Week 1 in the Gap
H.A.M. -- B.A.M, or
On the Corner of Poetry and Prose St.
So, there is a moment, five minutes into your second class day, when a student takes the assignment you just handed him, crumples it up, throws his pencil down, and says, “F--- this S---, I’m outta’ here” and walks out of your room. There is also a moment where you stand in stunned silence, trading glances with your fellow team teachers, your jaw on the floor, and then there is a moment when you act.
My first week of teaching is a week of moments much like-or exactly like-these.
A week of laughter-“Hey Mr. Bailey, your shoes is SHINY, I want some of them.”
…and soaring highs-teaching a ninth grade text and seeing the joy in their eyes realizing that they GOT THIS
…and concern-looking over your daily assessments and seeing that not a single student’s “GOT” the basic difference between a main idea and a plot summary, and realizing that it’s your fault, and realizing now that you have to waste time in the next day to reteach what you mistaught in the first place
…and aching realizations-DeMarco, my problem child, my trouble maker, my project, the reason I teach, reads at just under a second grade reading level and is easily angered when I give him material at his level while his peers read their The Giver or Number the Stars.
…and absolute helplessness-what do you do now that you know this?
These moments are long moments or short ones, loud or silent, powerful or miniscule. These moments are filled with emotions, with danger, with urgency. These moments are meaningless and absolutely, positively, without a doubt, meaningful.
I run out after DeMarco, corralling him in the hall, admonishing him with a “This is an atmosphere of respect and you just, at the highest possible level, disrespected every single member of my classroom and most of all yourself” and in another earning his begrudging admission that he NEEDS HELP but that he WANTS TO LEARN.
…Sometimes in these moments I say the right thing.
As the classes eyes droop, my lesson not exciting-engaging-enrapturing enough to hold their attention, their heads bob, I “Come on guys, let’s pull it all together” or “Five minute stretch time, get up and stretch it out” or I “Please, everyone sit up” and then I - stay silent.
…And sometimes I don’t.
These moments are at 5:30 in the morning, my bleary eyes half-closed, red, coffee clutched in hand.
These moments are at 9:00, stepping in front of my classroom and realizing in the first five seconds-“Good morning class!”-whether it will be a good day-“GOOD MORNING MR. BAILEY!”-or a bad day-[the class sits in silence. The teacher walks around for a moment, until the level of awkwardness reaches its peak, and sighs, vaulting in to today’s work].
And at 5:00 in the afternoon, stepping off the bus in exhilaration and defeat, starving, moving to dine like geriatrics, like early birds flocking for specials.
These moments come at 8:00 at night, my lesson plans finished, tomorrows lesson polished and practiced and perfect, my copies made, and collated, and color coded, my bag packed, I’m ready to go.
And at 2:00 in the morning, fighting the sandman, listening to blues, typing away at a lesson plan that is failing before it reaches the printer, before it reaches the page, before it reaches my lips, my words, my class, their ears, and minds.
And then again at 3:00 when you realize that you’ve spent the last three hours trying to find resources for one student, for one child, for one reader, for one eighth grade student reading under a second grade level, and knowing full well that in doing so you screwed up your next day’s ability to teach for all 15 of your students.
We throw these moments like puzzle pieces onto a giant table and shuffle them around. At lunch our conversation is nothing but children and the day and behavior and triumphs and utter, absolute, complete, devastating failures. Our lunch conversation is “how are you teaching inference/predictions/notations/subtraction?” “I need a lesson plan, lesson plan, lesson. plan.” Sometimes these conversations are exclamated by laughter and exultations of joy, and sometimes they are ellipsed with tears…
On Fridays we all pretend that this isn’t what is on our minds as we move off campus to eat. We veil our conversations about teaching with conversations about sports or college or life in general, our analogies versed to perfection until even we can’t tell the difference between what is metaphor and what is real life.
On Saturday, we wonder the halls of the aquarium and think, “My students would get so much out of this” and then at a baseball game I wonder, “How many of my kids have never had the opportunity to see the Braves up close?”
And then Sunday and we’re moving again…a new puzzle, more pieces, new moments, new worries, and all those old ones, too. We’re snowballing down this mountain…
So now, if you call, don’t expect that our conversation will be about life in general, because life in general is DeMarco or Shaneka or Klintesha or quiet Anthony.
We’re burning the fat off of our souls...
Then replace it with information and inspiration until our souls are muscled and can weather the storm of indifference, intolerance, and inconsistency that is the American public schools system.
So, I leave you now-in this most unorthodox of missives-with real poetry, from a real teacher-and they say don’t say this, “You ARE real teachers with real students” and I only see the later part, knowing that my kids, with real problems, and real tests, have a Pinocchio of an educator, working only towards being a real boy-and let it be an inspiration to you as much as to me, as I slave away teaching at Harper-Archer Middle, By Any Means (HAM-BAM):
(this is a “slam poetry” piece, meaning it’s meant to be performed. If you want to hear him perform it-it’s absolutely amazing and awe-inspiring-simply search for this on you tube or a similar website and you’ll come across a video easy enough. The parts in brackets […] are actions he takes while reading the poem, so don’t read them as part of the poem or they’ll disrupt the flow)
What Teachers Make, or
Objection Overruled, or
If things don't work out, you can always go to law school
By Taylor Mali
www.taylormali.com
He says the problem with teachers is, "What's a kid going to learn
from someone who decided his best option in life was to become a teacher?"
He reminds the other dinner guests that it's true what they say about
teachers:
“Those who can, do; those who can't, teach.”
I decide to bite my tongue instead of his
and resist the temptation to remind the other dinner guests
that it's also true what they say about lawyers.
Because we're eating, after all, and this is polite conversation.
"I mean, you’re a teacher, Taylor," he says.
"Be honest. What do you make?"
And I wish he hadn't done that
(asked me to be honest)
because, you see, I have a policy
about honesty and ass-kicking:
if you ask for it, I have to let you have it.
You want to know what I make?
I make kids work harder than they ever thought they could.
I can make a C+ feel like a Congressional medal of honor
and an A- feel like a slap in the face.
How dare you waste my time with anything less than your very best.
I make kids sit through 40 minutes of study hall
in absolute silence. No, you may not work in groups.
No, you may not ask a question.
Why won't I let you go get a drink of water?
Because you're not thirsty, you're bored, that's why.
I make parents tremble in fear when I call home:
I hope I haven't called at a bad time,
I just wanted to talk to you about something Billy said today.
To the biggest bully in the class he said, "Leave that kid alone. I still cry sometimes, don't you?"
And it was the noblest act of courage I have ever seen.
I make parents see their children for who they are
and what they can be.
You want to know what I make?
I make kids wonder,
I make them question.
I make them criticize.
I make them apologize and mean it.
I make them write, write, write.
And then I make them read.
I make them spell definitely beautiful, definitely beautiful, definitely
beautiful, de-fine-ite-ly be-a-ute-aful
over and over and over again until they will never misspell
either one of those words again.
I make them show all their work in math.
And hide it on their final drafts in English.
I make them understand that if you got this [points to head for brains]
then you follow this [points to heart] and if someone ever tries to judge you
by what you make, you give them this [gives the finger].
Let me break it down for you, so you know what I say is true:
I make a g-damn difference! What about you?
On the Corner of Poetry and Prose St.
So, there is a moment, five minutes into your second class day, when a student takes the assignment you just handed him, crumples it up, throws his pencil down, and says, “F--- this S---, I’m outta’ here” and walks out of your room. There is also a moment where you stand in stunned silence, trading glances with your fellow team teachers, your jaw on the floor, and then there is a moment when you act.
My first week of teaching is a week of moments much like-or exactly like-these.
A week of laughter-“Hey Mr. Bailey, your shoes is SHINY, I want some of them.”
…and soaring highs-teaching a ninth grade text and seeing the joy in their eyes realizing that they GOT THIS
…and concern-looking over your daily assessments and seeing that not a single student’s “GOT” the basic difference between a main idea and a plot summary, and realizing that it’s your fault, and realizing now that you have to waste time in the next day to reteach what you mistaught in the first place
…and aching realizations-DeMarco, my problem child, my trouble maker, my project, the reason I teach, reads at just under a second grade reading level and is easily angered when I give him material at his level while his peers read their The Giver or Number the Stars.
…and absolute helplessness-what do you do now that you know this?
These moments are long moments or short ones, loud or silent, powerful or miniscule. These moments are filled with emotions, with danger, with urgency. These moments are meaningless and absolutely, positively, without a doubt, meaningful.
I run out after DeMarco, corralling him in the hall, admonishing him with a “This is an atmosphere of respect and you just, at the highest possible level, disrespected every single member of my classroom and most of all yourself” and in another earning his begrudging admission that he NEEDS HELP but that he WANTS TO LEARN.
…Sometimes in these moments I say the right thing.
As the classes eyes droop, my lesson not exciting-engaging-enrapturing enough to hold their attention, their heads bob, I “Come on guys, let’s pull it all together” or “Five minute stretch time, get up and stretch it out” or I “Please, everyone sit up” and then I - stay silent.
…And sometimes I don’t.
These moments are at 5:30 in the morning, my bleary eyes half-closed, red, coffee clutched in hand.
These moments are at 9:00, stepping in front of my classroom and realizing in the first five seconds-“Good morning class!”-whether it will be a good day-“GOOD MORNING MR. BAILEY!”-or a bad day-[the class sits in silence. The teacher walks around for a moment, until the level of awkwardness reaches its peak, and sighs, vaulting in to today’s work].
And at 5:00 in the afternoon, stepping off the bus in exhilaration and defeat, starving, moving to dine like geriatrics, like early birds flocking for specials.
These moments come at 8:00 at night, my lesson plans finished, tomorrows lesson polished and practiced and perfect, my copies made, and collated, and color coded, my bag packed, I’m ready to go.
And at 2:00 in the morning, fighting the sandman, listening to blues, typing away at a lesson plan that is failing before it reaches the printer, before it reaches the page, before it reaches my lips, my words, my class, their ears, and minds.
And then again at 3:00 when you realize that you’ve spent the last three hours trying to find resources for one student, for one child, for one reader, for one eighth grade student reading under a second grade level, and knowing full well that in doing so you screwed up your next day’s ability to teach for all 15 of your students.
We throw these moments like puzzle pieces onto a giant table and shuffle them around. At lunch our conversation is nothing but children and the day and behavior and triumphs and utter, absolute, complete, devastating failures. Our lunch conversation is “how are you teaching inference/predictions/notations/subtraction?” “I need a lesson plan, lesson plan, lesson. plan.” Sometimes these conversations are exclamated by laughter and exultations of joy, and sometimes they are ellipsed with tears…
On Fridays we all pretend that this isn’t what is on our minds as we move off campus to eat. We veil our conversations about teaching with conversations about sports or college or life in general, our analogies versed to perfection until even we can’t tell the difference between what is metaphor and what is real life.
On Saturday, we wonder the halls of the aquarium and think, “My students would get so much out of this” and then at a baseball game I wonder, “How many of my kids have never had the opportunity to see the Braves up close?”
And then Sunday and we’re moving again…a new puzzle, more pieces, new moments, new worries, and all those old ones, too. We’re snowballing down this mountain…
So now, if you call, don’t expect that our conversation will be about life in general, because life in general is DeMarco or Shaneka or Klintesha or quiet Anthony.
We’re burning the fat off of our souls...
Then replace it with information and inspiration until our souls are muscled and can weather the storm of indifference, intolerance, and inconsistency that is the American public schools system.
So, I leave you now-in this most unorthodox of missives-with real poetry, from a real teacher-and they say don’t say this, “You ARE real teachers with real students” and I only see the later part, knowing that my kids, with real problems, and real tests, have a Pinocchio of an educator, working only towards being a real boy-and let it be an inspiration to you as much as to me, as I slave away teaching at Harper-Archer Middle, By Any Means (HAM-BAM):
(this is a “slam poetry” piece, meaning it’s meant to be performed. If you want to hear him perform it-it’s absolutely amazing and awe-inspiring-simply search for this on you tube or a similar website and you’ll come across a video easy enough. The parts in brackets […] are actions he takes while reading the poem, so don’t read them as part of the poem or they’ll disrupt the flow)
What Teachers Make, or
Objection Overruled, or
If things don't work out, you can always go to law school
By Taylor Mali
www.taylormali.com
He says the problem with teachers is, "What's a kid going to learn
from someone who decided his best option in life was to become a teacher?"
He reminds the other dinner guests that it's true what they say about
teachers:
“Those who can, do; those who can't, teach.”
I decide to bite my tongue instead of his
and resist the temptation to remind the other dinner guests
that it's also true what they say about lawyers.
Because we're eating, after all, and this is polite conversation.
"I mean, you’re a teacher, Taylor," he says.
"Be honest. What do you make?"
And I wish he hadn't done that
(asked me to be honest)
because, you see, I have a policy
about honesty and ass-kicking:
if you ask for it, I have to let you have it.
You want to know what I make?
I make kids work harder than they ever thought they could.
I can make a C+ feel like a Congressional medal of honor
and an A- feel like a slap in the face.
How dare you waste my time with anything less than your very best.
I make kids sit through 40 minutes of study hall
in absolute silence. No, you may not work in groups.
No, you may not ask a question.
Why won't I let you go get a drink of water?
Because you're not thirsty, you're bored, that's why.
I make parents tremble in fear when I call home:
I hope I haven't called at a bad time,
I just wanted to talk to you about something Billy said today.
To the biggest bully in the class he said, "Leave that kid alone. I still cry sometimes, don't you?"
And it was the noblest act of courage I have ever seen.
I make parents see their children for who they are
and what they can be.
You want to know what I make?
I make kids wonder,
I make them question.
I make them criticize.
I make them apologize and mean it.
I make them write, write, write.
And then I make them read.
I make them spell definitely beautiful, definitely beautiful, definitely
beautiful, de-fine-ite-ly be-a-ute-aful
over and over and over again until they will never misspell
either one of those words again.
I make them show all their work in math.
And hide it on their final drafts in English.
I make them understand that if you got this [points to head for brains]
then you follow this [points to heart] and if someone ever tries to judge you
by what you make, you give them this [gives the finger].
Let me break it down for you, so you know what I say is true:
I make a g-damn difference! What about you?