Waiting for Superman

On a whim I bought the tickets. I was looking through my personal e-mail account (this only happens about once a week) and "accidentally" clicked on an e-mail. On my screen appeared an advertisement for the showing of Waiting for Superman at the Nickelodeon Theater. There was a convenient link that let me buy tickets. My eyes happened to fall upon information about a talk back session with Jim Rex following the Tuesday night showing. Why not? I thought to myself. Without pausing to think I grabbed my debit card and bought two tickets.

The school day rushed past on Tuesday with all of the nervous and excited energy of expectations for the upcoming Thanksgiving break. By 5:30 my dear friend and colleague and I found ourselves comfortably in our seats, popcorn and soda in hand, awaiting the start of the show. Voices around us mingled along with the clink of beer bottles and the rustling of buckets of ice. The manager announced the beginning and thanked us for our patronage. The lights turned low, and the harsh reality of the state of America's schools began to flash across the screen.

The documentary certainly has it's own motives as any work of art does. But as the camera panned across the faces of the unknowing children, getting up and going to school each day tears began to welled up in my eyes. These children, I realized, are under the assumption that their community and the adults in power know what they are doing. They assume we know what is best and that we are giving them our best--and if we aren't then there is some reason for that too. If we allow them to fail then they "realize" that since we know best, then they are in fact failures.

The film continues to follow these children and their families on their quest to get into the only shining beacons of light in their communities--the proven charter schools of their community. This is their big chance to escape the "failure factories" of the big box schools. They apply, wait, and pray to win the admission lottery that could promise them a future and gain them entrance into a successful life. Sometimes over 700 people vie for 40 or so spots. It's the experience of a lifetime if the student makes it in and tears of joy speckle their faces. Those who are not excepted have tears too. They have run into another brick wall...another failure.

The film ends with one of the little boys making into the boarding school that will most-likely change his life. He lays on the top-bunk of his new bed staring at a Polaroid he has just stuck to his wall...a trinket from home. It is a photo of his now-deceased father, dead from a drug overdose. His heart is full of hope for the future, a future that will escape the past of a community failing him and his family, a past of pain.

Jim Rex stood against the black screen, the white lights dancing on his face as the credits rolled on. He began explaining that as this was his first time seeing the film he was still "drying his eyes" along with us. He highlighted his attempt to pass the school choice bill, a bill that found its demise in 2007 when vetoed by Gov. Sanford because it did not include vouchers. Since that year it has been unable to get out of committee. Rex explained that we are making progress in our schools but it is "too slow and too little." He stated his fears about the stigma of teaching and that it will most likely deter many great professionals from our fields and as the baby boomers begin to retire we will have many necessary spots to fill. He called for a need for high expectations and support and also held that charter schools and magnet programs are important pieces to provide choice and push reform. Looping with kids, spending more then 9 months and then "passing them on" and working as "a team of teachers" were two key points in his discussion as needs for providing excellent education.

For America to remain the power it is and continue to uphold the principals that we were established upon we must give an equal and excellent education to ALL!  We must look to the charter schools, magnet schools, and public schools that work!  How do they get their learning community to thrive?  What do we need?  We must continue to build, grow, and foster these communities that do not allow any child fail!

Jace's First Haircut

My face flushed, my heart began pounding in my ears, and Earth itself split in two. I felt myself falling down into an endless pit--okay, maybe a tad dramatic.

I always imagined Jace with long blond curly locks that caused him to be mistaken for a girl. Don't get me wrong, I didn't want people to think he was a girl-I just wanted to enjoy his beautiful baby hair for a while. He grew it out to about "surfer dude" length but that is where it ended.

My visions of an abundance of pictures, prior to an unsure trip to my neighbor (a hairstylist), where I would wipe tears away as snippets of Jace's hair fell to the ground, were brought to a nails-on-a-chalkboard, needle-on-a-record, kind of screeching halt by a five-year-old with safety scissors.

I was being "professionally developed" so Eric was at home watching the kids. He decided to take a shower before work (probably a good thing). Little did he know, Connor had a plan...Connor decided Jace needed a haircut so he climbed up on the kitchen table to retrieve the necessary tool.

The scene ends with Eric getting out of the shower only to see a guilty five-year-old holding safety scissors. "What are you doing?" he questions with a tinge of "uh oh" in his voice.
"I was cutting paper" Connor unconvincingly replies. Just then, a smiling baby Jace waddles from behind him-his shoulders covered in the hair that once was on his head. Eric took a deep breath, let it out, and said "Connor, go to your room."

To My Mentors

As I readied this morning for my first official day back to work I had a thought that brought tears to my eyes. I immediately ran to my writers notebook and wrote this letter. This is to my mentors...

Dearest friend,

I consider the time you have given me a truly special gift; you have shared your true heart's passion with me and continue to help me by letting me learn along your side. Your constant patience and support has allowed me to grow into the teacher I now am and allows me to know that there is always room to grow by constantly wondering, questioning, learning, and discovering. I thank you. I would not be the person I am today without our crossing paths. You are truly instrumental in my life and thus the lives of many others.

My dear friend I hear your voice often, it comes to me in all that I do. I hear your calming words when things are tough, your questions when you are challenging me to think deeper, and your joy during both large and small celebrations. Most importantly there is love intertwined in all that you say.

As I ready myself for my second year of teaching I am overjoyed that the universe brought us together. I want you to know that I carry you in my heart wherever I go.

Love,
Teresa

Garbage Disposal

She came to us about a month ago already named. Georgia, the 85 pound American Bulldog, has a heart of gold and an intense stare. She sits next to you on the couch with her hind legs extended in front of her like a human. Her gaze penetrates the soul; I find myself tempted to take her to a coffee house and sit across from her explaining in detail all of my hopes and fears while we sip cappuccinos. Her hefty frame and large paws lead her through life on a clumsy path but if she ever hurt you it would be a complete accident. She lets baby Jace crawl on her face and lay his head on her short, brown-spotted, white fur. She is well trained and can come, sit, stay, and lay down, she even knocks on the door when she needs to go outside.

Eric found Georgia on Craigslist (he has a mild addiction I think). "She's a great dog," the lady said. We congregated in the parking lot of a gas station right next to a small, shut down fruit stand. As Georgia paced back and forth on a long pink leash, 1-year-old Jace watched intently from my hip. "She loves to ride in the front seat," the lady continued. I set Jace down on the pavement-Georgia walked up to him and started licking. A thrilled giggle escaped his lips and Eric and I exchanged a glance than meant "YES!"
"For some reason she is afraid of people who wear hats, but as you can see she is great with kids." The lady continued recounting "selling points" for Georgia unaware we had already made our decision. It turned out Georgia had a thing for chicken...the live kind...and the lady's boyfriend couldn't take it anymore. We handed the lady $60 and climbed in to the car. Georgia promptly found a spot on my lap (a spot that caused both of my feet to fall asleep by the end of the ride home). The lady's parting words were "she does like to chew things...just so you know..."

The first few days Georgia got herself acclimated, Eric and I joked about all of the ways the lady was wrong. Eric wore a hat all the time and she didn't even seem to notice. We left her in the house and she hadn't chewed a thing. Did this lady (I can't remember her name) even know this dog? Then my fear began that since we got her from Cragslist was Georgia even her dog to give away?

It all started about a week later...with the Easter Bunny. I came home from work to find Connor's stuffed Easter Bunny mutilated in the living room. Stuffing was everywhere like a sporadic snowfall mixed with scraps of baby blue fur. A small blue tail was all that remained recognizable. We have approximately 872 stuffed animals so i admit I wasn't too upset and honestly Connor, being 5-years-old and more into playing baseball and searching out bugs, wouldn't notice; furthermore, Easter was about a month ago and the toys newness had worn off. Mickey Mouse got it next. As a little girl at heart i was horrified to come home to a decapitated, tailless Mickey Mouse-smile still intact. Day after day I would continue to find "presents" upon returning home: chewed diapers, a golf ball, my library bag, Connor's bike helmet, markers, crayons, and countless stuffed animals (I think we are down to 750 now). The latest ;however, leaves me shocked...if not a little impressed. In one sitting Georgia devoured eight, whole, restaurant-sized, everything bagles and a bottle of tadpole pellets, then washed it down with a full bottle of baby Motrin.

Georgia came to us already named-and we love her! We love her everyday as we put her in the fenced-in backyard before we leave.

The Rush

I found this in a writers notebook from the last school year during my student teaching. I had to laugh at myself because I think it very well sums up this past year as a first-year teacher as well. Hmmm...I'm wondering if this is the pattern of a teacher's life...

Not enough time in the day...or the night
Did the alarm go off?
But there's not light outside
really???

Hoist out of bed...
stumble in the shower
Ahhh....water washes away the sleep
and some of the stress
I hold onto these moments

Time will always move
I think I may fall trying to keep up
But wait, there was a moment...
I grabbed hold for a moment an felt in control

Oops...I lost my grip

But now, happily, I slip into the tumult
My steps are getting more firm on the slippery, uneven ground
I wear the bumps and bruises of my falls as battle wounds

Proud and happy I giggle to myself
I show a toothy smile to the world...
I wait for the rush of the next descent

Looking Back

4:30 in the morning...the alarm goes off. The bedroom is pitch black and I can see from the opening in the curtains only a soft glow of twilight. I can smell the coffee but even that doesn't motivate me to get out of bed. I've been teaching for a few weeks and fight back the urge every Monday to roll over or pull the covers over my head.

But I don't.

I get up and stretch. I haven't slept much the night before because I've been racking my brain about what I'm teaching the next day and reflecting about how the school day went before. The sleep I did get was filled with horrible dreams of student uprisings and angry parents (none of which had happened...yet). I pour the coffee, take a few sips, and step into the shower. By the time I am in the car I have scoured my lesson plans, graded homework and worked on the next weekly newsletter to parents. The hum of the engine is comforting as I drive the thirty minutes to work. One can do a lot of thinking without a radio. I rehash my plans on the way to school, rehash my job choice, and even rehash my outfit. I sit in the parking lot taking in the last sip of coffee-drinking it slowly to buy myself time. I can still go home.

But I don't

My first few students walk through the door at about 7:15. With them come lively conversation about the weekends happenings. I take a deep breath and smile; after a few hugs I am feeling better, somewhat rejuvenated. I know why I am here, and despite the uneasiness of my own self, I am sure of these wonderful kids I get to call my friends.

Morning Meeting comes and the kids begin to teach through news and journals. One boy sits in the circle with his hand held high--I can tell by his smile that he is bursting to share. I call on him and he explains "I have a culture journal...this weekend I shot my first deer!" Half of the class gasps in horror and the other half joins in his excitement. He's so full of pride now it is bursting out his eyeballs. He goes on to teach us about the ritual of pouring the blood of the first killed dear on the hunter. As he recounts the events of the weekend I can see a few kids getting squeamish. "What an amazing thing for you" I interject smiling. "I think we may need to stop there for some of our more sensitive friends but I would like to open it up for questions and comments...umm...please don't get too much into the icky stuff for us."

"Oh, don't worry Ms. V. just be glad I didn't share about what happens when you kill your first Buck. Then I would have to explain how they cut of the (he points...you can guess) and put it around your neck." To his credit he did speak in somewhat hushed tones; however, a good half the class heard him.

"I appreciate you not going into that," I say through my smirk.

He nods fervently "I know that some people don't want to hear about that stuff."

In this simple moment I am reminded of how much I revel in my existence as their teacher. Despite all of the crazy planning, the standards, the classroom management, and countless other hoops to jump through it is still a process of unpredictability and living in the moment. It is a process that commands a group of people to come together, share lives, embrace similarities and differences, learn, and love. One kid said it best "it's so weird Ms. V. sometimes you seem like everyone's mom...and another thing, it's like we're one big family in here!"

I have become much more sure of myself through the journey of my first year as a teacher. I can't pinpoint exactly when it happened, but I have stopped scouring and rehashing my plans. I have climbed out of the survival mode and have begun to find a much more natural groove. I began the year questioning myself, did I really want to be a teacher?" Now I know.

I do!

Monitor and Adjust

The last 12 months have been a whirlwind...I have completed a Masters program, had a bouncing baby boy, and began a new job as a second grade teacher. Teaching is the most amazing profession and I feel lucky everyday that I get to hang out and learn with some truly amazing kids...they always teach me to stay on my toes...

I decided that it was time to introduce my students to a new song. In my internship I did a fun thing with my coaching teacher and his class (thanks Tim) that I thought I would try with mine. Tim is always great at finding and sharing great music; he began playing With my Own Two Hands for literature appreciation and the kids really took to it. It is such a great social activism piece and the version I found on YouTube with Ben Harper and Jack Johnson makes tears come to my eyes.

I figured since the recent outreach to Haiti that's gracing the news and our class had been discussing segregation and the power people have, it seemed like a good time to start playing it. So, the first day we read it as a class and the kids seemed interested--not as much as I hoped. I tried to excite them my telling them we would hear the song the next day.

The next day came and I played it for them in the morning. I was pretty pumped about it. I knew it was going to inspire them and couldn't wait until the brilliant discussion we were about to have. I saw a few kids swaying to it as they cleaned up and readied themselves to meet on the carpet. After the song finished I was beaming. I asked simply..."so, what did you think?" A wonderfully energetic and often insightful friend raised his hand. I eagerly called on him. "I thought it was long," he said. I think I staggered back a little and mumbled, "Um...well... it is longer than many othere songs we often listen to," I tried to recover and quickly asked someone else to volenteer their feelings. One of the most talented writers in the class said, "I agree, I thought it was very long."
"Okay," I turned in hope to another raised hand and with a nervouse grin nodded in the direction of a girl in the front row. with an honest smile on her face she announced, "I thought it was kinda weird the way they sounded when they sang it." It was official...the kids didn't share my enthusiasm.

We did have a thought provoking discussion about the meaning of the song. The kids had some great insight about the lyrics and have since made some great connections back to what i meant. However, in the end they voted against playing the song during our clean up time. I have to admit I was a little disappointed they didn't share my love for the song. I truly appreciate how they teach me everyday that I need to remain flexible. Everyday in the room is different and sometimes what you think is going to be powerful may fall flat and what you think is going to be boring may becomes exceptional.