In Honor of Teachers

As a teacher, I reflect back often on all those who took part in my education and shaped the educator I am today. My English teachers are all among my favorites by simple virtue of teaching my favorite subject -- and it was my favorite mainly because it was the one at which I was best! 

Way above any other was my eighth grade English teacher.  A sturdy and sort of manly looking woman, she didn't engender the fawning glorification of younger, more attractive counterparts.  Rather, she earned our respect and affection with her vast intelligence. She introduced me to Shakespeare and Dickens...allowed me to explore writing my own novel...taught me the proper research paper techniques that formed the basis of my own term paper unit.  And the vocab...how I loved vocab!  She taught us the coolest words.  And in return, we treated her to total teenage shenanigans by completely misusing them on purpose.  One memorable unit included the word "ensue;"  My girlfriend and I both submitted the following sentence that week: "Me enSue walked to the store."  We couldn't wait to see how she'd react, and we were not disappointed.  She laughed heartily.  That was another reason we loved her -- and probably explains to you why it is I react as I do to my own students.

The honor roll of other memorable teachers I enjoyed is long and illustrious.  I remember some because they were wonderfully creative and well-liked...others because they set examples I shouldn't repeat.  Here are some of them, in ascending grade order!

-- the third grade teacher who was widely desired by kids for his penchant for field trips.  I recall going on ELEVEN excursions the year I was in his class.  But he was also reviled by legions of youngsters for his tortuous habit of calling us up to practice our "times tables."  Firing off equations in rapid sequence, he could cause us to shake with fear if we couldn't answer quickly enough.
-- the fifth grade teacher who would send us postcards over school breaks from her vacations across the country.  She also celebrated every calendar holiday with special treats or projects and let us move our desks in a semi-circle around an ornately decorated Christmas tree. Having a particular limitation that sometimes kept me from gym class that year, I spent precious time alone with her.  I've never forgotten her sensitivity and nurturing guidance; she let me help check papers, pass things out, and see secret teacher stuff like the copy room and back area of the office!
-- the sixth grade language arts teacher who had an entire wall of paperbacks -- JACKPOT!.  Several days a week we were allowed to simply grab books and read.  Since she taught a double-block class, that meant over an HOUR of pure bliss.  (She was also notable because we caught her smooching another teacher in the adjacent teacher area.  Both were married...to other people...but not for long!)
-- the tenth grade social studies teacher who made me read aloud longer than any other kid in the class because I could pronounce all the words better than anyone else -- even him!  It was rumored that he suffered from PTSD, so bratty kids would also slam the textbook to the ground periodically to see if he really would dive behind his desk. He never did, as far as I know...but still they tried.
-- the twelfth grade history teacher who had graduated from Ohio State University and made me do a report on Woody Hayes, knowing my plans to attend U of M the next fall.  He was a football coach...go figure...and was not happy with my unfavorable description of the rival coach.
-- the high school French teacher, notorious for looking down girls' shirts and keeping Paris Match magazines on the back counter.  Paris Match had NUDE PICTURES in them.  I spent three long years in his classroom -- a classroom whose organization irritated me so much that I wrote him a two-page letter detailing how he could improve it. To his credit, he wrote me back graciously. 
-- the high school band director whose signature we could all forge flawlessly -- and who knew it -- but let us do it anyway to hang out in the back room of the band room.  It was a win-win; he got his sheet music filed, and I taught my best friend how to write essays when we were done.

Of course I had memorable college and grad school instructors, but it's the teachers of my youth whose images are burned deeply into my memory.  Knowing that gives me great pause now, keeps me mindful of the impact I have on the minds of these impressionable youths. 

But what they don't realize is the impact they also have on me.  :)

Dichotomy

Dichotomy: n, division into two mutually exclusive, opposed, or contradictory groups.
Colloquial definition: a middle school student.

I have been teaching middle school for just over twenty years now.  It's no small understatement to say that I love it.  I adore the personalities, the fragile sensitivities, the stunning and often surprising glimpses into deeper thinking than one thought possible...all of it.

Most of all, perhaps?  

I love the dichotomy that is a middle school student.  As proof, I submit the following:

1. "Alot" of ado:  Every year, I teach students about my grammatical pet peeves and other common mistakes they must avoid.  One is the incorrect use of "alot."  "A lot" is actually two words, an article adjective and a noun.  It is an expression of abundance based on an actual unit of measurement. Perennially, I have students argue with me that "alot" is one word, they know it, they can prove it, they see it ALL THE TIME! 

And then once they figure it out and see how much it bothers me to see it expressed incorrectly, some decide to torture me "alot." Almost every day, I come into the classroom to find an anonymous note on my podium, scribbled on my white board, or stuck into the attendance folder.  Someone is having "alot" of fun at my expense.  

The dichotomy between knowing better and using it anyway?  I love it alot.

2. Hashtag hilarity:  I'm told teenagers have taken to the Twittah because their parents took over Facebook.  And I've noticed my students joking in conversation about with Twitter lingo. 

"That party was so fun, right?  Like...hashtag totes cool (#totescool)!" or "My parents were so harsh on me! Hashtag brutal #brutal)!" 

And then I noticed they were taking hashtagging to a new level...at my expense.  A frequent misspelling of my last name is "Martian."  One child does it intentionally, pretending I am an actual alien being.  I told him he was right on one level...I AM out of this world. 

He stared at me...nonplussed...and then regrouped and began a new assault.  It took off like wildfire, and suddenly I've been "hashtagged" in a variety of ways on a daily basis.

The dichotomy between using technology as a way of life and a way of spoofing your teacher?  #WellPlayed.

3.  Cursed by the Cooties: Again, the white board presents opportunity for much fun in school.  I don't know why, but every child I've ever met LOVES to write, draw and goof on the board any time allowed...or unnoticed. 

Case in point: On one recent low-key afternoon, the students were playing word games after a grueling research unit.  Soft music was playing, windows were open, I was working quietly at my desk...keeping one eye on the kids and one eye on grading.  I was blissfully unaware that anything might be amiss. Then the  principal walked in with a parent on a tour, and we explained why we were thusly occupied.  All was well...until I glanced at the white board.  At some point while the one eye supposed to be on the kids apparently was not, they had surreptitiously written the following:

Only when the principal and prospective parent walked in did I see it...and erupted into giggles.  Looking at me quizzically, the principal hurriedly left with her visitor.  And then I put a different eye on the students:  THE STINK EYE...that was twinkling with more laughter.

Now the Cootie Curse has blossomed.

 The dichotomy between looking innocent and acting innocent? My daily curse.

4. Deep Thoughts: And then always...when I least expect it...the daily shenanigans that are so typical of a middle school classroom fade away and leave me speechless...breathless with wonder and awe. Whenever someone asks what level I teach and hears the answer, there's often a sharp intake of breath and a look of pity.  "Wow, middle school...tough age.  WHY?" 

I've always said I love middle school because it offers a glimpse into who an individual will be someday. 

I've always said it's because I love thinking I'm the smartest person in the room and then finding out I'm not when that one special kid GETS IT...laughs at something he/she wasn't supposed to understand.

I've always said it's because the kids both warm my soul and break my heart.

Most years I do a poetry unit and start with simple, formulaic options to get them engaged.  The biopoem is a great format...students are to explore their personalities and share their loves, fears, talents, etc.  This one stopped me in my tracks the other day:

The dichotomy between what you see and what's inside?  The epitome of a middle school child.

I've been #blessed alot.

Turn the Page

Every May, I start to feel nostalgic.  It's the end of another school year, and too soon it'll be time to bid another group of 8th graders farewell as they go off to high school.  These last precious weeks are a flurry of excitement for them; they were recently confirmed, they're in the midst of graduation preparations, and they've just returned from their class trip to Washington, DC.  Some will stay together throughout high school and remain life-long friends; others will move on and leave the memories of the people and times in Catholic grade school behind forever.  Some of them have been together since their very first day of preschool...a decade of academic years strung together by seasons and sacraments.   Their past accomplishments flash before us in pictures, year books, and commemorative essays and poems as ceremonial presentations are created.  Looking back, we relive each funny, touching, hurtful and exciting memory so we can propel them forward in celebration to a new beginning.

Leaving is truly a milestone in their young lives.

But here I'll stay...ready to welcome the new class of now-fifth graders up into the middle school to start the cycle of goodbye once again.  I've been so lucky in my current position that I get to foster my students for three full years, from sixth through eighth grade.  Our small class sizes allow me to really get to know each individual very, very well...perhaps too well!  By the time my kids get to 8th grade, we've developed such a comfortable rapport that we're like family.  We know each others moods, mannerisms and quirks, and our conversations can sometimes take interesting turns that would not always be appropriate in public school. You see, we have liberties in  Catholic school that allow us to pray together, hug each other, cry if needed, and offer frank advice that may not fly under the more stringent and litigious guidelines of the public sector.

That close bond presents a struggle for my mother's heart, wanting to hold on for just a little bit longer until I'm sure each child is going to be OK in the much bigger, vastly different world of high school.  I know, however, that they must be off and on their own in ways they've never been before in order to become who they need to be.  My entire job is to prepare them to be ready to go on, so it's not like it's any big surprise that they do, in fact, leave.   But it's a bittersweet goodbye for us all.  They are so ready to enter into this new phase...but in these last fleeting days...so nervous, sentimental and reluctant to let go of this part of their childhood.

Hundreds of former students remain in my memory as the current group looks right about now.  They're frozen in time in this awkward stage, half child...half adult, and it's fascinating trying to imagine who they end up becoming.  Recently, thanks to the wonders of social media, I have  been blessed to reconnect with many of my very first students.  It's shocking to see them as grown-up adults when my life seems to plod along in an unending loop of school years.  Some have children of their own...older than my daughters, in some cases...and it's been amazing to hear how their stories turn out. 

I often wonder what it is they remember best about our time together -- though sometimes when I find out...it's not at all what I would have expected!  I see glimpses of past students in my present classes, marveling at how groups of children can be so similar years apart from each other, living in totally different environmental, social, and economic situations, and seen from my completely different perspective.   What will each new group take with them from this shared time?  How will I have affected them?  I may never find out.

But I know this:  each one affects me...each one helps me grow and learn something new.  Every school year I find something I can do better because a child has needed me to do better. They all become part of the continuing story of my life, and I anxiously await the next chapter.

Keeping It LIght

I teach in a very small school, and I have the same students for three years in a row. Over that time, I come to know them very well socially, spiritually and academically. As a result, I gain meaningful relationships with them and their families. Sometimes, we develop a very playful rapport. So playful, in fact, that one day I found myself holding a child in a head-lock giving him noogies. Now, I imagine some parents would be horrified. It’s a tricky thing to touch a child in any way, much less playfully brutalize one. But my school is special. His mother, upon hearing that I might possibly have done that to her child (from my own lips, nonetheless) said simply,

“Good for you! And you have my permission to kick him in the (blank), too, if he deserves it!!” Of course, she didn’t mean it, and I never would kick his (blank)…at least not very hard.

See, the trick to working with middle school kids is to keep it light. To that end, I have an entire repertoire of responses that I pull out to answer the countless questions I receive over and over all day long.

They’ll query, “Hey, Mrs. Martin?” and I’ll say, “That’s my name!” Then they usually just stare blankly until they remember they actually had something to say.

So they’ll next blurt out, “I have a question!” and I’ll respond, “And I have an answer!” Sometimes (usually after too much coffee) I’ll add, “It might not be the one you want, but I have one. And if I don’t, I’ll make it up.”

They’ll continue in a panic, “What if we don’t have our assignment today???” and I’ll retort, “Then you FAIL!” That one is sometimes followed with, “REALLY??? We’ll FAIL??” and I’ll say, “Well, not everyone. Just you.” Wink.

And finally, I get what I was after…the smile, the laugh, the relief. Middle school is tough enough without having to deal with a teacher who is out to get you. I WAS that hard-ass teacher when I started. Then I had children; my heart softened. Adolescents and teens need nurturing the same as an elementary aged student, and no matter how tough they act on the outside…they’re needy, awkward souls on the inside. Make them laugh and treat them with compassion, and they’re ten times easier to manage on a daily basis.

Turnabout is fair play, too. I love when they use my own tricks against me. For example, a typical assignment is to write contextually rich sentences using their vocab words. During a recent unit, I happened to walk out into the hall to admonish a group of chronically late students, and I got a little spirited, shall we say. It’s pretty rare for me to raise my voice, much less rise to the level of ranting and sputtering. But I might have that day.

Realizing it, I turned it into an object lesson regarding one of the words of the week: diatribe. I tried to pass the whole incident off as purposeful and planned for their edification. The humorous and sarcastic sentences soundly roasting me for my behavior written to me that week showed they knew better. However, they truly learned the contextual meaning of diatribe, and I bet they never forget it. Now THAT’S teaching…

One of my greatest joys is when a child is comfortable enough to exhibit his/her own sparring skills. It’s also one of the best indicators that the child will have the self-confidence needed to survive high school and beyond. When it comes during one of their most trying middle school units, it’s even better. And there is little more trying for my eighth graders than their term paper unit. By the time it is upon them, they’ve heard about it for years…seen two other grades go through it…sensed the abject fear and panic during the last frantic week before it’s due.

It’s a PERFECT time for some levity.

When the unit begins, I pass out the term paper packet. This publication has been written, edited, revised, updated and finessed by me for going on twenty years. It’s a thing of beauty, I tell you. I make a special title page printed in full-color, and I include everything they need to know to write the paper nearly painlessly. There are examples, guidelines, requirements, calendars, pictures, an evaluation and a detailed grading rubric. It’s several pages long, and I have to use a fair bit of my copy paper allotment to produce it. So I tell my students that if they lose their term paper packet, it'll cost them $5 for me to make a new copy. The idea is to impress upon them that I mean business, and they NEED THAT PACKET AT ALL TIMES.

But remember…they know me very well by now, and they know I am rarely all that serious. So it’s an odd day that anyone a) believes I’ll charge them and b) actually pays up when they lose the packet, as they inevitably do. When I actually am presented with crinkled dollar bills by a sheepish packet-less child, I donate it back to their 8th grade trip fund anyway.

The students who really understand me find a way to handle it well when they are in desperate need of a new copy – or even just a portion of it. Just today, a student asked if I could give him the page he needed and pro-rate the cost. But he didn’t have any money on him at the moment. “You can just bill my family,” he joked.

So I said, "Hmm...I don’t know. That’s a lot of math to calculate, and you know I don’t do math. How about if I give it to you just for having to show the shame and embarrassment for asking? Did you feel shame and embarrassment?" I asked, looking sternly over my glasses at him.

"Oh, yes,” he nodded earnestly, “Yes, I did. And it was deep."

Deep indeed. That’s how it is in my classroom on a daily basis. And I wouldn’t have it any other way!