive to noise. Even engaged noise can be overwhelming, and it has a visceral effect on the students who are most sensitive. I can feel them tense, feel their affective hackles go up, and the engagement with any academic task evaporates immediately. Then the cycle begins: it's noisy and it sounds like this:
Student 1: "Can you PLEASE be quiet, I can't do my work!"
Student 2: "I'm not making any noise, YOU are!"
Student 1: "You are TOO, you're kicking the table and humming!"
Student 2: "Well, you're shouting, YOU be quiet!"
Of course, this is all at top volume, so everyone else in the vicinity is now disturbed. It's like someone kicked over the project in the block area: instant, utter destruction of nominal, fragile quiet.
The "calm noise" of our classroom is shattered in this precise way, many times a day. We are addressing it through a social-emotional curriculum unit, looking at conflict, the causes of conflict, analyzing conflicts students have had, and throughout the day, identifying instances like these and looking for opportunities to be a conflict solver.
While there are many self-defeating behaviors and habits that you can see in a special education classroom, this one seems to me to be the worst offender. Is there anything more ironic than kids who need quiet, who crave it, who physically react to its absence, being the destroyers of their own quiet? It's not because Student 1 was too impulsive in asking for quiet, or didn't ask nicely, or Student 2 was defensive and didn't respond well. They all need help with the social and emotional and self-regulation skills that will both help them not make the noise and get past the noise. This, more than any specific learning challenge, is what makes it so hard for these kids to do all the normal school stuff that they want and need to do. This is why we forgo reading time for talking about conflict and how to avoid it. It may not be the root of the problem, but it's close.
Noise vs noise: I constantly militate against the idea that learning = silence. It's mostly in my own head, because as a practical matter, kids make noise by default and teachers require then to stop making noise in order to accomplish some instructional basics. But I do remind myself, often, that kids learn from each other and from their own expressions, thoughts, and ideas, and they can't do this silently. Engagement is learning is noise. However, as we all know there is a qualitative difference between the sound of kids learning and the sound of kids making a racket. I try not to wish for quiet, never mind ask for it, when kids are engaged. I get a good chance to practice this when I substitute teach: the class "feels" a little out of control, but when I am subbing for Art, they're *supposed* to be talking, moving around the room and showing each other their work. I talk myself down. Then it's easier to stop and listen when it's my math lesson, being observed by my advisor, to make sure that it's "engaged noise" I'm hearing.
Noise in context: The children in my class are often very sensitive to noise. Even engaged noise can be overwhelming, and it has a visceral effect on the students who are most sensitive. I can feel them tense, feel their affective hackles go up, and the engagement with any academic task evaporates immediately. Then the cycle begins: it's noisy and it sounds like this:
Student 1: "Can you PLEASE be quiet, I can't do my work!"
Student 2: "I'm not making any noise, YOU are!"
Student 1: "You are TOO, you're kicking the table and humming!"
Student 2: "Well, you're shouting, YOU be quiet!"
Of course, this is all at top volume, so everyone else in the vicinity is now disturbed. It's like someone kicked over the project in the block area: instant, utter destruction of nominal, fragile quiet.
The "calm noise" of our classroom is shattered in this precise way, many times a day. We are addressing it through a social-emotional curriculum unit, looking at conflict, the causes of conflict, analyzing conflicts students have had, and throughout the day, identifying instances like these and looking for opportunities to be a conflict solver.
While there are many self-defeating behaviors and habits that you can see in a special education classroom, this one seems to me to be the worst offender. Is there anything more ironic than kids who need quiet, who crave it, who physically react to its absence, being the destroyers of their own quiet? It's not because Student 1 was too impulsive in asking for quiet, or didn't ask nicely, or Student 2 was defensive and didn't respond well. They all need help with the social and emotional and self-regulation skills that will both help them not make the noise and get past the noise. This, more than any specific learning challenge, is what makes it so hard for these kids to do all the normal school stuff that they want and need to do. This is why we forgo reading time for talking about conflict and how to avoid it. It may not be the root of the problem, but it's close.
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