I'm a member of several teacher groups on social media, many of them created last spring when so many of us were sent home to teach on-screen. I regularly skim posts from these groups because, for the most part, members are there to share and to learn from each other.
Monday evening, one member of a group asked how other teachers planned to spend today, Inauguration Day, and what, if anything, they'd teach their students about the event. "Praying for our country now that the socialists are taking over," "Nothing- I won't show my students a fake inauguration because that's what it will be," and "I plan to wear all black, but I'm really worried because I'm not sure I will be able to keep from sobbing as I watch this country being destroyed" were some of the responses.
I posted the following:
The first female vice president and no one wants to even mention that accomplishment? How about a rescue dog being one of two pets in the White House? How about the fun title of Madame Vice-President's husband, the first Second Gentleman? Students are going to be hearing some new language- it's our job to help them with this schema. No fear. Just facts.
... at which point another group member tagged me, saying "... oh geez, here comes a unicorn!"
Now if "... oh geez" hadn't prefaced my being called a "unicorn" I would have thought R-O-C-K ON! A fellow teacher gets what I'm saying! She relates to this being yet another teachable moment that can (and should) transcend politics! But the "... oh geez" gave me just enough pause to realize that it was likely I wasn't being complimented. Once I did a little digging and discovered that being called a unicorn was akin to being labeled a "liberal snowflake" amongst Trumpers, I decided this was an appropriate response:
After taking a screenshot of the dialogue (I won't share her identity here), I noticed that the unicorn-labeler's comment disappeared several minutes later. Perhaps she rethought her tone, or maybe she remembered that her comment didn't exactly follow the group's guidelines. Perhaps simply a page administrator decided to intervene. But after some affirmations from other like-minded colleagues, and the insistance by the naysayers that the inauguration "shouldn't be touched with a ten-foot pole," I resolved to CONTINUE to teach my kindergarteners about what an inauguration is, and to provide a simple introduction to President-Elect Joe Biden and Vice-President-Elect Kamala Harris.
That's right: I've taught my students about presidential inaugurations every four years. I blogged about President Obama's first here, and reflected upon a publisher's message to teachers about content regarding Donald Trump's inauguration here, but I'd also done some deep thinking about Mr. Trump when he was still a presidential candidate. Caring for my students and their emotional well-being while providing them an introduction to our nation's democracy, curricular content and creating a supportive learning environment have been goals throughout my career. Providing learners with carefully selected content that communicates factual information and helping them to explore ideas such as leadership are just some of my responsibilities as an educator. I didn't get to just skip over social studies lessons in 2016 because I didn't like who won the election: I still had to teach. More importantly, I still wanted to teach.
Yesterday I introduced my Super Stars to the word "inauguration," explaining that it means the beginning or the start of something. I told students that today would be the first day that President Biden and Vice President Harris would go to work together in the White House to help all Americans. "Oh, like we had the first day of kindergarten?" asked a student. Yes, just like our first day of kindergarten. I offered "Maybe Mrs. Sommerville should have called our first day of school together OUR Inauguration Day!" I watched approval spread across my iPad screen as students nodded and gave thumbs-up signs. I also explained that in addition to reciting the Pledge of Allegiance (just like us!), that our new President and Vice-President would be making another promise to all Americans called the Oath of Office.
Today I shared some facts about President-Elect Biden and Vice-President-Elect Harris. The Stars loved seeing pictures of Champ and Major, the new White House pets and were excited to discover that our soon-to-be new vice-president had written a book for children. But the biggest wave of Zoom-screen glee and unmuted laughter came when I explained that President Joe Biden's full name was Joseph Robinette Biden Jr.:
Can you imagine, boys and girls, what it must have sounded like when President Biden was a little boy and he did something that got him in trouble? His mom and dad probably yelled 'JOSEPH ROBINETTE BIDEN JR.! DID YOU BREAK THIS BLAH-BLAH-BLAH-BLAH? COME HERE RIGHT NOW, YOUNG MAN!"
They. Were. R-O-L-L-I-N-G.
"Mrs. Sommerville!! What about Kamala?" begged a student. I explained that "Kamala" means "lotus flower." My Star snickered before breaking into giggles, saying in her best pretend-parent voice "Oh Lotus Flower, come tell me what happened to my blah-blah-blah-blah! You might be getting grounded, Lotus Flower!"
Two leaders of our country, who they might never meet in person, were instantly relatable to my class of five and six-year-olds learning from home. That's all the lesson needed after our vocabulary, truly.
*****
I understand that classes full of students older than mine were going to have more in-depth discussions and voice (or parrot) some uncomfortable thoughts today. I didn't play any of the inauguration ceremony for my students, leaving that decision to the discretion of their families, and at the request of administrators who wanted to protect students from the possibility of seeing or hearing something unplanned or dangerous. And I didn't ask why some colleagues were dressed as if in mourning.
I wore red(ish), white, and blue, a charm I made in my crafty nook, and of course, pearls:
... and yes, I absolutely checked Etsy for some teacher-unicorn t-shirts, *wink*.
Today was the first day of my twenty-fifth year in the classroom.
I wore my mask on my face and a button with my face on it. Upon admittance to the building and my classroom, I found tables and desks set up spaced six feet apart with all of the other furniture pushed against the walls and stacked upon cabinetry. After early morning PD, I was sent back to the room (will I be teaching here in a month, or stationed elsewhere as a remote learning instructor? Who knows.), ate lunch, and then started my assignment: determine what remaining furniture, if any, could still be used, and remove all of my own personal belongings and all cloth items from the room. Furniture to be stored had to be labeled and put in a central location within the classroom so it wouldn't clog up the hallway.
I might have been able to maintain some semblance of stoicism for the remainder of the afternoon, but a dear friend walked into my room, and it was all I could do to not sob. After drying some tears (crying and having one's nose run behind a mask is NOT an ideal situation), I pushed through to problem-solving mode: what do I need to keep? What must I send to storage? What must I take home? How can I provide visual cues to students (who I may or may not have in-person) so they know where to keep their very moveable individual desks (one solution would be Sit Spots on the floor, one marking the upper right desk leg and the other marking the lower-left desk leg) as we attempt to maintain social distancing requirements?
But being the first day of my twenty-fifth year of teaching, I recognized that I am being required to do exactly what I have fought doing for my entire career: I must work against my students' very nature, coach and praise them against how they learn best, and constantly redirect them from their very selves. And if I manage to do it "successfully," I know that there are other teachers and possibly even administrators who would find the arrangement of kindergarten students sitting face-forward in straight rows for seven hours each day at desks ideal, even desirable post-pandemic. I'm experiencing a pedagogical crisis.
Here is the furniture to be removed:
Goodbye art cart. Goodbye alphabet rug.
Goodbye Dramatic Play/"House" Center.
Goodbye lightbox, Lego table, and painting easel.
Goodbye reading table. Goodbye Play-Doh table, and math table, and writing center table.
Goodbye discovery table with the roadway on one side of the flippable topper and a farm scene on the other.
The wooden barn and dollhouse will sit high atop the upper cabinetry, stored, but not out of sight. Students will wonder why they are there, and why they are out of reach. If I'm not reassigned, my class set of scoop seats will join the barn and dollhouse. So will whatever extras might fit that we won't be allowed to use... but students will see them. And wonder.
As for the personal belongings that I have to bring home, here's the first load:
Kindergarten will have no resting mats.
No storytime chair. No mini couch or chairs.
No shopping cart. No puppets, no apple basket tree to hold them.
No stuffed animals to "buddy read" to.
No balance beam. No stepping stones. No sensory bin.
No side table for plants or book displays.
No rolling cart for lunch box and snack bag collection.
Kindergarten not being kindergarten is supposed to pass as a solution this year, but a developmentally inappropriate learning environment will never be the correct answer.
Like many people lately, I have been doing the work of examining and re-examining my position and roles within the society to which I belong, unwilling to be a passive observer of the pain of others, unwilling to look away, and certainly unwilling to claim that the realities of inequality are in any way overblown or "fake news." Continuing to social-distance, I've watched protests and rallies on the television and followed the tweet-reporting of news outlets and citizen journalists, focusing in on hashtags close to home from the places where I shop, eat, socialize, and work. I've read articles and posts such as "75 Things White People Can Do for Racial Justice" by Corinne Shutack, grateful to discover links to additional news outlets such as Blavity and The Root to help broaden my perspective. Not much of this process has been terribly pretty, and despite whatever expression I'm wearing in photos or videos that I've shared or tone I've expressed on social media over the past two weeks, I've been a blotchy, red-nosed and swollen-eyed crier. My heart hurts, and there is a large part of me that is very glad that it does.
During an education-related Twitter chat I shared and attended yesterday, I responded to several prompts and content provided by the moderators related to societal racism and teachers' roles in helping to dismantle it by being allies and actively identifying themselves as "anti-racists." Participants shared resources, experiences, ideas, and responded to and asked a lot of tough questions in an effort to better recognize, understand, and change, if necessary, pedagogical practices that allow and support ongoing racism within our nation's classrooms and schools. Participants demonstrated transparency, expressed emotions, articulated their hopes and intentions, and for the most part, met one another (as we know to do with students) right where one another was at. But I have found Twitter chats (like many other social media platforms) to be an awkward framework, especially when full-fledged discussions are better supported by time, space and within face-to-face venues. No one yields the floor, and you have to know how to open another column (if using Tweetdeck) or directly tweet an individual or small group while effectively and efficiently using the remaining numbers of text characters available to try to make your point or explain your thoughts. And if the topic is as emotionally charged as it was for this particular chat, honest yet carefully selected words can still open up a potential can of worms if someone feels motivated to respond with a tweet that attempts to read as a polite challenge while failing to avoid sounding like an outright rebuke.
During one portion of the chat we were asked to respond to the following prompt and questions:
Heavy, deliberate, and necessary questions to reflect upon, right? And considering the constraints of the platform, an opportunity ripe for misunderstandings, judgment, and unsolicited advice. Understanding the moderators' intentions in selecting the topic and asking such pointed questions, I didn't feel baited and chose to participate in the chat in order to dialogue with other educators about ways that we could help to dismantle racism. Me being me (more on that below), I replied that I didn't consider myself racist, and added that "I am not as knowledgable about other global cultures and nationalities as I could be. I consider people all part of the human race, but I could definitely benefit from more discourse, travel & reading to broaden myself." Later in the evening, I found that that particular tweet had the following responses. 1. "I don't know you and I'm not calling you racist... just thought I would gently point out that most people who are in fact, racist, don't consider themselves as racist" and 2. "...white and white passing folx [sic] need to also realize not racist is a neutral state- we need to strive to be anti-racist."
During the chat I didn't try to misrepresent myself, I didn't portray myself as a person who was going to insist upon straddling some fence of neutrality over the topic of racism, and I never suggested that only actions like the ones I planned to utilize would be effective within our classrooms and schools. I didn't describe myself using the label "anti-racist" but I also didn't suggest that I would be uncomfortable if anyone else felt like describing me using the phrase. Though I didn't experience some new revelation about racism to which I was previously unaware prior to the chat, I contributed where I could, gladly stockpiling the links and resources shared by others for further examination. I replied to the authors of the comments politely and sincerely. But the comments continued to bother me, and I wondered what the motivation had been behind them. I felt bothered because:
While I am the daughter of a woman and a man, I have been "the product" of a white woman who slept with someone not white my entire life. Raised for my first ten years in Texas, I spoke English like my mother and some Spanish like my friends, but not Inupiaq like my father's parents. I was raised in El Paso, Texas, Barrow (now Utqiaġvik), Alaska, Fairbanks, Alaska, and Delta Junction, Alaska. I preferred enchiladas over muktuk, corn over spinach and okra, duck soup over chicken noodle. I didn't (and still don't) prepare indigenous foods from my native culture, but loved smoked salmon and thought Eskimo doughnuts (fry bread) were better than funnel cakes but not my mother's homemade baked bread. Despite the opinions of others who lived in the diverse communities in which I was raised, my identity was my own and my non-traditional upbringing worked for me. My childhood was enough, and I am not ashamed of it.
I like jewelry, clothing, adornments, accessories. I like the sparkly stuff, the fluffy stuff, and the stuff with interesting patterns and textures. I like the washable, the dry-cleanable, the handmade and the repurposed. I enjoy music: classical, folk, 80s rock, 70s pop, Tony Bennett's and Lady Gaga's duets, Reba and Garth generation country, global instrumentals, Eskimo rhythmic drumming and Christmas standards. I seek out new-to-me music often. I enjoy exploring diverse literary and film genres but have my favorites: kids' books, science fiction, intellectual humor, fantasy, song lyrics and some poetry. I have a thing for Marcrest dishes (the divided vegetable bowls especially), Noritake china and plastic Tupperware lunch trays. My preferences are my own, they are enough, and I am not ashamed of them.
I became aware early on that I was too brown for some and too white for others and I have spent most of my life being told that I'm a woman who "can pass." I have been given a good talkin' to by parents, community members, colleagues and even strangers for "not speaking my language," which they all assume(d) is Spanish. I have been called out by high school classmates for "trying to pass as Native when we all know you're half black." I have been hit on by men who thought it was charming to greet me with "Well hello, my little Latin Lupe." I have been told I'm not Eskimo because "they're not even a real thing." I've been told I'm not white because "just look at your tan." I've had my hand grabbed by a man who, after having his wife cook and serve me a meal in their diner while he asked me questions such as "What are you?" and "Which half of you is native?" decided that he should congratulate me afterward with "Honey, it works for you." I was supposed to smile and be gracious at the granting of this seal of approval too, which I failed to deliver. It has been explained to me on more than one occasion that I've been hired to fulfill an affirmative action quota and not because I'm highly qualified, and I've been identified as a token representative of my native culture by some colleagues while others can't bring themselves to look me in the face if I'm wearing a kuspuk and mukluks as we pass one another in the hallway. As a mother, some of my children's' friends or parents have appeared momentarily startled upon meeting me, I'm guessing (perhaps wrongly) because they didn't know that my sons and daughter were passing. I watched Hispanic shop owners try hard to impress upon my mother that they were choosing to ignore her while multiple salespeople showered me with attention, and I've been told by native uncles and aunts that my grandparents told them that they shouldn't marry other natives because they weren't going to get anywhere unless they married whites. Most stereotypical attributes that have been assigned to me or assumed about me by self-appointed representatives of their own racial groups have been wrong. Despite others (all others, not just white others) trying to determine how to label me in order to identify where they feel I should be placed in the hierarchy of discrimination, my self has been enough, and I am not ashamed.
If asked, I identify myself as non-religious, but I am familiar with Christian faiths because of my exposure to them. I was baptized Episcopalian, attended Latter-day Saints services with the family of my mother's best friends, and have Catholic, Methodist, Jewish, Lutheran, Presbyterian, Jehovah's Witness, Baptist, agnostic and atheist friends and family. I collect religious icons, I do not pray, and I celebrate Christmas as a winter holiday, happily singing every verse to well-known non-secular and secular songs. I am not upset by well-wishers saying "Merry Christmas," "Blessed Holidays," or "Happy Solstice." I don't wear cross jewelry, nor do I find it attractive on others, no matter how dainty or bedazzled. I don't wear rings, charms, necklaces, bracelets or earrings shaped like or depicting nooses, electric chairs, guillotines, torturer's racks or lethal injections either: to me, crosses symbolize torturous deaths, not joyous rebirth. I don't believe saviors are necessary but I'm convinced that it's not my place or my right to insist that others abandon their deities or meditations about the universe: I've met people who have lost everything, and their faith is a lifeline. I have not felt inclined to explore any religion more deeply in an effort to better define my feelings about spirituality or the future. My reality is enough and I am not ashamed of it.
I take rude, inconsiderate, malicious behavior personally and I have a visceral, emotional reaction to it. I don't appreciate or approve of discrimination based on ethnicity, gender, sexuality, religion, age, or physical limitations, perhaps because I can empathize with those who have had and continue to endure it. While I don't consider myself racist, I'll admit I haven't met everyone on this planet and therefore can't tell you with one-hundred-percent certainty that I'd never recoil if I were ever to encounter some form of melanin that might disgust me or fill me with fear. Of the people within my immediate vicinity however, I can discern between which ones I want to spend more time with, and which ones I want to, forgive the pun, avoid like the plague. That discernment is not based upon skin color but behavior. If I have an eclectic taste in food, clothing, music, decor, literature and film genres, I think it's fair to extrapolate that there's more than a slight chance that I have diverse friends and family, too. My friendships are mine, and they are enough, and I am not ashamed of them.
I have long considered myself both a member of some type of square-peg-round-hole society and a continual work in progress. As I explore why I care how others describe or interpret my stance regarding racism, I'm faced with additional questions: Is my form of allyship enough? Is dialoguing with others, continuing to add representative literature to my classroom library, looking through curricular resources with a critical eye and modeling mutual respect as I continue to partner with those different from myself enough? Is caring for my diverse friends, family, students, colleagues and neighbors in my way enough, or are my actions only considered valuable and committed if I shout from the rooftops "I AM ANTI-RACIST?" None of the decisions I make as a teacher for my students or as a contributor to my profession are "neutral." To end systemic racism (and frankly all sorts of other -isms), don't we need all kinds of allies in all kinds of settings working toward a common goal? The loud and the quiet ones, the sitters and the standers and the marchers and the ones who make their family members change the channel to watch the protests when they'd rather play video games? The affirmers and the describers and the accusers and the ones willing to listen and to record and to persist in ways great and small? None of these allies' actions are "neutral."
It's not in my nature to relabel myself in an attempt to gain the approval of others and I strongly dislike superficially performative exercises. "Why wouldn't you want to call yourself an anti-racist, Michaele? It's a good thing." Why do people believe that they should dictate to me what I must or must not call myself, and how loudly or publicly I must do it? "What if we call you anti-racist?" Go right ahead. If anyone decides to describe me as a brunette-cookie-baking-crocheting-kindergarten-teacher-anti-racist, I don't have a problem with it.
Holding my students' hearts and minds in my hands is an essential part of my job as a kindergarten teacher, and trying to anticipate what changes, if any, I need to implement in order to support them as best I can is par for the course. Every summer I reflect upon the school year, plan for the start of the next teaching adventure, examine shifts in education and grow my pedagogy through professional development and Twitter chats with other teachers. But even if I could usually direct my attention to coursework and chores, this summer, this week, I cannot dismiss my feelings or pretend to be thick-skinned: I am raw right now. Though the women who responded to my tweet have no way of knowing all of me, they believe they are obligated to call out or "educate" others who may not immediately match their image of an ally. Their tweets may have served to affirm and proclaim their commitment as advocates and anti-racists in their minds, but the implication that somehow I was falling short felt akin to public shaming, which is not how to alter my choices, or likely, how best to create an ally.
Edit, June 11: Here is Dr. Ibram X. Kendi discussing anti-racism. Though the hardcover version of the book he co-authored with Jason Reynolds, Stamped, is on backorder, it is available via Kindle.
Yesterday I wrapped up my twenty-fourth year of teaching with one last visit to my school building (I had to deliver some yearbook payments that had been hastily grabbed from my mailbox on the day teachers were given a half-hour to grab essentials to help facilitate instruction from home), helped a fellow teacher take down her twinkle lights so she can transfer to another school in-district (we wore masks and I re-rolled the LED strands from six feet behind her), planned a very tentative instructional schedule with the remaining members of our grade-level team (two have left) during an informal and productive Zoom meeting from home, wrote and sent my last weekly newsletter to my Super Stars and their families, and held my last parent-teacher conference of the year before dinner, three hours after I technically stopped being my students' "official" teacher. A few last teacher-appreciation gifts made me smile:
This morning I woke at my normalish time, made coffee, and checked to see if there were any education Twitter chats planned but found my regulars on break for the Memorial Day weekend. For the past few years I've enjoyed #satchat and #sunchat get-togethers as transitions to the beginning of my summer break, but this year it seems I'm to dive right into my end-of-the-year reflection. I reread my self-check from the start of the year and found all of it to still ring true. The raw feelings of my last few posts since the stay-at-home order have started to heal and fade, and I remain determined to find some semblance of balance between my professional and home lives as I look forward to spending quality with my family, tending the food and flowers growing in my greenhouse and taking online courses addressing the creation of effective online teaching and content creation. No, no "summer off" for this teacher.
I'll update my district web page so that parents of my next class of Super Stars who go searching for sneaky-peeks into our classroom this summer are greeted warmly, and I'll undertake the Herculean task of cleaning up the desktop of both my school-issued and personal computers. I created so much content and didn't sort it effectively as I went along, and I don't want to risk throwing it all away with the possibility of still needing it during the upcoming year. I already took down the classroom props and essentials in my craft room to return it to what I hope will be a comfy and cozy creative space for my continued hobbying. I'm working on two afghans, plugging along on my goal of crocheting at least one big blanket per month. Last night I took a long soak in the tub and began reading Neil Gaiman's The Ocean at the End of the Lane.
My family and I plan to continue to stay at home as much as possible and to socially-distance ourselves if and when we have to go out to run essential errands. Masked people are my people, but I've noticed far too many children, who, while accompanying their parents, cower in fear, like many kids do when faced with something or someone scary, as they encounter me in an aisle, or see me sitting in my vehicle waiting for my pick-up delivery. Some families aren't preparing their children for this new normal, so I anticipate creating and sharing content to help normalize mask-wearing for future students. If I see one too many "prevent the summer slide" or "fill curricular holes created by the pandemic" advertisements or even blog posts by fellow teachers, I'll probably get all ranty in an attempt to explain how no, children don't really shake their heads and erase everything they've encountered and explored like an Etch-a-Sketch pad, and yes, play really IS the best way for them to develop their awareness, knowledge, and interest in this world. Though I really would have enjoyed a longer break from taking college courses, the workshop I've applied for was frankly irresistible, since I'm a just-in-case person. With the likelihood that I'll need to continue to reimagine and modify my future students' learning environment, I want more resources and inspiration to help me creatively problem-solve.
With year twenty-five on the horizon, do I hope to remain a kindergarten teacher for the rest of my career? No. I would like to become a library media specialist and am waiting for the all-clear so that I can reschedule the taking of my PRAXIS. I'd pack up my teaching belongings in a heartbeat if I were offered a library in my district, even during a pandemic. Thankfully, I'm not feeling like a reluctant kindergarten whisperer: a year (or a few more) working exclusively with young children and their families doesn't fill me with dread- I will love them forever. But I do rather feel like I'm on autopilot, and my spirit is chomping at the bit for a new challenge and adventure in education. It's not abandonment or burnout, but a continuation of change and growth, and its possibilities excite me. Shouldn't we all get to feel that several times during our careers?
This year's class photo (and yearbook, when it finally arrives) will get filed away with the others from all of my years of teaching but will stand apart, no matter what. I can only hope that my students and their families, and my colleagues with whom I've traveled and taught over this quarter-century remain safe and healthy. But for now, it's time to go play in the dirt.
COVID19 has certainly been effective at throwing all sorts of systems and semblances of normalcy out the window. Creating new teaching environments, using new communication platforms and tools and completely reorganizing our days and routines are pretty weighty changes to experience in a short amount of time. While I wrap up week four of "instruction" and collaboration and problem-solving with all of my colleagues, be they grade-level or building teammates, building and district administrators, special education and other support staff, I know that some folks within the district are likely already beginning to anticipate any needs that parents, students, teachers and staff might have come the fall semester. Long-range planning happens every year, whether there is a pandemic or some other hurdle in play or not. No matter when their stay-at-home orders were enacted, other schools and other districts have started to do the same.
During many past springs, I pencil-planned for the upcoming year as soon as the finalized school calendar was published. I pencil-plan rather than ink-plan because I know that events will be rescheduled and our calendar will change. I'll find new resources, experience new jolts of inspiration, and have to be flexible for unanticipated accommodations. Nothing is set in stone despite the hope that everything will, in time, go according to the way I had both intended and hoped. Using a pencil indicates that it's a rough draft, the version that precedes the working draft. For many years the working draft got its fair share of White-Out dabbed across its pages, simply because I liked the glide of ink over the abrasion of pencil. Nowadays, I simply double-click on text, delete it, and revise data within the cell. Knowing that changes will inevitably happen has never caused me to rethink the merit of pencil-planning. It's another way for me to mentally map the foundational pieces I need and plan to implement for my students' benefit. I doubt I'll ever choose to fly-blind just waiting to be "surprised" during back-to-school PD. I can be informed now and pencil-plan so that future mandates don't throw me against the wall in August.
As the most veteran member of my grade-level team, and despite having missed the beginning of the year with them thanks to my late-summer surgery and extended recovery time, I am both formally required to act in a mentorship role and personally feel responsible for making myself and my experience regularly available to my colleagues. I have expanded my PLN over the years to include groups on Twitter and Facebook, and I have been fortunate to meet and learn from all sorts of wonderful early-childhood educators, college professors and library media specialists during my career and master's program. When I'm asked for help by a teacher in my building or one five states away via social media, I try to make sure to preface what I share with "use it or don't," so that my PLN can cherrypick the best of what I might be able to offer them while hopefully feeling the autonomy to make their own choices and to innovate, rather than pressure to comply and risk becoming a cookie-cutter teacher. I also believe in playing the role of devil's advocate in order to broaden thinking. Affirmation, agreement, and the feeling of being a contributory component of a trusted partnership where ideas can be shared, explored, or simply explained are essential emotions for members of any team or purposeful group to experience. I believe that a common goal for teams should be to balance harmony while avoiding tunnel-vision because being repeatedly blindsided by information that could have been shared earlier but wasn't results in wasted time, increased frustration, and eventual mistrust. Whether lurking or being actively involved in these conversations, I reap the benefit of diverse perspectives and the experiences of others. I am a mentor and "mentee," a colleague of other educators.
Working from home I still feel like I must operate within dual roles as I teach, collaborate, plan and share. I'm a colleague who is not only a kindergarten teacher, but the yearbook producer for the school and the moderator for the professional development points requests that teachers submit towards their re-licensure. I don't respond in philosophic terms to inquiries about the cost of yearbooks, whether or not I have a piece of writing paper that I can scan and share as a template, or the number of points needed for a fifth-year teacher without a master's degree to renew his or her license. However, when colleagues new to teaching and/or new to our building and district ask for a heads-up regarding what to expect from an upcoming grade-level district meeting, or need clarification so that they better understand the shift from academic grading to marks for engagement, my role as mentor requires that I go a bit deeper, and invest time to not only offer the reasoning behind answers and explanations, but to really hear their concerns and worries, too. This can be a highly emotional, intense component of mentorship, especially for someone who empathizes with others. To me, there is a distinct difference between the nuts and bolts of teaching and the soul of teaching. As a colleague, I can hand you a ream of construction paper when you've run out. As a mentor, I can suggest different ways of using it to benefit your students when you ask or express an interest. Both responses are helpful within their constructs and contexts. Dictating "you shoulds" or steamrolling others so that they can't learn how to collaborate (though they might feel relief at simply having the decision-making taken out of their hands) are not ways aligned with serving the profession. Teaching is full of emotions, and not just for the students. Sharing, patience, inclusion and authenticity are essential ingredients to successful mentor/mentee relationships, not to mention team-growing.
Having to try to teach remotely isn't a choice I, or many others, would have made, but wanting to do it as well as I possibly can remains my intention. I hoped to be both an effective colleague and mentor during this time too, but at this point, I feel like I'm failing at giving my immediate colleagues and some distance-edu-friends what they want or need. None of us is operating at one-hundred percent, and we all react differently to stressful situations. Issues that have arisen likely wouldn't have become issues at all if the status-quo of our daily instruction with students within our classrooms had been maintained and COVID19 hadn't come along. We're not all in the same boat, and even our storms differ. Perhaps some need me to metaphorically just hand them a ream of construction paper, despite the fact that their questions and assertions resemble requests for guidance and/or context. Compounding this uncertainty for me are *of course* my old standbys: for one, I can't "hear" another person's tone within an email and rely heavily upon the use of emojis and gifs (score one for social media where emojis reign supreme). Not many people have the energy, inclination or patience it takes to find the wink, the laughing out loud, or the thinking faces right now, or maybe they're just not considered professional. Secondly, I continue to falsely assume that politeness and consideration will be reciprocated in return for my efforts. Not everyone says "thank you," during a pandemic (another point for social media where showing appreciation continues to be considered proper etiquette), so I remind myself that it is those with whom we are most familiar that we should afford the most grace, especially when it's for something as simple as forgiving a social faux-pas. After dipping my toes into the ponds and streams of Facebook and the lakes and oceans on Twitter, I'm confident that there are many other teachers across the nation and in other countries who also find navigating their colleagues' emotions a wee bit tricky this month. Perhaps a gross generalization would actually be appropriate for this moment in time: none of us is getting what we hope for right now.
After four weeks of remote learning, thirteen years in my present district, twenty-four (twenty-five?) years of teaching, and with a nationwide PLN at my fingertips, I still feel both able and inclined to pencil-plan this spring, just as I've done almost every year. I've worked ahead to curate, create and schedule content via Seesaw, which has afforded me extra time for other pursuits and chores. Because I've purposely sought out multiple news sources, surfed and chosen to read information shared from teachers in other districts and states regarding their immediate and future proposed solutions to closed schools, and have tracked the daily updates from health officials (I'm ignoring politicians who are advocating for the economy over problem-solving that will save the most lives) that have made it clear that we are, in fact, 1) presently both lab rats and human test subjects and 2) that it won't be safe for us to "return to normal" until we have a vaccine that is at least a year away, I've set myself the task of envisioning what remote learning might look like in August and September (and October, and November, and February, and April 2021). So when questions from colleagues near and far arose this week regarding possible changes and tweaks to the present emergency based technology-heavy format for delivery of instruction, I suggested that any and all continued fine-tuning might reflect not only a current but possibly future need as well: there's a significant chance that we will not be returning to the classroom as hoped for in the fall. Can I articulate whether my response came from colleague-me or mentor-me? Not really. Can I unequivocally say that I didn't intend to cause additional stress and worry when I shared my thoughts? Yes.
Suffice it to say, I now realize that many teachers are not ready to pencil-plan or entertain possibilities for next year. Perhaps they don't plan to return and are focusing all of their time and effort into making their last weeks of remote teaching the best that they can for their students and their sanity. Perhaps their boats and their storms have them planted squarely in the middle of the fiercest fight of their lives and their immediate needs require that they invest all of their time and effort bailing water from their vessel. Perhaps they prefer the top-down approach, believing that their "circle of control" (yay, ontological coaching, my favorite), is solely dependent upon the decisions of others, so they'd prefer to not do anything at all until an administrator tells them to. I can admire their perseverance and any commitment they have made to be the best teachers for their students possible. I can empathize with their fear, and sympathize deeply with their pain, with full acknowledgment that it's not just students who have to "do Maslow before Bloom." No, I'll never advocate that teachers completely hand over the reins of education to administrators and politicians, no matter how much I appreciate all of the "good" ones. While I believe it's prudent to start the work of tomorrow today, or at least soon regarding the next school year, I understand that not everyone feels the same way for a multitude of reasons.
And it's here, with these most passive or even resistant of educators, that I find myself feeling neither like colleague-me or mentor-me, but instead wanting to channel Chrisjen Avasarala, a character from one of my favorite science fiction series as I choose to concede (slightly) with this:
"Well, we disagree. One of us is wrong. I think it's you... but I hope it's me."
I hope a true miracle presents itself that enables us to get back to business without fear for our health, or the health of our families, students, colleagues, and neighbors, soon. But until then...
With August giving way to September, I am happy to report that this year's class of Super Stars and I have had a great start to kindergarten! We've introduced ourselves, shared, learned and practiced rules and routines, have helped, asked questions, apologized, forgiven, laughed, and even outright guffawed with one another. After twenty-plus years as a teacher (I took two years off to stay home with my youngest, otherwise this would have been year twenty-three), I too, can honestly say that it has been a fresh start with fresh faces and families. It might be silly sounding, but adopting the current vernacular, I "puffy-heart" love them all.
Learning styles, needs, strengths and interests haven't changed much over my near quarter-of-a-century career. Young children still learn best when offered a myriad of tools, songs, stories, and experiences, finger paint and iPads, Blueberries for Sal and Pete the Cat, play dough and teddy bear counters... the more the merrier, with all sorts of growth and mastery occurring in good measure. Large group, small group, and one-on-one with the teacher, students experience a lot of interaction with their friends, new classmates, teachers, staff and volunteers. I too, have learned and grown with each and every class. My advocacy of my Super Stars remains both professional and personal. I teach them, guide them, support them, and protect them. Teaching kindergarten for two decades has rocked- it still rocks.
Though students haven't changed much over time, parents certainly have. Twenty years ago, it was a rare occurrence indeed when I'd have to make a report to Child Protective Services, or teach a parent how best to help their child develop the social, fine motor, behavioral and academic skills necessary to soar at school and life. Parents were my natural allies, answering the phone when I'd call, attending every conference, replying to my notes, and offering helping hands without (many) hidden agendas. Only one brought a gun with her to a parent conference, and most parents, colleagues and neighbors agreed that she was crazy. Over the course of the evolution of education's latest "reform" however, notably beginning with No Child Left Behind and including the mass adoption of technology use in every day life, I've witnessed an uncomfortable shift in parenting, resulting in mothers and fathers eyeing teachers and schools with suspicion first, voicing accusations loudly second, and rarely, if ever offering an appropriate apology when common sense solutions have been reached after much patience on theteacher's part.
Oh yes, though I truly puffy-heart-love my students and families, I'm going to go there. Other teacher bloggers have expressed similar sentiments, like this well shared post from 2014, but I haven't yet stumbled across an editorial article or blog asking parents if they truly believe that their children are only ever victims during their years within a school's walls, as knee-jerk and frankly, sometimes assaultive parental behavior suggests. Parents' emails or phone calls to teachers demanding immediate action, threatening a visit to an administrator, or the surprise arrival of a parent simply marching him or herself into the principal's office without any prior notice or attempt at communication with a teacher, occur much more frequently now than they did when I was new to the profession. Because my career and students have mattered to me, past parental complaints have immediately caused me to ask myself the tough questions: did I make a mistake? Did I miss something? Could I have solved this problem differently? When faced with parents who employ the sneak attack as their preferred modus operandi, my first response (after shock) for years has been to immediately offer an apology and time to meet to discuss the it's-news-to-me issue. That's right: I've given parents the benefit of the doubt, and assumed I've made a mistake, miscommunicated, or somehow missed something occurring in my classroom.
That reaction, now that I'm forty-six years old, have raised three children, taught in three states, in four schools, over twenty one years, and can count my Super Star students and their families in the hundreds, is going to stop. Instead of half-stories, half-truths, misinterpretations, outright lies or Drama Debbies and Dons pushing me to self-defense, self doubt, or whatever-you-do-just-make-the-parents-happy apology and appeal mode, I'm going to take a deep, cleansing breath, count to three, and then jump right into professionally standing my ground. The child who appeared to enjoy the day, mentioning a small tummy ache right before lunch, and after having eaten bounced through our activities with a smile on her face throughout the rest of the afternoon? No Ma'am, I didn't ignore her, deprive her of food, force her to eat food, or cough germs onto her food, even though she's now complaining to you at home that her tummy hurts. The parent who interrogates and escalates his child with questions like "Did you tell Mrs. Sommerville? And what did Mrs. Sommerville do? Why didn't Mrs. Sommerville call me? OH MY GOODNESS, YOU MEAN YOU TOLD MRS. SOMMERVILLE AND SHE JUST IGNORED YOU?!?!?!?!?" I'm going to let him know that there's a slight chance that 1) he's not getting the whole picture and 2) I'd be happy to talk with him calmly and respectfully to solve the problem. When a learning disabled classmate is overly-attentive to another child out of admiration and a hope for friendship, and is perhaps awkwardly stumbling through the process of friend-making, I'm going to tell an accusatory parent that her child is not being targeted, bullied, harassed, or stalked. When a child's responses to unexpected interactions with peers include scowling, screeching, yelling, hitting, flouncing off, sitting and crying, NOT using his or her words, or simply waiting to tell a parent at home, I'm going to tell Mom and Dad that their child too likely needs to learn, see modeled, and practice some social skills strategies in order to self-advocate. I'm not going to agree that little Bobby or little Sarah be moved to a different class because little Charlene doesn't like him or her. No pandering or schmoozing choreography, even though those parents want it. When they approach me with verbal guns a blazin', they're going to be met with Mrs. Sommerville in all of my teacher glory. It's the Golden Rule folks, and it's time you followed it.
But I simply must ask... shock and awe videos, social media memes, and urban legends aside, do you believe that teachers spend our days sitting in classrooms, twiddling our thumbs, taunting, ignoring, harassing, belittling, neglecting, and abusing your children? As I read Brown Bear, Brown Bear, What Do You See at the carpet, do you honestly believe that I wouldn't see shenanigans if they were occurring, and upon seeing them, wouldn't intervene to stop them to get students back on track? When little Jon accidentally trips little Maisie, don't you think I pause to notice whether or not he apologizes? Did you know that if he does apologize, and Maisie accepts it, I consider the problem solved, and won't report it to you? If either Maisie or Jon mentions it to their parents, I certainly hope both families will respond with something along the lines of "Oh good. Accidents happen, but I'm glad you apologized and were more careful," instead of calling the school and demanding the immediate expulsion of little Jon and an administrative reprimand of me by my principal. Common sense is always preferable to overkill.
And because I'm truly curious, here are some more questions I have for parents: who on earth told families that my colleagues and I don't care about our students, that we didn't choose this profession as our lifelong career, that our paychecks aren't a necessity, and that we only seek to undermine families, parental authority and involvement, intending to harm our students in any way possible for the sheer entertainment of it? Who told you that the parent/teacher/school relationship is a one way street, and that your only responsibilities are to police the employees and loudly beat your chest from time to time to show us who's boss? If you're so concerned about the allocation of resources for your child and his classmates, or think lower student to teacher ratios would benefit all children, why don't you regularly attend school board meetings, familiarize yourself with Department of Education policies, or advocate for increased funding for education? Why do you refuse to trust teachers until after the school year is over, and you've put them through the wringer? Why don't you apologize for the mistakes you make as readily as you demand we do? Would you ever allow anyone, to include your spouse or significant other, to micro-manage, accuse, and disrespect you in the ways that you feel entitled and justified to do to us? Who told you that good parenting was going from attentive to alarmed in 5.2 seconds, and from involved to subversive and accusatory in less time than that?
As a teacher, I make mistakes, but not often. Twenty-one years, three children, and lots of experience works in my favor that way. My students' favor. Their families' favor.
Yes, authentic bullying can happen at school, even in kindergarten. As a person who experienced my fair share of bullies as a child and an adult, and as an educated professional who doesn't see a benefit to bullying, I stop it when I see it, I investigate it when I hear of it, and I advocate against it. A child upset because the classmate who played with her yesterday doesn't want to play with her today is not being bullied or neglected, even if those crocodile tears pull insistently at her parent's apron strings. A parent who tells herself "I'll go above the teacher's head and straight to the principal to demand that this be handled NOW" is not a partner in her child's education. She's a bully, a blowhard, and likely a chicken. That's right: if a parent won't speak with me, I don't assume s/he is the authority, I assume s/he's afraid. I'm polite, and I'm certainly professional. I do what I can to build relationships with families for the benefit of my students, but I'm not bowled over, frightened, or put in my place when a parent tries their alpha-commando schtick on me. I'm experienced, qualified, and well-intentioned, and I refuse to let currently acceptable parenting behaviors suggest as truth the lie that I am victimizing their children, and that my pedagogy is mere punting and parlor tricks. Hypocritical bullying doesn't impress me. Doesn't impress many of my colleagues, either.
So there you have it for my first rant of the 2016-2017 school year. I guess this is what happens now that I'm no longer twenty-six, or thirty-two, or even forty, a first year, seventh year, or fifteenth year teacher. Luckily, my students have understood me all along, just as parents from "the good old days" did, not too terribly long ago. School's in session, and as usual, I aim to teach. We'll see how many parents end up needing a lesson from the teacher who puffy-heart-loves them and their children.
*****
Seriously. PUFFY. HEART. LOVE. It's going to be my hashtag for this year.
As I begin typing this post, it's 1:30 a.m. Saturday morning, meaning I can officially report that I survived Friday being one of the worst Mondays that I've had in a very long time. Teachers have our fair share of rough days and work related stress, but when I put my truck into park in my garage yesterday afternoon, turned off the ignition and began sobbing before even unfastening my seatbelt, it became very apparent that my limit, my breaking point, had been reached. Perhaps not so much met as exceeded. Yes... yes. That. I faced the beginning of this, my twentieth year teaching, with curiosity, hope and energy. I had goals for myself and my students, planned engaging new lessons and activities, and put extra effort into creating an inclusive and appropriate learning, sharing, and growing space for my Super Stars. I took into consideration the traffic areas, work flow, and spaces needed for our daily rhythm and pace. I purchased new stuffed reading buddies, wonderful books, and freshened up classroom manipulatives, anchor charts, and organizational systems. I laid out our academic, thematic unit and special events calendar for August through May, making some tweaks here and there to accommodate changes in our report card and the possibility of having a practicum student in the spring. After determining that all of my school spirit shirts were still in great condition, I decided to set money aside for this year's Autism Awareness shirt instead. I made sure my students were flush with Play Doh, fun pencils, dramatic play essentials, and arranged our materials so that they were easily accessible. Accommodations were put into place, and intervention tools were ready. August arrived. Introductions were made, relationships began to be built, needs were determined, and our trajectory was plotted with what I thought was only a hiccup involving a small group of students and their families. "Strong personalities" is how many teachers and parents characterize these friends, and there are many tried and true classroom management techniques and resources shared amongst us that consistently do the trick as we work to dismantle difficult combinations and create productive working partnerships for the benefit of all. With practice we become less me-me-me and more we, we, WE. We adopt rules and follow them. We aspire to be safe, kind, and helpful. We feel proud of ourselves and reap the benefits of growing together. But this year's small hiccup in August and September turned out to be a problem that didn't respond to the tricks of the trade nor the interjections of various school-provided and privately obtained services as the year wore on. Patience, practice and caring haven't helped, and neither have love and logic. There are only so many corners and activity areas in the room between which I have tried to separate the members of this crew, and the sheer number of them have made it difficult for any teacher or staff member to divide and conquer, be it in the classroom, on the playground, or in the cafeteria. Role playing, social stories, lessons in kindness, sympathy and manners and many opportunities to practice appropriate behaviors have gone unabsorbed. Worse, the headlamp on the train of tough consequences barreling toward this core group of students isn't motivating them to jump off of the tracks to try another path. Instead, they smile (yes, smile) and dig in their heels, despite the deafening sound of the wheels on the track and the whistle warning them that the train is approaching at top speed. Inappropriate behaviors haven't been grown out of, and they haven't faded away. They haven't been altered by praise, by teacher request, by the pleading of their other peers, nor the shunning by families who understandably have been very selective when planning play dates and get togethers. In fact, these students actually seem to enjoy inflicting themselves upon others, smiling as they damage, tease, defy, disturb, and cause injury. They bait one another, rise to the occasion, escalate situations, then smile, roll their eyes, and use other body language to communicate their intentions, much to the apprehension of their classmates. Even as young children, this group is nearly a gang, and they find it funny. Parent response has been disappointingly unhelpful: "We have no words, but thanks for letting us know." "Yeah, we see that at home, but she just won't stop. We'll talk to her again." "Are you sure he did it on purpose?" "Oh, I can buy you a new ____________. Sorry he broke/ripped/destroyed your _________. Where can I get it for a good price?" "We just don't see this at home, so we're having a hard time believing that her behavior is really as inappropriate as you make it seem." "Can't you just separate them? Give them assigned places to sit and line up and tell them to avoid each other on the playground for the remainder of the year."
***** There IS good happening in my class. A lot of it. But not as much as there could be... as there SHOULD be. Nearly two-thirds of my students have spent a considerable portion of their kindergarten year running the gauntlet created by the others. Worrying over all of my students, those who endure AND those who inflict, has burned through much of my professional energy and drained me personally. Parents too busy to help, too annoyed or tired by my communications to respond, or possibly too inconsiderate to entertain the thought that their child ISN'T entitled to run roughshod over others have me wondering if the partnerships I've been blessed with in the past are at an end. My sweet Super Stars have learned that while I will do my very best to protect and provide for them, it comes at a price: my time and attention are over allocated to dealing with the demands of the others. The social/emotional needs of one group have robbed many of the resources that they too, need and deserve. For myself, surviving the year doesn't feel like success. Plastering a smile on my face each day and chirping "good morning" in a cheerful voice can no longer hide the truth: My twentieth year of teaching has been hell.
The fourth quarter of my twentieth year teaching kindergarten begins on Monday, and this year has been a doozy.
My first year of teaching was full of excitement, stress, challenges, surprises, and always the best of intentions, if not the flawless execution of my job. I had enough "oopsies" to my credit by May to substantiate the assertion that first year teachers MAKE MISTAKES. I felt off-balance for eight long months, but I gave teaching and my students my ALL, even when neighborhood parents (none of my students', thankfully) semi-jokingly told me they'd slash my tires if I tried to strike with the veteran union teachers, who had put it on the table as an option during negotiations. Yay, parental threats. Yay, collegial pressure.
My second year of teaching was marked by treading professional water without drowning, which was no small feat, considering I couldn't swim. Teach, yes. Backstroke or doggie paddle? Not so much. It was my survival instinct, not experience, that guided me through to the calm conclusion of a parent conference in which a mother pulled a gun from her purse, because she was "nervous" her husband might show up at school to hurt her. That year, my colleagues became my floaties, my professional life preservers and my breathing coaches, long before Dory and her "just keep swimming" mantra had been imagined by Disney.
Third year not-quite-so-rookie mistakes included not sticking up for myself when I was verbally attacked by an administrator for something I didn't do. Though innocent, I didn't defend myself against the yelling, the beratement, and the threats. I couldn't think logically because I was in such shock of having been accused of something I never would have dreamed of doing. All I could do was cry. And hyperventilate. And cry some more. Even after my principal discovered who was really at fault, he never apologized to me. I never asked him to. I didn't have tenure, so I didn't stick up for myself out of fear of losing my job. Walking on egg shells isn't conducive to being comfortable in one's own embroidered teaching jumper and plastic Hallmark jewelry. That year I learned it was sometimes administrators versus teachers.
Big surprise, fourth year teachers make mistakes too! They forget to give credit where credit is due, and some of them even leave their sub plans in their truck accidentally when taking a personal day, forcing their colleagues to scramble to assemble lessons and activities for twenty-six kindergartners and a sub. Recognizing the value of an apology and sincere appreciation, I understood that in addition to offering both, I'd have to make a conscious effort to show my colleagues how committed I was to doing a good job. I wanted to be trusted to pull my own weight, and I wanted to be a help to others when it was needed. I added to my list of professional goals, and was determined to reach them.
I discovered my teaching groove in Year Five. Its soundtrack might have included a lot of Phil Collins, Journey, and Windham Hill instrumentals, but oh my, it was a good year, full of more affirmations and laughter than mistakes. I welcomed my first education practicum student into my classroom, and though I was able to teach her quite a bit, we ended up learning so much more together. The experience built from the stress, surprises and challenges from my first four years of teaching enabled me to solve problems quickly, anticipate issues, head them off at the pass, and innovate. I felt like I was finally contributing to the profession. I also lived in the same neighborhood where I taught. My Super Star families became my extended family, as did my colleagues. We shopped at the same grocery stores, bought morning lattes at the corner barista, and attended school concerts for our children. I belonged.
I spent five more years in the same school in Alaska, teaching siblings, cousins, and neighbors of my first class of kindergartners. I saw my very first Super Stars off to junior high and then to high school before Uncle Sam moved our family to New Mexico. In the desert I taught soldiers' children, and had actual rocket scientists with whom I formed partnerships and conferenced as we set goals for their five and six year olds. Moving several more times, my family and I ended up here in Kansas, "Oz," where I have continued to work with military and civilian families for the past nine years. Having experienced the mandatory nomadic lifestyle required of military service members and their families, I have often felt connected to my students and their parents because of our shared culture. Despite being a veteran teacher however, I continued to make unique mistakes borne from different perspectives and schema. Blogging and social media usage, though on my time and away from the classroom, crossed some lines a few year ago with colleagues who were fearful I was going to "tell everyone our secrets," and administrators concerned I was going to damage our "brand" with honest critiques or by sharing too much.
I'd like to tell you that there was a magic moment after I had accumulated enough teaching experiences, when I stopped making mistakes. Unfortunately, even after twenty years, there's one I still continue to make, even though I've experienced its sting enough times to know better: I misinterpret the smiles, volunteerism, small gifts and tokens, and lack of interference from my students' families as indicators that they ALL understand and trust my intentions. Most parents are in fact, wonderful partners in education, advocating not only for their children, but for classmates, teachers, and schools. But there are always parents who operate behind a facade of pleasantry that I misread as sincerity and trust until some situation arises (usually a disciplinary concern regarding their perpetually innocent child, or some misinterpretation that is taken to an administrator before clarification is ever sought out with me) resulting in the popping of my Pollyanna bubble. And it pops everytime.
This mistake troubled me to no end my first year teaching. It gnawed at me my third year teaching. It made me wince my sixth year. I'm certain I cried over it during my seventh, ninth, and twelfth years. It made me bitterly angry my fifteenth and nineteenth years. And now in my twentieth, I've tried to examine it in context with the evolution of my teaching career, in order to come to some conclusion that might help me to put my mind and heart at ease, something I feel is necessary the longer I teach. Here's what bothers me: as I believe in the possibilities that await each and every student, I somehow spread that sparkly optimism and goodness I feel for them over to their parents. I want to see the magic in everyone. I want to see what makes them special, and I assume that everyone will rise to the occasion if given the opportunity, or want to share if they feel welcome and safe, and will trust me the way I choose to trust them. I believe their seeming acceptance is more than mere tolerance.
It's this unrealized hope of reciprocity and respect that bites me in the rear, year after year.
Sounds like that obnoxious essay we had to write the first week we were back in elementary, middle, or even high school, doesn't it? I never liked having to write it, because it was much more efficient to just tell friends and teachers that I read books, crocheted, watched t.v., did chores, and then read some more books, no s-t-r-e-t-c-h-i-n-g or "expanding upon a theme" required.
Short.
Sweet.
To the point.
And now that I'm a forty-five year old wife, mother, kindergarten teacher, blogger, crafter, coffee drinker and cookie baker, here I am.
Typing.
About what I've learned this summer.
Oh the irony (which could be the opposite of "wrinkly," in some of my students' minds).
No three page papers, double spaced here though, okie dokie? A list will suffice.
I taught myself how to create slides, posters, work pages and labels via Powerpoint, all by my lonesome. That's right, now there's a Teachers Pay Teachers button in my sidebar. Go me.
Lurking and even participating in education-related Twitter chats is an awesome way to build and learn from a global PLN. Once school starts up again, my favorites will likely end up being the ones that post questions in advance so I can set my responses and additional questions into the queue on Tweetdeck to auto-post. Yeah, I've become THAT tweep. Thanks #TeacherFriends, #edchat, #ResilienceChat, #G2Great, #KinderChat, #SatChat, #SunChat and #KSEdchat. You ROCK.
There's no rhyme or reason to my summer teaching goals except for the fact that they're always related to making my Super Stars' learning environment exciting, inspiring, fun, and safe. One summer I sorted all of the math and ELA manipulatives into easy-to-distribute containers and bags. Last year I painted wooden toys to eliminate graffiti, er, "environmental print" that a student had added. I modified inherited storage, making materials more mobile on a rolling cart which helped as my students used every available surface, corner, and hidey hole in the classroom. This summer, it has been all about the books. Sorting books, donating books, buying books, and creating my longest ever wish list on Amazon.com. Sure hope Santa or some generous benefactor looks me up and surprises me with them all. A teacher can dream.
It takes me exactly thirty-three days out of school to lose track of what day it is. Now THAT'S data.
You know how Lucy always freaks out after Snoopy kisses her, dancing around, arms flailing wildly, screaming "Ugh! My lips have been touched by DOG LIPS?" Turns out I have a VERY similar reaction when I'm outside watering plants and a frog jumps out from the leaves and attaches itself to my bare ankle. And. Won't. Let. Go. A few more energetic kicks in an attempt to ~fling~ the frog off of my foot perhaps, but the same number of "ughs" and gags. And flailing. I've got the moves... like... Lucy.
