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!