Adequate Yearly Progress April 29, 2008

I work at a school that is in trouble.  We are not making AYP, and we haven’t been for a while now.  I think we’re at the point where we really should be fresh-started, and everyone should be let go and have to interview for their own jobs.  We are definitely at the point where we need a new principal.  Our test scores are poor, and not even our white kids are making a year’s worth of progress in math. 

And yet — no one seems to be worried, no one seems to be doing anything.  The principal keeps on telling us that everything is fine and we’re all doing a great job, and so the teachers just put their heads back in the sand.  Few people seem concerned that we are failing our students.  And the district isn’t helping in any way that I can see.

This year has been disillusioning for me.  I used to think we were a good school with a really good staff, and now that I am a mentor, I know better.  I used to think that our principal was terrific, and now…I know better.  I can see that we are a ship without a captain, and have learned what it feels like to crave strong leadership.

The master teacher I work with can see the big picture, and she is getting more and more worried.  She knows what needs to be done, but it isn’t her job to do it — it’s the principal’s.  She is sort of taking on the weight of the building as she tries to get through to him, and prod him to think ahead and make decisions.  All it’s doing is wearing her out.

However, there are little rays of sunshine to notice, here and there.  I had a conference with a first grade teacher this morning, about the lesson I observed her teaching last week, and it went really well.  We looked at her scores from the fall, and she has improved so much.  Her teaching incorporates the instructional rubric and best practices, and she is clearly really self-reflective.  And even the kindergarten teachers, who have been so resistant to change all year, are all doing high-quality interactive read-alouds with their classes every week.

We have learned this year, and we have improved.  I just don’t know if it’s enough.

Tears April 29, 2008

There is a boy in my class — we’ll call him David, for reasons which should be clear to fans of David Shannon’s No, David! books — who is always getting into trouble. 

He is a sweet boy, actually, and I’m always happy to see him, but he is impulsive and loud, and needs a lot of redirecting.  I find myself saying “No, David!” to him almost every day, and it hurts me to hear the way I talk to him sometimes.  It takes great effort to remember to praise him and smile at him and outnumber my negative remarks (“Please be quiet, David….Sit down, David!….Stop touching him, David….Finish your work, please, David”) with positive ones.

His mother, who is young and single and clearly loves him very much, told me when we met in August that David’s father is in jail, and David “has a lot of anger issues.”

I don’t see the anger much, mostly just boisterous noise and happy misbehavior, but every once in a while, I do see deep sadness.  Today at story time I was being videotaped modeling a repeated interactive readaloud, so I was really concentrating on the story, but part of my brain registered that David, sitting right in front of me in his assigned spot, was not looking quite right. 

By the time it was time to go, he was in tears.  I scooped him up and sat him on my lap, on a bench in the hall, and we rocked while he cried on my shoulder and said, “I want my mama,” over and over.  It was as much as I could get out of him, so I let him sob and be sad, and when he was ready, I took him by the hand to the after-school program.

The Little Things, part 3 April 27, 2008

When I taught preschool at a daycare center, during my first official year of teaching, I had a big classroom with a large area where we could sit on the floor for circle time, in an actual circle.

Now, many years later, I am teaching preschool in a public school, in a very small classroom.  Our meeting area is quite small (and doubles as the block corner during centers time), and there is no way to fit the class in that space in a circle.  So I divided the space up into three rows, with room for 5-7 children in each row, and assigned seats.  Seriously.  Every child in my class has a spot on the floor where he/she knows to sit. 

When I visit other classrooms, the teacher gathers the children together for story time or morning meeting or circle time or whatever they might call it, and the kids either sit in a big circle (where some are too far away from the teacher to see the book she’s holding, and some are sitting right next to her looking out across the circle so they too cannot see the book she’s holding) or they sit in a clump (where they fidget and fuss and elbow each other).

My kids, with me the control-freak as their teacher, are in perfect little rows, each with their own space.  It works beautifully, even as I acknowledge how control-freaky I can be, because no one is sitting next to someone they like to chat with or fight with, and those who need to be near me are front and center so I can reach down and pat their knees, and those who need space are on the sides, and Miss L. is in the back corner so Ali can help her out if need be, and she can easily leave to “take a break” if she is getting overwhelmed.

Okay, so I’m ridiculous.  But boy, does it work.

The little things, part 2 April 26, 2008

Perhaps because I really started out teaching in daycare, before I taught kindergarten at that inner-city school, I still obey the rules about licensing and ratios and proper supervision.  I never want to have my students out of my sight, because if something happened to them, it would be my responsibility. 

So — I want to avoid having children go out into the hall to put their papers in their backpacks.  Send a few 4 year olds out in the hall together and pretty soon they are running around and chasing each other.

I bought a file basket, and have one hanging file for each child, of course labeled and arranged in ABC order.  (We do lots of things in ABC order!)  Whenever a child finishes a drawing or makes a book or does a worksheet, they go put it in their “work file”.  A few times a week my assistant moves their work into their backpacks.

No kids unsupervised in the hall, and no papers on the floor of the hall, where they fell from being haphazardly stuffed into a cubby or locker….

The little things April 26, 2008

From the beginning, when I started out teaching in an inner-city kindergarten, if things go wrong, I more or less blame myself.  And I ask myself, “what could I do differently next time, to prevent that from happening again?”

It has led me to do lots of little things that make a huge difference.  For example, I got really tired of hearing children say, “he budged me!” when they were trying to get in line, or walking in line.  So I asked myself, “what’s something I could do so I never have to hear the word ‘budged’ again?” 

It seemed to me that if every child had a place in the line, there wouldn’t be any confusion, so I started doing the line in ABC order (using first names, of course).  Every year I write the children’s names in alphabetical order before the first day of school, and start teaching it to them on the first day of school.  Within a few days I’ve got it memorized, and can rattle it off:  Amy, Ben, Carrie, Chris, Darnell, Eduardo, John, Julie, etc.* all the way to Xavier or Zed or whoever has the last name in the alphabet that year.  Then on the job chart, each week someone else gets a turn to be line leader (and holds open doors for us), and someone gets to be the caboose (and close doors for us).

My preschoolers can do it by the third week of school without help, and from then on, lining up and walking in line is a breeze.

*not their real names, from this or any year.

Rainy Friday April 25, 2008

I haven’t been feeling quite right all week, but I put it down to a combination of grim weather, not getting enough sleep, and worrying about my younger son.  My husband thinks it might be mild seasonal affective disorder.  At any rate, it took everything I had just to get through the morning.

On the down side, it is cold, grey, and wet outside.  The weather is likely to continue to be awful until sometime next week.  The children were incredibly loud all morning, and I kept whispering in their ears, “please use a quiet voice,” to no avail.  And I am so very tired.

On the up side, L. brought up the subject of her birthday at morning meeting, and it seems that she understands now.  She was happy about her birthday, so we talked a lot about how special it will be.  I had a good conversation with the principal of my children’s school yesterday, and he took my concerns very seriously.  He will be talking to the teacher today, and I hope that soon, things get better for my seven year old.  And finally, it’s Friday.  I don’t work in the afternoon, and I can cocoon at my house, and enjoy the peace and quiet.

When birthdays are bad April 24, 2008

L. is a much-beloved student in my class. She is one of my special needs children, without one single unifying diagnosis that would help the adults in her life understand her better. She is bright, cute, and makes adults all over the school fall in love with her, but at the same time, each day is a struggle.

The last week or two have been difficult for her. Nancy, my special education assistant teacher, told me the other day that she thinks she figured out what is going on. The two of them were “taking a break” from music class, when L. announced, “It’s my birthday in 20 days. And then I have to go to kindergarten.”

Nancy realized that L. thought that once she turned five, she would immediately have to leave my classroom and start kindergarten at a new school.

I have been talking about birthdays with her since then, saying, “L., next week when you have your birthday, you will turn five, and then you will still be in this class. The next day, you will come back here. And the day after that. And the day after that.”

I also asked C. (the lego robber), “How old are you?” in front of L. C. said, “five.” I asked, “When you turned five, did you have to leave?” C. shook his head no, clearly being still a member of our class.

L. just looks at me with infinite patience, and says, resignedly, “No, when I turn five I have to go to kindergarten.” She doesn’t believe me.

And when she’s having a hard time with it, she is hiding behind the writing shelf, or trying to run away when we are outside on a walk, or punching the girl in front of her.

In preschool, having a birthday can be a matter of high drama.

Book love April 20, 2008

Friday morning started off poorly. My younger child is struggling in school this year and I was feeling sad about it. So when the children arrived for class and I still wasn’t in a good mood, I decided I would put myself in a good mood.

When it was time for morning meeting, I gathered together a large stack of our favorite books, and put them on my red chair.

“Are you giving those to us?!” asked K., her eyes glowing. (She was clearly remembering all of our RIF giveaways this year, each of which began with a stack of books on my red chair.)

“No, sweetie, these are our favorite books. If I give them all away we won’t have them to read anymore.”

We went through the pile, talking about each one — “Don’t Let the Pigeon Drive the Bus! I LOVE that one!” “Ohhhh, Stellaluna!” “Doctor Desoto — remember when he tricked the fox with glue?” “The Gingerbread Man!” “Chrysanthemum!” “Swimmy!” “Look, that one has a Caldecott!” “No, David!” “Farmer Duck: how goes the work?”– and glorying in our wonderful books.

Then each child carefully decided on a favorite book and took it to the table with a “my favorite book” page. Most of them were able to write their own names and copy the title of the book, and then page through the books to find the best picture to draw.

Their finished work was wonderful, and it will be a much-loved class book when we laminate it and put it together on Monday. And…I felt much better.

Their pockets overfloweth April 17, 2008

At the end of the morning, at story time, I asked my Spanish-speaking volunteer to help A. and C. with their colors, out in the hall.  They are both smart, eager boys, but for some reason, learning the colors in English has been really hard for them.  As A. got up from the meeting area to walk over to our volunteer, a bunch of legos fell out of his bulging pockets.

At that moment, the special ed teacher that I team-teach with came back in the room.  “Ali!” I said, “Can you read the story?!”  She could, of course — thank goodness for Ali – and I took A. by the hand and marched him to the assistant principal’s office.  There I had him empty his pockets.  It was like Fibber McGee’s closet.  The AP and I could barely keep from laughing when we saw how many legos the boy had taken.  He just kept reaching his hand in and pulling out more and more legos.

We found out the C. had put him up to it, so after A. was informed that we would be calling his mom, and he would be losing recess (and of course, after we explained why it is wrong to steal things from school), I fetched C. from working on colors in the hall with the volunteer. 

“C., did you tell A. to steal legos?”

“No,” he said.

I switched tactics.

“Why did you tell A. to steal legos?”  I asked.

He shrugged, as if to say, well, I don’t know.

“Empty your pockets, please.”

Guess what?  More legos!  Back to the AP’s office I went, this time with a different boy in tow.

The whole incident was interesting because A. is the wilier one.  I would have thought he was the one behind the plan.

Remembering my priorities April 16, 2008

Today I spent 45 instructive minutes in a first grade classroom, helping with a writing assignment.  I moved around and helped several children, but mostly ended up at the end of one table with five delightful boys.  The assignment was to write about your favorite place, describing it using your senses — what does it smell like, feel like, taste like, sound like, look like?

B. got to work even before the teacher had finished giving directions, I noticed.  He clearly is a good reader, and a confident writer.  Meanwhile some other children were having a hard time even putting their names down — one boy had his head on the table in misery — so it was a while before I got down to B.’s end of the table to look at his writing.

Here’s what he wrote:

“My favorite place is [name of homeless shelter].  Because it’s good for me and my mom and my sister.  And they give us three meals a day.”

I don’t know B. at all, as he hasn’t been in the class long, and the last time I spent time there was 1st quarter.  I asked him if he would keep writing, but he refused.  I said, “But Mr. R. wants you to write about your senses.  What does it smell like?”  B. replied, “it smells really bad in there.  You wouldn’t want to smell it, no way.” 

“Well, what does the food taste like?”

“It’s nasty.”

“B., are you sure you want this to be your favorite place?” I asked.

B. pointed emphatically at his second sentence.  “They – give – us – three – meals – a – day,” he said, emphasizing each word.

I was silenced, thinking about a boy who feels so grateful to have three meals a day that his favorite place is the stinky shelter where he lives.

B. happily commenced drawing on the back of his page while I helped T., and chatted with the other three boys near him.  T. just started a month ago, too, but he never went to school before.  His parents never sent him to kindergarten, and did not enroll him in first grade until March.  He cannot read or write, and does not know the names of most letters.  He did not know how to write a capital T or capital I until I showed him.

Mr. R. told me that the parents said, by way of explanation, that he had been ”home helping out the family.”

But a sweeter boy would be hard to find.  “What’s your favorite place?” I asked, and T. replied, “Chuck E. Cheese.  I been there TWICE.”  I asked him to tell me each new sentence, and helped him to find the words on the class word list, or wrote them down for him to copy.  He worked really hard, with intense focus, looking at my words, and then copying them down neatly and in the right order.

The other three boys down by B. and T. were just as cute.  Each boy mysteriously decided that Chuck E. Cheese was his favorite place, too, and they argued vociferously about it while surreptitiously copying the words I had helped T. to write.

The five of them were amazed to learn that I happen to hate Chuck E. Cheese.  “It’s so noisy,” I said, “and the pizza doesn’t taste good, and the kids are all running around like wild.”

“Yeah, the kids go CRAZY,” grinned A.

It was a wonderful afternoon. 

I went to the grocery store with my sons after school and felt so grateful to have the money to buy bananas and bread and donuts and yogurt.