I'm teaching summer school again, and I find it soul-crushing. I am
working with nine students who failed a major paper during the year, and now
they have to re-write/write a new one. Ostensibly, they are writing
about books that matter to them. I'm not fully convinced.
One of them is in the planning phase of his paper, and I pulled him aside
yesterday to say, "I was thinking about your paper last night. You need to add mini-introductions to each section. Short paragraphs can
act as transitions as you move from part to part."
"You were thinking about my paper last night?" He seemed
surprised. "Thanks."
Why does it surprise him that his teacher thinks about his work outside of
the school day? I was surprised about
his surprise. I had to pause. I wondered what messages he had received over
the years from teachers. Do they think
of him when he is not around? And isn’t
that what we all want- to be thought of in some way?
I recently saw a student I taught 15 years ago. He's now a DC Fireman, married with two children. He's older than some of my current teacher colleagues, and he's now the age I was when taught him. We met up for dinner- excellent steaks and
Manhattans. We shared stories about his
old high school (where I once taught),
classmates, old teachers. It was great
fun. We told each other stories the
other had forgotten. He reminded me of
the field trip to the ice-rink; I joked with him about his occasional/frequent
oversleeping. Then he said, “I tell my
wife that you were a teacher who cared.
Not all teachers do.”
“You were thinking about my teaching in the last 15 years?” I was surprised. “Thanks.”
Friday, July 19, 2013
Sunday, June 3, 2012
Whoops
Well, that didn't go so well. At the start of the year, I was asked to speak to the faculty. I shared a piece I wrote about stopping along the way, enjoying the vistas. I had dreams of slowing down and reflecting during the school year about my students, about teaching, about life.
It was all very earnest and inspiring when I wrote it and shared it in August. By the time I got back to my seat after speaking, my colleagues were already teasing me good-naturedly about Vistas. Cynics. I would show them. This was the year I would take time to write while I was teaching.
So now it's June, and I finally am getting back to the computer. Where did the year go? Not a single rest stop through the year. I drove all year, hard, and never took a break to see where I was going.
The poet Burns says- "The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men/ Gang aft agley . . ." I was "agley" all over the place this year. But summer is here, students have (mostly) left, and it is time for a fresh start. Let's see if I can write a little bit more this summer about schools, learning, and teaching.
It was all very earnest and inspiring when I wrote it and shared it in August. By the time I got back to my seat after speaking, my colleagues were already teasing me good-naturedly about Vistas. Cynics. I would show them. This was the year I would take time to write while I was teaching.
So now it's June, and I finally am getting back to the computer. Where did the year go? Not a single rest stop through the year. I drove all year, hard, and never took a break to see where I was going.
The poet Burns says- "The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men/ Gang aft agley . . ." I was "agley" all over the place this year. But summer is here, students have (mostly) left, and it is time for a fresh start. Let's see if I can write a little bit more this summer about schools, learning, and teaching.
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
The last hardest lesson.
“One of the hardest things for boys to learn is that a teacher is human. One of the hardest things for a teacher to learn is not to try and tell them.” Mrs. Lintott, The History Boys by Alan Bennett
The History Boys is a play about a group of middle class boys in England preparing for Cambridge. The play explores simple topics, like the purpose of “history”, the use of an education and the meaning of life. In Alan Bennett’s play, Mrs. Lintott, a formidable history teacher, says this quote to a young teacher who is struggling with finding the appropriate relationship with his students. She’s warning him in a way of the dangers of being young in the classroom- the desire to be seen by the students as a real person, not only a teacher. Mrs. Lintott is the voice of reason in this play- she’s the only adult who doesn’t seem flawed, unless you count cynicism as a flaw. We’re supposed to take her at her word.
At first her words made me sad. They reminded me of when I visited my former high school English teacher when I was a college student. I wanted to tell her about my plans of following in her footsteps- I wanted to be an English teacher. She said, “Don’t do it. You’re too smart to be a teacher.” Ouch. Dr. C_____ became very human in that moment- conflicted, unhappy, full of regret. I was shocked to realize she had feelings about working in a school, and they were not positive! I wanted her to tell me something about me, to praise me for wanting to be like her. Instead, she told me something about her, and it was hard to hear. Dr. C____, who had terrorized and inspired me to write better, read smarter and teach later, was not the idol I imagined. She was a person with complicated emotions and regrets.
I wonder if my former students have similar shocks when they return to visit. They show up every May or so, a few of them, checking in at the end of their first year of college. They come for all sorts of reasons, like I did when I returned to my alma mater to see former teachers. They seek approval and connection, or they want to say thank you in some way to the people who mattered to them. For some of them, their teachers were important adult figures in their childhood, and they want to measure their new adult selves against the adult role models of their youth.
I suspect they are slightly disappointed. If they’ve just come back from college, their world has expanded. They have spent a year in a bigger pond, seen new fish, swum in new ideas. Their minds and senses of self grew in their year away. We hear it in their voices when they talk about the new courses they are taking, or the activities they can do, or the chances to travel abroad. Their world is expanding, but the high school teachers they once looked up to seem still. The world of their former high school is not changing; new students are coming, but the classes are still reading the same books, the teachers are still in the same offices, the conversations about the senior prank are still the same. Returning students often talk about the how the building seems smaller now that they have been away. I wonder if we seem smaller too, compared to what they’ve seen of the larger world. They see we are not as big as we once seemed.
That’s ok. Though I first felt sad when I read the quote from The History Boys, I have gotten more comfortable with it. She says it is “hard,” not disappointing or sad, for a student to learn that a teacher is human. Hard can be good. Hard can be developmentally appropriate. Hard can be like growing up, seeing teachers (or parents) as people and not just superheroes, or realizing one’s hometown has problems as well as strengths. It was the right step for me to learn that my English teacher was not always happy about her line of work but that I still wanted to pursue it for myself. It is hard, but it is growing up.
And the rest of the quote from Mrs. Lintott? “One of the hardest things for a teacher to learn is not to try and tell them.” At first, I thought she was saying teachers should not let their students know they are human. That sounds impossible. How can teachers not be human? But then I realized the key word is “try.” Teachers need to be wary of trying to tell students about their humanity. Because in that moment, in trying to make a student understand about our humanity, we are making ourselves the center of the lesson. That is a trap for any teacher, to make the lesson about himself or herself. The lesson is about the content or the student, but not the teacher. Students will figure out we are human when they are ready to know it. Our responsibility is to be ourselves while we take care of them and their learning, and the rest will fall into place. It’s when we try to control that realization that we lose sight of why we are in the classroom.
I think of Mrs. Lintott when the students come back to visit. I know how the conversation will go, and I know that most of the returning students will not come back again, or many more times. They will realize we are just humans, not superheroes, and that they don’t need our approval or accolades to keep doing good things. It might be the last lesson we get to teach them, without even trying. Which is a relief. I wouldn’t know how to write up that lesson plan.
A New Hope
I did my student teaching at Hope High School in Providence, RI. It was a big urban school, with a grand façade and a run down interior. A new principal had tried to energize the building at the beginning of the year by hanging a huge banner across the front of the school that said “A New Hope for Providence.” By January, when I started my student teaching there, the banner still hung above the front door, but there were big rips in it and it was flapping awkwardly because one of the corners had come undone. Not so hopeful.
I worked with a junior English class, and they gave me a hard time. Students sometimes “test” the naïve student teacher; they tested me. Hard. But my co-operating teacher left me alone with them, and we worked it out. By the end of my twelve weeks there, we were in a great place. I was incredibly proud of them, and I loved them in a way that new teachers love their first classes.
On my last day, before the cake and the soda and after I’d handed back their final grades and a good-bye letter, we had 5 extra minutes. I said to them, “Ok. We've got a little time. Is there anything you want to ask me that you didn’t have the chance to ask during class time?” Like popcorn, the hands shot up and the voices called out.
“How old are you?” “Are you married?” “Are you gay?” and then I heard a few snickers and an awkward silence.
In grad school, one of my professors had encouraged us to tell the truth in classes, and I believed that if a student could ask a question, she could handle the answer. I took a big breath, and I said, “Ok. I’m 25, no and yes.” The room erupted in nervous laughter, high fives, and a few “no way!!”s. After a few seconds, the room calmed down and I continued.
“I’m gay, and so are some of my friends and some of my family members. And every time I was working with you in class and you would make fun of something as ‘that’s so gay,’ it hurt. You did not mean to hurt me or the people I care about, but you did. I think you all are great and I am proud of you; I think we did great work together this spring. But I want you to be careful of pushing away or insulting the people who want to help you. Be careful of what you say, because you don’t know whom you might be offending. They may be people who could be important helpers in your life.” The room was silent.
“Let’s eat some cake.” We turned on the music, we ate cake and drank ginger ale and had a good last day together. And most of the class came up to me at the end of the period to shake my hand and say good-bye. I thought it went pretty well, and I left Hope High School.
I thought that was the end of it, but a few days later, I got a call from my co-operating teacher. She told me the day after I left, her class was still buzzing about what I said. She asked me to drop by so she could give me something. The next day, I swung by Hope one more time and she gave me a letter from Tommy. Tommy was the hardest kid for me to work with. He was a big talker and he really didn’t like to read or write. I’d spent lots of time and energy trying to keep Tommy focused in class those 12 weeks. My cooperating teacher was surprised that this student, who resisted writing so much all year, had written me a letter. Here’s what it said:
Dear Mr. ______.
I like to say sorry if you think I offended you. I understand your situation. So I hoe you forgive me and I hope you come and visit us soon, your favorite English class.
PS- as a friend who was your favorite student.
Your friend Thomas
I hope you’ll be my teacher in the future.
Another PS- you should run ball with us one day.
It was one of the best letters I will ever receive. Every time I read it, it reminds me of how important it is to say who we are. We never know who will hear what we say or how it will impact them. The affects may linger after we are gone, or they may impact people in ways we can’t imagine. Being gay did not define my relationship with that class. I was their teacher and I helped them become better students. But they taught me the power of being honest with students, of bringing my whole self into the classroom. I left that student teaching experience a little more hopeful, thanks to Tommy.
I worked with a junior English class, and they gave me a hard time. Students sometimes “test” the naïve student teacher; they tested me. Hard. But my co-operating teacher left me alone with them, and we worked it out. By the end of my twelve weeks there, we were in a great place. I was incredibly proud of them, and I loved them in a way that new teachers love their first classes.
On my last day, before the cake and the soda and after I’d handed back their final grades and a good-bye letter, we had 5 extra minutes. I said to them, “Ok. We've got a little time. Is there anything you want to ask me that you didn’t have the chance to ask during class time?” Like popcorn, the hands shot up and the voices called out.
“How old are you?” “Are you married?” “Are you gay?” and then I heard a few snickers and an awkward silence.
In grad school, one of my professors had encouraged us to tell the truth in classes, and I believed that if a student could ask a question, she could handle the answer. I took a big breath, and I said, “Ok. I’m 25, no and yes.” The room erupted in nervous laughter, high fives, and a few “no way!!”s. After a few seconds, the room calmed down and I continued.
“I’m gay, and so are some of my friends and some of my family members. And every time I was working with you in class and you would make fun of something as ‘that’s so gay,’ it hurt. You did not mean to hurt me or the people I care about, but you did. I think you all are great and I am proud of you; I think we did great work together this spring. But I want you to be careful of pushing away or insulting the people who want to help you. Be careful of what you say, because you don’t know whom you might be offending. They may be people who could be important helpers in your life.” The room was silent.
“Let’s eat some cake.” We turned on the music, we ate cake and drank ginger ale and had a good last day together. And most of the class came up to me at the end of the period to shake my hand and say good-bye. I thought it went pretty well, and I left Hope High School.
I thought that was the end of it, but a few days later, I got a call from my co-operating teacher. She told me the day after I left, her class was still buzzing about what I said. She asked me to drop by so she could give me something. The next day, I swung by Hope one more time and she gave me a letter from Tommy. Tommy was the hardest kid for me to work with. He was a big talker and he really didn’t like to read or write. I’d spent lots of time and energy trying to keep Tommy focused in class those 12 weeks. My cooperating teacher was surprised that this student, who resisted writing so much all year, had written me a letter. Here’s what it said:
Dear Mr. ______.
I like to say sorry if you think I offended you. I understand your situation. So I hoe you forgive me and I hope you come and visit us soon, your favorite English class.
PS- as a friend who was your favorite student.
Your friend Thomas
I hope you’ll be my teacher in the future.
Another PS- you should run ball with us one day.
It was one of the best letters I will ever receive. Every time I read it, it reminds me of how important it is to say who we are. We never know who will hear what we say or how it will impact them. The affects may linger after we are gone, or they may impact people in ways we can’t imagine. Being gay did not define my relationship with that class. I was their teacher and I helped them become better students. But they taught me the power of being honest with students, of bringing my whole self into the classroom. I left that student teaching experience a little more hopeful, thanks to Tommy.
Friday, July 15, 2011
It's a vista.
When I was thirteen years old, my family took a road trip. We flew to Seattle, rented a car, and drove Rte 1 to San Francisco. This was a change for us; we usually spent summer vacation visiting a family camp in Vermont. 1980 was different; every 50 miles or so, my dad would pull over and say, “Get out of the car. It’s a vista.” It was: the Pacific Ocean, some sheep gamboling on a hill, a redwood tree, or some other gorgeous sight. We took them all in; we still talk about them decades later.
Most of our family vacations, we were get-up-at-4-AM, pack-sandwiches-so-we-don’t-have-to-stop-for-lunch, one-rest-stop-and-you-better-not-sleep-through-it drivers. Most summers, the destination was the goal, and we tolerated the journey, but we didn’t stop to enjoy the views along the way. On that West Coast drive, the journey was the main event.
Recently, I drove home from Vermont to Massachusetts after visiting my sister. The next day, I realized I had no memory of the drive. I could not say what the mountains looked like or how high the White River was. I do not recall which rest stop I used or whether the sky was cloudy or clear. I drove like my family usually drove, trying to get to the destination, but not paying attention to the journey because it was so familiar. I entered some sort of fugue state. The trip had not made an impact on me. I had not taken in any of its vistas. I had not paid attention to the journey.
My first years of teaching felt like all-vistas, all-the-time. Everything was new. The landscape was unfamiliar and surprising, and I felt I could get lost any minute. I remember most moments from those years: the Macbeth production that Oscar and Julia organized, when Victor played a guard dressed in a flowery bed sheet; when I tried to lead my freshmen in a choral reading from Romeo and Juliet and it went horribly wrong; when angry Priscilla explained why the book Ellen Foster meant so much to her. The students’ faces, names, and moments are as clear to me as the redwood, the sheep, and the sunsets of the trip down the West Coast.
But the last few years of teaching don’t stay with me the same way. I reach the end of the school year, and I don’t recall its details the same way I once did. Students’ names from a few years ago are harder to hold onto, though I remember their senior papers and conversations we had about their future plans. Teaching is no longer a new landscape for me, and I am more confident in what I am doing. I know the rhythm of the trip, where the climbs and speed traps are, where to stop for lunch. Because the fear and newness are gone, the trip is no longer as engaging. This is not unique to teachers or teaching- a colleague told me something similar about parenting, explaining how the first few years overflow with memorable moments, but the teen years drift by. New parents coo about the way the baby sat up, walked, or smiled. Parents of teens seldom gush about the way their child does her HW, works at a summer job, or borrows the car. They still love their child, but the vistas don’t seem as memorable. When we are comfortable, or even skilled, we may not need to pay as much mind as when we are trying something new and terrifying.
I don’t think I’m a bad driver or teacher. I don’t think my friend is a bad parent. I think I am doing well, thank you very much, when I drive home and when I teach high school students. But I’d like to drive differently this year; I’d like to notice the journey a little more. I’m thinking about ways to do that with my teaching. I can pull over a few more times to stop and look closely at the students and what they are doing. I can sacrifice some speed for some appreciation. I can change the route a little, teach some different things in different ways, to bring back a little of that newness and fear that comes with trying something for the first time (though not too much – who wants to be a new teacher again?). Like the drive home from Vermont to MA, the school year is rich with beauty, green and lush. This year, I want to remember to pull over and see the vistas.
Most of our family vacations, we were get-up-at-4-AM, pack-sandwiches-so-we-don’t-have-to-stop-for-lunch, one-rest-stop-and-you-better-not-sleep-through-it drivers. Most summers, the destination was the goal, and we tolerated the journey, but we didn’t stop to enjoy the views along the way. On that West Coast drive, the journey was the main event.
Recently, I drove home from Vermont to Massachusetts after visiting my sister. The next day, I realized I had no memory of the drive. I could not say what the mountains looked like or how high the White River was. I do not recall which rest stop I used or whether the sky was cloudy or clear. I drove like my family usually drove, trying to get to the destination, but not paying attention to the journey because it was so familiar. I entered some sort of fugue state. The trip had not made an impact on me. I had not taken in any of its vistas. I had not paid attention to the journey.
My first years of teaching felt like all-vistas, all-the-time. Everything was new. The landscape was unfamiliar and surprising, and I felt I could get lost any minute. I remember most moments from those years: the Macbeth production that Oscar and Julia organized, when Victor played a guard dressed in a flowery bed sheet; when I tried to lead my freshmen in a choral reading from Romeo and Juliet and it went horribly wrong; when angry Priscilla explained why the book Ellen Foster meant so much to her. The students’ faces, names, and moments are as clear to me as the redwood, the sheep, and the sunsets of the trip down the West Coast.
But the last few years of teaching don’t stay with me the same way. I reach the end of the school year, and I don’t recall its details the same way I once did. Students’ names from a few years ago are harder to hold onto, though I remember their senior papers and conversations we had about their future plans. Teaching is no longer a new landscape for me, and I am more confident in what I am doing. I know the rhythm of the trip, where the climbs and speed traps are, where to stop for lunch. Because the fear and newness are gone, the trip is no longer as engaging. This is not unique to teachers or teaching- a colleague told me something similar about parenting, explaining how the first few years overflow with memorable moments, but the teen years drift by. New parents coo about the way the baby sat up, walked, or smiled. Parents of teens seldom gush about the way their child does her HW, works at a summer job, or borrows the car. They still love their child, but the vistas don’t seem as memorable. When we are comfortable, or even skilled, we may not need to pay as much mind as when we are trying something new and terrifying.
I don’t think I’m a bad driver or teacher. I don’t think my friend is a bad parent. I think I am doing well, thank you very much, when I drive home and when I teach high school students. But I’d like to drive differently this year; I’d like to notice the journey a little more. I’m thinking about ways to do that with my teaching. I can pull over a few more times to stop and look closely at the students and what they are doing. I can sacrifice some speed for some appreciation. I can change the route a little, teach some different things in different ways, to bring back a little of that newness and fear that comes with trying something for the first time (though not too much – who wants to be a new teacher again?). Like the drive home from Vermont to MA, the school year is rich with beauty, green and lush. This year, I want to remember to pull over and see the vistas.
Monday, June 20, 2011
Welcome and have a seat.
Mark Hopkins
From Willipedia
Mark Hopkins (1802-1887) was a graduate of Williams in the Class of 1824, which he entered from secondary school as a junior in 1822. . . . A skilled teacher in the Socratic tradition, he has been immortalized by the aphorism attributed to one of his former students, James A. Garfield: "The ideal college is Mark Hopkins on one end of a log and a student on the other." A popular lecturer on moral and religious questions, for many years president of the American Board of Commissioners for Foreign Missions, he earned the love and respect of generations of Williams men by his qualities as a teacher and friend.
I've been thinking about teachers and what they do in their classes these days. I've been working with teachers to help them write about what they do. So why not create a (b)log, named after a teacher of note, where teachers could share stories about their work. Let's see what happens
From Willipedia
Mark Hopkins (1802-1887) was a graduate of Williams in the Class of 1824, which he entered from secondary school as a junior in 1822. . . . A skilled teacher in the Socratic tradition, he has been immortalized by the aphorism attributed to one of his former students, James A. Garfield: "The ideal college is Mark Hopkins on one end of a log and a student on the other." A popular lecturer on moral and religious questions, for many years president of the American Board of Commissioners for Foreign Missions, he earned the love and respect of generations of Williams men by his qualities as a teacher and friend.
I've been thinking about teachers and what they do in their classes these days. I've been working with teachers to help them write about what they do. So why not create a (b)log, named after a teacher of note, where teachers could share stories about their work. Let's see what happens
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)