Walking into my second block and handling classroom
management feels like getting on a bull and trying to hang on as long as I can.
The beginning is always hard—getting the attention of the class at the start of
the day is much like catching a wild animal and dragging it, kicking and
biting, into an enclosure. Then I try to put it through its paces, using a
combination of coaxing and threats. I flick a few flies off the hide, sending
the students who absolutely refuse to behave out until the rest of the class has
stopped rearing and bucking. Those students can return later, to settle back placidly
one by one without too greatly disturbing the general peace.
As we move through the lesson, from group work to class contests
to independent creative projects, I find myself sliding from side to side of
the bull. I’m getting better at maintaining my balance, automatically
compensating for the various tweakings and rollings that each student’s
off-task behavior or outrageous flaunting of school rules demands, and handing
out sugar in the form of applauding sticky notes or letters home to parents or
participation points to those students who deserve it. If the class begins to
work as a beautiful creature, displaying a cohesive stride, they get full class
points.
Different classes have different paces that work best for
them—while my third block prefers a steady, ground-eating trot with chances to
backtrack and cover the ground again, my fourth block needs a brisk swinging
pace that rolls them through the material swiftly. I’m still finding my second
block’s pace—it’s currently a sort of ambling shamble that can quickly take off
into an involuntary gallop across the countryside of profanity and mild student
violence (they hit each other, smack each other, throw things at each other,
kick each other, trip each other…) until I fall off in despair and sit quietly
on the roadside, picking mental daisies while they rush ahead towards what
looks like an overhanging cliff. But I suppose that’s the nature of the beast.
--------------------
I took my class to a slam poetry event the other day. UNCC’s
Sacrificial Poets were on campus, and
the lucky first 6 teachers to request it got to take their classes to a
performance. The poems were fantastic, about growing up black and knowing your
skin is a ticking time bomb until conviction or death or a racist encounter,
about how MLK has been turned into a commercial jingle and about turning size
14 feet into a joyous artistic experience. Our students snapped
enthusiastically at the performers, and leaned forward in a breathless silence
that was beautiful to behold. Afterwards, two students who had been in a
workshop earlier got up to present—one on being bullied for her weight and
another on losing a mother. They were excellent and intense and I silently
passed out tissues among my class. Next up: slam poetry in the Industrial
Revolution.
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