Gratitude

            Anybody notice that Facebook is screaming gratitude this Elul? I love the trend. This year I feel colossally overwhelmed by gratitude for all the good in my life. Also, since, of the fascinating things that have happened this week, most of them cannot be published because of that obnoxious teacher confidentiality clause, I’ve decided to go with gratitude instead.

I am grateful…

• For a Friday Socratic Seminar on Nature vs. Nurture that the kids rocked!
• For students who intrigue and delight and challenge me every day.
• For professional development at which this is posted in an effort to keep us from smacking our students.

• For students who express their gratitude, like this one:

• For too-cool-for-school kids who put on brain hats and try to look nonchalant but are secretly delighted when they see I’ve hung their creation from the ceiling.

• For D, K, and J, who have formed the breakfast club of trailer 4, and hang out in the wee hours of the morn with me.
• For D, who has taught me that looks can be deceiving and that labels are for naught.
• For my third block A-day class, who cracked up when the bell rang and I involuntarily exclaimed, “damn!” that my time had run out, and then stayed and let me finish the point I was making because they saw it was so important to me.
• For my third block B-day class, who finally won their behavior incentive and are finally showing all their sweetness in full force.
• For L, who came up to silently fist-bump me and then had me in some kind of fist-bump routine which I will never be able to replicate but that gave me a full understanding of his appreciation.
• For my colleagues. Especially the lady in the trailer next door to me, who reminds me every day not to put up with any sh*t because life’s too short. She should know.
• For my friends from past lives who insistently remind me of my other identities with snarky one-liner texts and thought-provoking article links and sometimes actual honest-to-goodness letters.
• For Team O.

• For my books. For the space to keep them and the money to buy them and the imagination to appreciate them and the time to read them and the places they take me.
• For the shore and the sea, the rush of the waters, the roar of the thunder, the prayers of man, and the poets who can capture all this glorious world with words so much better than I.

I guess, once you start, it’s impossible to stop. I have walked around the past few months in a haze of wonder that life can be so rich. The new year starts in four days, and most of my tefillot will be thanks for this past one. In the words of Alice Walker: “Thank you” is the best prayer that anyone can say.

Brain-Dead

            Yesterday my kids in my first two classes massively decompensated. This year has been much, much better than last, and so it was nothing compared to the crazy stuff that goes on in a classroom full of freshmen, but it wasn’t the joyful, happy, productive atmosphere I wanted. First block had a meltdown when we went outside to play “homunculus man” and chart out the paths sensory and motor messages take through the nervous system. Kids complained about the heat, the smell of the trash behind the cafeteria, about having to walk. Messages kept getting lost somewhere between the frontal lobe and the spine. One student quipped that our class was “brain dead.” Haw. Haw. Haw.

            My second block never even got outside. Three new, rather challenging students entered the classroom, and immediately started the “testing” portion of learning classroom rules. The rest of the class took the opportunity to chat with their friends, which doesn’t sound like a big deal, but 33 kids sharing the news is a lot to compete with when all you’ve got are axons and dendrites. By the end of the class, I was stressed. 

            My IB kids were a blessing at the end of the day.  I helped my sweet, cheerful students review and get set for their test, and then paced around the classroom monitoring their tests and trying to conceal the fact that I had to pee immensely (I drink a lot of water when I’m shouting instructions at the top of my lungs).

            Today was much better. Second block had a spanking new seating chart with results that were nothing short of miraculous, and first block was carefully manipulated using a combination of Lighthouse Family (chilliest music around, yo), personally chosen greetings at the door, and directions that kept them moving, along with a hand-slapping game to learn about how adrenaline works. When my most recalcitrant new kid walked out, he had changed from moody hooded head down on the desk with muttered imprecations emerging at intervals (he was mad at being reprimanded for simultaneously eating and texting) to a cheery, “bye, Ms. W!” When he saw me on campus later, he shouted across the quad to get my response to his wave. Kids change fast. Probably all those hormones we learned about today.

By the way, they were all giddy when I told them they could write, under “how do teens cope with stress?” their top answers: sex and drugs. One new kid who’s been feeling the class out, deciding whether to establish street cred or keep low profile, whispered, “this teacher… cool.” But I wanted to talk about drugs and sex, and discuss more productive methods of coping with stress. The rule of thumb I gave them: do what will benefit you thirty years from now. They came up with exercise and socializing as the top two coping methods, because then you’ll have a lot of friends and be super-fit. Good call.

            Another child, one of a powerful quartet of adorable earnest learners, asked me about how to apply to college last week. I put together a personal packet and handed it to him as he came in the door Friday. Later, as I stood at my desk entering attendance, I noticed he was standing there, waiting for me to look up. I looked at him, and he didn’t say anything, so I prompted him: what’s up? He was speechless. Utterly thankful for the small little packet I’d made for him. He came back up at the end of class to thank me again. Finally, in response to his assuring me that he owes me, I told him he did: he better get into a good college now. He promised. 

            There’s another kid I’ve got who’s super-bright, and who I clicked with from the get-go. He’s kind of a cool kid, and so I was surprised when he wanted to share stories with the teacher. We trade Spanish and Norwegian words, and I’m always startled when he calls to me across campus in another language. This afternoon, as I headed out of school, I saw him on his way out of soccer practice and promised to hit up his game tomorrow. Five minutes later, I saw him again—a police officer was talking to him. I couldn’t tell from the way they were interacting whether the police officer was helping him with something or whether he was in trouble. To my “you good?” question he nodded with a smile that I couldn’t decode. I decided that the nerves I get when my students interact with someone in uniform is ridiculous. Probably most of the policemen out there are good people. And yet I always want to throw myself in front of the kids, my white upper-class professionalism a shield that demands respect for anyone behind me.

            Tomorrow we learn about Phineas Gage and his pole through the brain. Psyched!

I'm About To Eat My Own Elbow

            It was while sitting in a lecture on cultural responsiveness, watching my true identity dissolve into a puddle of white privilege that smelled surprisingly like Elmer’s glue, that I realized I haven’t blogged in awhile and sought to remedy the situation. Of course, it’s no good now; anything I write will smack of loathing for the organization that can put me through this mind-numbing torture. My thoughts the past half hour have gone something like this: “wait, did I just get more racist? How can I tell? Hang on, maybe it’s localized to small parts of my body. Maybe just my elbow is racist. Or my thumb. I have to gnaw it off. Now. Before it spreads.”

            Instead of digesting my own organs, I will blog to relieve the mind-numbing tedium of required professional development.

Morgan Freeman knows. Today, when my IB students questioned how I
knew where to find research studies which they couldn't find, I told them,
in Morgan Freeman's voice, "I'm known to locate certain things from
time to time." They loved it.

            For the past twelve hours, I have been either at school, in a faculty meeting, or embroiled in this cultural responsiveness training. I have two more hours with TFA and it’s anyone’s guess whether I will make it through without being kicked out of the program. I have so far shouted out “Democrat!” in response to a question about Barack Obama’s ethnicity, stuck up the wrong finger when we were asked to raise one to show whether we had a talking buddy, told everyone in my vicinity that nationality is a construct just like race and clearly the speaker’s question is a trick, and am currently tossing balled-up pieces of my nametag at my friend. They aren’t reaching him. I’m a rotten shot, though I practiced with my favorite blerds yesterday during our trashketball review for our test.

            Other things I’ve accomplished recently: played therapist to several distraught students, wiped out an ant infestation, engaged in college guidance for my favorite undocumented student, called 63 parents to let them know their darling offspring spend an hour and half with me a day and are they sure they feel okay with that, graded something on the order of 1,200 pieces of paper, created a bomb-diggity lesson plan on the brain for tomorrow (brain hats! Brain hats and neuron-firing games and homunculus man races), and given show-and-tell on Judaism in the world history classes.

            If you had three minutes to explain your religion, what would you say? My spiel went like this, based on what I knew they’d be interested in:

            Same G-d, just the first half of the bible, Jesus was a cool guy but I don’t believe in his divinity. Every 25 hours I shut down for the Sabbath—no work, no electricity, no driving, just food, prayer, friends, reading, and long walks. And yes, I see your hands and I know your question, my grandparents survived the Holocaust but most of my great-great relatives were murdered, so I’m pretty much a walking miracle.  Questions?”

            They loved it. Perhaps every piece of content should be delivered by an authentic example who elevator-pitches it in three minutes and then leaves while they’re still off their seats with questions.

            After school, lots of people pop in and out of my trailer from the district—heating and cooling people, plumbers, internet and technology experts, etc—the whole gamut of people it takes to keep my trailer just barely operating. Usually I offer them some of the candy I’ve saved as a treat for my kids, and we banter a bit about the weather and such. Sometimes we go a bit deeper. Recently one person explained to me why our education system is suffering:

            “We need to bring that whoop ass back.”

            “Excuse me?”

            “Can’t hit the kids anymore. That’s the problem.”

            “Well, most of them are big enough to hit back. So I don’t think it would work.”

            We amicably agreed to disagree, swore eternal friendship over a can of tepid coke and a water bottle, and left it at thinking each other hopeless with children.

            Besides that, things are calm in the world of second-year teaching. Not one student has thrown a major fit yet, they generally do their work, and on the whole, we have a rollicking time exploring psychology together. I’m afraid it makes for much less interesting stories, but a much better educational environment. If anything changes, I’ll keep you posted. Until then, we have a nervous system and endocrine system to memorize and lots of sensory tricks to play on students in order to get them thinking about biology’s effect upon behavior. So long!

In Hindsight, That Was Probably Illegal

          So. I have 100 new students. 60+ standard psychology students from 10-12 grade who have proven delightfully open to the establishment of our class culture, and 40+ IB students in 11^th grade who are resisting my attempts to cram everything they need to know into them via powerpoint (dear god we need books). Yes, our classes are, as ever, large-- this Onion article gets it exactly.

      While I’ve taken the time to get to know my standard students, who seem tickled all to hell that a teacher is this interested in their lives and have paid it back tenfold by pumping their enthusiasm into psychology, my IB students keep begging me to slow down and complain about the amount of notes we have to take. I feel them, bruh.

We also have fun, though. Perhaps illegally, I ran the Milgram experiment on several batches of kids today, asking them to pat their friend on the hand, harder, harder, HARDER, (until it looked like the next one might actually inflict pain), finally culminating in asking them to bash their friend over the head with a book until their startled “no!”s made us all crack up. I think it's okay because there was no way that I was going to let them keep going. We also debated the ethics of Little Albert and whether numbers are gendered and why anyone would run an experiment on the duration of peeing in male restrooms when the next urinal is occupied versus when the peer is alone (or thinks he is—that researcher hidden in the stall sounds a creeper). The kids have a pretty good idea of how to evaluate a research study, now.

My kids are lapping it all up, and I am heartily enjoying their insight and enthusiasm. So utterly different from last year. Last year, the kids asked why they had to know world history, and I stuttered. This year, they don’t even ask why psychology’s important, though I tell them with every insight. Our classes feel safe and fun and productive. I’ve learned so much, and am bursting with the pleasure of knowing how to treat each kid as they individually need.

     The teacher in the trailer next to me is as old and as venerable as Noah. She calls everyone “boo,” because once you’re in the thousands you don’t have to remember anyone’s names. Sometimes, from her trailer, I hear strings of happy expletives emerge, a mix of her deep barks and the lighter chirps of her students. They’re not fighting, they’re talking. She surprised me while I was talking to the media specialist in the library by throwing her arm around me and announcing, “this is my neighbor. We love each other.” Though surprised, I confirmed, and I think it’s on its way to being completely true. We have only each other—our trailers don’t front on anyone else’s—and I cemented the relationship by letting her carry off my videocassette player yesterday. Won’t be needing that in this century. Today we stood guard during lunch to make sure no kids had sex under our trailers. It’s stuff like that that best friendship is made off.

            My buddies from last year are spread all over the school this year. The bonds of the back trailer block have been dissolved. I miss them. We still check in with each other, though. The whole school, from administration down to the tetchy little freshmen who are as tall as my hip, seems much happier this year.

Written by a child whose happiness expresses my own:

·      When I first walked in your room, I was happy and excited. I love coming to class. I’m so excited about this year. Turn up!!! =)

What a Man Can Be, He Must Be

            Today was the first day of school. As another teacher quoted, “cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war.” And yet, there was no havoc. There was no war. There were not even dogs (remember that time last year a stray got into the A building?). We have a new principal and new administration and finally, finally, finally, my school feels like a happy place to be. Kids were smiling, teachers knew what they were supposed to do and did it, and everywhere we turned our old students ran up to hug and fist bump us. It was hard not to grin all day.

Like this, minus the uniforms and raised hands. We freestyle in my class.

            My first lessons went well. There’s something about psychology that intrigues kids. And those IB students… I am mindblown.  Never in my wildest dreams, not since Norway, did I imagine kids could be this bright, engaged, and ready to learn. They have opinions about everything. They listen. At one point they were all leaning forward and one literally said, “go on, go on, tell us another [psychological experiment].” We have already opened fascinating conversations about race and gender, examining one kid’s statement that at home he acts Indian, but at school, kind of ghetto. After helping him find a better word for it, we talked about whether all people of one race act the same and how you can prove something about behavior. They are all far and away the most engaged children I have ever seen at this school. In short, I’m psyched for this year.

I came home and checked my email to find this (slightly excised) waiting for me from one of them:    

“I am extremely excited to be in your class for psychology... It was surprising that the first thing you did after sharing what you expected out of us students was asking us what we liked and sort of expected out of teachers. It's that kind of respect shown to students that make me enjoy a class more! I have a great feeling that it will be a great semester... I have a newfound interest in psychology and I really hope this will be an educationally fulfilling semester!”

I am jumping up and down with delight. Our class mantra will be from Maslow:

What a man can be, he must be.

This year, we actually have a shot at fulfilling it.  

Ready, Set...

Data wall at the ready. Awaiting student achievement.

           School starts Monday. For the past two weeks, I’ve been through a slew of professional training and planning sessions, many of which were not strictly applicable to my new discipline of psychology. In fact, my Masters classes, TFA training, and CMS sessions have all made me aware of how very marginalized psychology is in the social studies world. It’s an afterthought stuffed into the back trailers and tagged on to the list of disciplines at the very end of a series of shout-outs when a presenter is trying to figure out why I haven’t raised my hand to identify with a course. It’s cool. I don’t mind my classes lurking in the shadows, and if I have any deep lasting issues about the marginalization of psychology, I’ll take them to my therapist for meta-analysis.

One semester's worth of vocab, already up.

         My trailer is deliciously optimized for student organization. If you’re not a teacher, you won’t understand my delight in knowing how I want my classroom to work and making it all just so. My student organization this semester is, to someone turned on by organization, incredibly exciting. Just look at the pictures and understand my glee.

         Last year at this time, I was freaking out. Right now I feel an exhilarated serenity. True, I’m locked out of my account so I can’t see my rosters or make seating charts, and the computers and internet and projector in my trailer don’t work, and I don’t have enough books for all my students, and we’ve been told that we’re not to teach content the first three days, but you know, I’m okay with that. I’ve got enough of a macro-sense of where we’re going as a class, that I trust the details will find their place.

         In district training, as we sat through two hours of mind-numbing boredom, the district Social Studies guy asked us, “what do you love? What do you really love?” Behind me, an antediluvian teacher muttered loudly, “sex.” Gotta love those teachers old enough not to give one single care.

Well-stocked teacher supply cabinet.
Complete with stuffed... thing... to relieve
student freak-outs. Worked last year.

We were given our duty rosters, and one of the tall male teachers commented that he doesn’t feel safe where his duty is, behind the back trailers. It’s true, but crazy. How can kids feel safe where teachers don’t?

         I’m taking on new leadership roles this year. I volunteered to be the Faculty Advisory Committee member for our department, which means that everyone complains to me and then I meet with all the other representatives across the school and we formulate recommendations to the principal. I feel this will be a highly entertaining, if not necessarily productive, way to spend my evenings.

         Tomorrow I meet my new students! Students! All the blissful complexity of students! Just thinking of the challenges sends a surge of adrenalin through me. Every glue-gun burn and paper cut and the toe I may have permanently maimed by running a cart with 40 psychology books over it feels like a battle scar of love right now.

Can't nobody say they didn't know something was due this year.
Note the interactive student notebook table of contents beside the calendar.
Student organization for the win!

         On Friday, one of my old students was on campus for driver’s ed, and came running across the quad to hug me. She’s the sort who spreads a frisson of mayhem wherever she goes simply by the enormous size of her personality, but we loved each other and I was often able to harness her character into propelling the class forward. She promised to tell everyone where my new room is, and as I finesse my first powerpoints and put the finishing touches on objective clarity, I’m filled by little shivers of anticipation for this school year prompted by her reminder of the connections that teaching offers. I do something that matters, something that I love, and now I know how to do it. Bring it, 2014-2015. I’m ready for you.

P.S. My IB students lack enough textbooks for all of them. You can help. Check out my classroom projects at: 

http://www.donorschoose.org/ms.wenger 

Course mantra.

Permission to diverge, granted.

Lest they think we're not talking about feminism this year...

Dance, students, dance.