Blank stares

This year, I’m teaching summer school.  It’s the first time I’ve done it, and it has undoubtedly brought up some interesting reflections.  I have six students in my class, all who just finished first grade.  Going in, I thought “6 kids?! This will be pleasant and relaxing.  They’ll work independently, and I’ll rotate through working with each of them one-on-one.”

That sort of works.  But there’s a reason that these six kids are in summer school.  They aren’t ready to dive into a lot of independent work and push themselves to get their checklists done.  They struggle.  School has already, in their short experience, proven to be difficult for them.  That means that these six kids, 1/4 of a typical classroom, require far more planning and preparation than 1/4 of what I do throughout the year.  They each need a lot of support, a lot of encouragement, a lot of reminders, a lot of structure, and a lot of redirection.

Yesterday, we sat down to read a story together.  Midway through, I posed a question that required them to infer a bit about the characters.  No one responded.  Not one hand in the air.  I waited.  Still no one.  Blank stares.  I rephrased my question.  Still no response.

During the year, never do I ask a question and then have absolutely no one ready to participate.  There are always a few kids who want to speak all the time, and then most kids want to share their thoughts some of the time.  To have no one confident enough to speak up was a bit jarring.

While teaching, I often call on students who aren’t raising their hands.  I try to mix up who is speaking and who is listening.  I intentionally reach out to hear the thoughts of the students who hesitate to answer.  But probably, even though I do all of those things, these six kids far more often than not sit without participating.  They might not formulate their own opinions during class discussions, instead latching onto the ideas of others.  They might not think that when I ask a question, I am really asking them.

But now they’re in summer school, and it’s just the seven of us.  So, we will definitely all do some thinking, some listening, and some talking.

Mailboxes of Kindness

So many things from summer camp life could transfer into and enhance classroom life.  I really should remember that more often.  Bring the joy and community of summer to the rest of the year? Yes, please.

One thing I have done in both settings on repeated occasions is what us camp counselors like to call, “Warm and Fuzzies.”  I don’t know why I haven’t appropriated the same name in class, but I haven’t.  Instead, I’ve called it “Mailboxes of Kindness.”  It works like this: Every child gets a brown paper bag with their name on it.  When there’s time, I let my kids decorate.  If not, we move forward with the note-writing.  Ahead of time, I slice pieces of paper into fourths so that the note length isn’t intimidating.  Students take as many pieces of paper as they want and start writing.  They write appreciations, thanks, and well-wishes for their peers, and then they deliver their finished notes to the mailboxes.  We usually do it on one of the last days of school.  It’s fun, reflective, and makes everyone feel good.

Well, most everyone.  What was so interesting about this activity this year is that I for the first time really saw the ways in which it mingled with and was shaped by differing personalities.  I don’t know why this was the first time I saw this happen, but it certainly caused me to pause and ponder.
-Rushed made twenty-four smiley faces and dropped one off in each mailbox.  He was so proud to have made a note for everyone.
-Even more rushed dropped off blank notes for everyone.
-Family made notes for each of her sisters, who did not have mailboxes in our classroom, but who, as she assured me, do have a mailbox that they share with their parents at home.
-Anxious sat by her mailbox and just waited for notes to be dropped off, which meant she didn’t make very many to deliver.
-Hesitant wrote random words off the word wall and then signed her name on each note.  This guaranteed that the notes were spelled correctly.
-Michievious wrote a note that said, “Dear Katie.  U suk.  U r dum.”  Thank goodness I happen to look over his shoulder and catch it before that note got sent home in Katie’s mailbox…

Everyone went home with a relatively full mailbox, and the overall tone was definitely positive.  But the variety of responses is something that I’ll remember next time.  Maybe I’ll talk through a few of them with my next batch of students before they start their note-writing.  Maybe I’ll let them talk more about the purpose of the activity first.  Maybe I’ll share a few example notes, but I certainly don’t want to squash their creativity which sometimes happens when young kids see examples.  Maybe I won’t make any changes and I’ll just let variety happen.  With the exception of the “U suk” genre of notes, nothing else was really problematic.  Just surprising.  And I don’t think I mind surprising.  Sometimes I even like it.

 

Corndogs

Corndog day is the worst.  The smell is completely overwhelming, and when it’s combined with the visual of naked, picked-at, rubbery, pink pseudo-meat being waved in the air on sticks, lunchtime becomes truly nauseating.

I have one student in my class who eats school lunch everyday, except on corndog day.  Much to her parents’ confusion, she refuses to eat corndogs and has decided that they will make her throw up.  I understand completely and commend her for putting her foot down.

Corndogs cross the line.

 

What do I do?

I’ve had a couple of long days of parent-teacher conferences.  Lots of engaging conversations, lots of excitement about growth, lots of reflection.  I am proud to report that with a bit of cajoling, I managed to meet with 100% of my families.  Cheers to that!

But, parent-teacher conferences inevitably bring to the surface all sorts of “What do I do?” thoughts.  For example:

• What do I do when a parent mentions that his pleasant kid is always complaining that a few other kids are constantly being disruptive?  He’s not wrong.  And the mentioned kids are of course the kids who I, as their teacher, haven’t figured out how to puzzle into our community.  And the mentioned kids have a variety of challenges, labels, and needs that make it particularly difficult for them to interact productively with others.  I’m not quite ready to say “Yep, your son is accurately reporting the situation, and I have no idea what to do about it.”  But somehow my response of, “The best thing you can do for Darnell is to encourage him to use his words when he’s upset, give his peers a fresh start after they make mistakes, and encourage him to keep being the best Darnell he can be,” feels a bit like it’s dodging the issue.

• What do I do when a mother goes on and on about all sorts emotional issues that completely overwhelm me?  She talks about how the father, who I have never met, swears at her and is a terrible dad.  She says the father tells Josiah that he doesn’t like him, that he only likes his older brother, and that this makes Josiah cry.  She says she spends time with her daughter, not with Josiah because she’s a girl and she needs to teacher her how to be a woman.  She says she wishes her husband was like other “good dads” she sees at school.  I hope she takes my suggestion and begins to spend some time with Josiah so that his only attention isn’t when she’s punishing him.  I hope I can somehow get Josiah enrolled in a Big Brother type of program.

• What do I do when parents express frustration with or distrust in other adults in the building?  It’s really hard to balance being honest and respectful of their frustrations while also being professional and appropriate.  I feel like they can tell that I’m biting my tongue.

• What do I do when a parent asks, “But you think he’s going to grow out of that, right?” and the parent so badly wants the answer to be “yes,” but the honest answer is, “No, I don’t”?  Of course, I don’t know anything definitively, and all kids are beautiful mysteries to be revealed one small piece at a time.  The best I can give is, “I’m not sure, but I think we should come together to act on the assumption that Martin will need some continuing supports.”

• What do I do when, after hearing a laundry list of concerns about her son, a mother says, “So what’s next?” and I honestly really truly do not know?  I’ve tried so many things, and nothing’s helping her son be successful.  And my ideas are exhausted.  I was hoping she’d have some.  She doesn’t.

I am lucky to be at a school with families who are present and who are willing to have these difficult conversations.  That’s not to be taken for granted.  But it would be nice if there was a “guaranteed right answers” manual that I could have on hand for every time I feel stuck.  The cover would be filled with smiley faces and rainbows, and the bottom of every page would say “Give yourself a pat on the back, you answered correctly again!”

Comparing

One of my favorite tasks is comparing student work from the beginning of the year to their work at the end.  Today was a teacher work day, which meant I had the day to clean, sort, organize, prepare, and compare.  Such a blessing.  Near the end of the day, at the bottom of the pile, I found my students’ writing from day 5 of school about their hopes and dreams for the year.

Almost none of my Kindergarteners knew how to write…letters…at all.

Most of my first graders could bumble through a sentence or a fragment of a sentence, but with very little conventional spelling and structure.

Yesterday my students wrote learning goals and plans for themselves for next year.  Every single student, the Kindergarteners and the 1st graders, completed the task independently.  With two exceptions, their ideas are totally legible.  A good chunk of the 1st graders are properly using capitalization and punctuation.

My kids can express themselves in writing.  It’s awesome.

Tired

Today I am just tired.  Tired of bickering.  Tired of impulsivity.  Tired of tantrums.  Tired of whining.  Tired of flailing.  Tired of kicking.  Tired of lines.  Tired of circles.  Tired of talking.  Tired of loud.  Tired of being patient.

I am just tired.

I didn’t have much fun teaching today.  Sometimes it’s really hard to have fun teaching.  We only have a few weeks left.  A  few weeks sounds like a lot when I’m this tired.

Are they ready?

It’s spring break, and we have 11 more weeks of school.  Except that it’s not really 11 weeks because mixed in there are parent-teacher conferences, an art festival, Field Day, a Portfolio Celebration, several half-days, and two days off.  It’s the home stretch, the big push, the final run, the…”are they ready?” period.

—

“Are they ready?”
“Ready for what?”
“For 2nd grade!”
“Ummm….”
“Well, that’s what these weeks are for right?  We all gotta get our kids ready!”

—

Sitting at school today, planning for the upcoming weeks, I found myself falling right into that kind of thinking.  This many weeks means this many opportunities for guided reading instruction, which means I need to meet with this many groups each day because they’ll never be ready if I don’t.  This many weeks means this many more chances to practice this skill or that one because they need to know these things in order to be ready.

But really, this is all crazy-talk.  My goal as a kindergarten teacher isn’t to prepare kids for first grade.  My goal as a first grade teacher isn’t to prepare kids for second grade.  The goal of a second grade teacher isn’t to prepare kids for third grade.  RIGHT?!  What ever happened to learning and growing for the sake of being productive, caring, lifelong learners?  If our primary goal was to continuously get kids ready for the next grade level, then every teacher would just gather up curriculum materials from the grade beyond theirs and crunch it all into their numbered days so that when the kids arrive the following year their new teacher would be impressed when they all say, “Oh yeah, we’ve done this!”  And the next year that same teacher who “prepared” her students so well would have to gather up even more advanced material in order to keep up with her own accomplishments.  Soon enough, kindergartners would be excelling at algebra.  Obviously crazy-talk.

These weeks should be about living large.  About celebrating the community we’ve built in our classroom and working hard so that as the year closes out the relationships are at their peak.  About diving into learning exciting things and taking advantage of the autonomy the kids can have because they’ve made it through so much of the year already.  About being outside and playing together in the beautiful weather.  About trying things that I wasn’t confident would work earlier in the year.  About letting kids try things that they weren’t confident they could do earlier in the year.  About reflecting and being proud of growth.

If we do all of these things, then I’ll feel pretty ok about sending the kids off to their next year of schooling, even if I don’t get to as many guided reading groups as I’ve planned.

I think that next time someone asks me, “Are they ready,”  I’ll simply respond with “They’re ready to PAAAAAARRRTY!”

[Just kidding.  Probably.]