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Two years

Mr. K — Mon, 10 Jun 2013 20:31:05 +0100

The school year is almost over. This week is reserved for underclassmen finals, and grades are due by next Monday, which means most students will stop showing up after that. Last Saturday was district-wide graduation day, so the seniors are already gone. This Saturday is Alumni Induction, which is essentially graduation for corps members (we even get certificates). I've had my end-of-year conversation with my MTLD, completed my final survey as a CM, and started making plans for my move to Philly in two weeks.

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It's a weird feeling. How do I begin to sum up the two most challenging and formative years of my life? What words can fully capture the experience of being a classroom teacher—the heights of joy, the depths of despair, and everything in between?

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When I applied to Teach For America two and a half years ago, it was not without reservation. Though I never would have admitted it at the time, my doubts had little to do with the mission or impact of TFA, and almost everything to do with (1) whether I could "afford" to spend two years in the classroom when all my peers were heading off to industry or med/law/grad school, and (2) how difficult teaching would be for a quiet and shy introvert like me. Like many soon-to-be college grads, I felt entitled to a comfortable, maybe even moderately successful adult life, and I wanted to be sure TFA would facilitate that. Eventually, after some coaxing by my Recruitment Director regarding TFA's corporate and grad school partnerships, I applied and got in. Despite these seemingly disingenuous roots, I also cared about doing well by my students. In my first entry on this blog, about a month after graduation and just before Induction, I wrote "I will do everything in my power to be not just an excellent teacher for my students, but also a servant, defender, and friend"—and I meant every word. But what could I have known about being an excellent teacher, much less a servant, defender, and friend, to students I hadn't even met yet? For students whose experiences, families, and communities had no connection to my personal vision and narrative? My naïveté would be laughable, if it weren't for weight of the task which I had unwittingly borne the moment I clicked that accept button. Institute was my first foray into the harsh reality of inner-city schools. I knew about the achievement gap in theory because of the pre-work assigned by TFA, but I was still shocked on day one of teaching, when I discovered that my eighth graders literally had no idea how to add and subtract integers—they would just cycle through the possible choices until they reached the correct answer. As the summer went on, I began to realize that "transformational change" was not going to be the neatly packaged result of a happy montage of teaching moments, as I had eagerly envisioned after joining TFA. Nevertheless, my overall Institute experience was positive: I connected with most of my students at a personal level, and nearly all of them met or exceeded their growth goal. At the end of the summer, I wrote them a virtual letter that was, at the time, the most emotional piece I had ever written. My first year of teaching, in contrast, was a mess. Perhaps because of the structure of Institute, I treated teaching as a sprint rather than a marathon. My perfectionism got the better of me; I stayed at school late, barely got sleep, and beat myself up (figuratively, for what it's worth) every time I had a less-than-ideal day of teaching. My exhaustion and stress eventually caught up to me, in the form of weight gain, frequent illness, and constant irritability. Worse, my meticulous classroom systems, which I had prided myself on at Institute, seemed to work against me during the school year, and behavior management fell apart in one of my Algebra 2 blocks. (Some of this might come as a surprise to my friends and family. I didn't write about the darkest moments of my first year because I figured—justifiably, I think—that reflecting on the negative would only make me feel worse.) There were bright spots too, of course. Though I often failed to measure up to my own standards, my kids told me at the moments I needed it most that I was one of the best teachers they had ever had. Through their yearbook messages, I learned that at least a few of them gained confidence in their math abilities, discovered I wasn't as irritating as they initially thought, and—imagine—actually had fun in math class from time to time. Even though most of them didn't end up meeting their quantitative "big goal," I ended the year on a pretty optimistic note and even wrote an encouraging letter to the 2012 corps members that went viral within TFA's social networks. And why shouldn't I have been optimistic? At the very least, second year had to be easier than first year, right? Well, yes and no. It's true that my planning, grading, and system-building grew exponentially more efficient. I also placed a stronger emphasis on culture building at the beginning of this year, which extended the honeymoon period of teaching well into November. Unfortunately, shortly after this honeymoon period ended, I hit a wall—or, as I called it at the time, a plateau. I felt I was not developing as quickly as I should, and my students' performance was suffering as a consequence. In retrospect, the problem was not necessarily one of stagnation but of expectation. Having facilitated a few case studies over the summer on second-year CMs who had won the Sue Lehmann Award (TFA's national teaching award), I entered my second year confident in my ability to effect transformational change—maybe not immediately, but certainly within a few months. By late winter, it was clear I was not going to hit that mark; and though I was in every way a more effective teacher than myself a year prior, I felt like a failure because I had fallen so short of my expectations. (Being overwhelmed by three preps also contributed to this sense of failure, though at least that was beyond my locus of control.) I'm in a much better place now. Through personal reflection and conversations with my MTLD, fellow CMs, friends, and family, I've come to recognize that my moments of despondency as a teacher have not been rooted in concern for the well being of my students, but in pride—self-centered, self-reliant pride, the very kind I warned myself against at the beginning of last year, and again at the beginning of this year. In those moments, I've been desperate for my students to achieve greatness, but only so that I could claim to be the one who led them there. This may sound eerily familiar to those who are familiar with the Bible: Matthew 6 is full of warnings against those who "sacrifice" for personal recognition and glory. In my lows, I have been no better than the hypocrite who announces his alms-giving with trumpets. Conversely, and more importantly, I've come to recognize that in my best moments of teaching, transformation has occurred—but only as a by-product of deep, genuine, selfless relationships. There are only a few kids whose life trajectories I can say with total confidence I altered for the better—R from last year; A, D, S, and T from this year—and the common thread connecting these kids is that I spent more time with them outside of class than in class, more time listening to them than speaking at them. They learned for the sake of learning, to be sure, but that was just the start; our conversations were infused with meaning, with people from their lives, with the things that mattered to them. I've changed too; as I've learn about these kids' dreams and passions, as I've listened to their families' stories and shared meals with them, I've been humbled and struck by what an honor it is to be their teacher. Transformational change is a two-way street, it turns out.

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So what have I learned from teaching? For one, it isn't just something to do for two years. It is a profession—one of the most difficult, but also one of the most meaningful. I'm leaving the classroom after this year, and the guilt and cognitive dissonance hit me like a stab in the gut every time a student asks why I have to go; but my next role at least allows me the privilege of supporting great teachers in very concrete ways, and for that I'm grateful. I've learned that you can't measure a teacher's effectiveness using just numbers; as my mentor teacher told me last week, only eternity will tell the full extent of the impact I've made on my students' lives. I believe that. I've learned that context matters. Poverty matters. Home environment and parental support matter. Teachers can't do everything by themselves. A kid who has to babysit two siblings because mom is gone and dad is an alcoholic is going to be a little distracted when it comes to school work, compared to a kid from an upper middle class, two-family household in the suburbs (e.g. me). This is reality—it makes people uncomfortable, but it needs to be discussed. I've learned that Teach For America has many strengths but also many glaring flaws, and that I can be grateful to the organization for introducing me to this work without condoning its questionable policies or lack of transparency. I've learned that the TFA network is extremely powerful and must be wielded for good. Finally, I've learned a bit about what it really means to be a servant, defender, and friend to my students. Because that's what they are now: my students. And I am their teacher. This relationship is what makes every struggle from the past two years—every late night, every doubt, every crazy class that made me want to drive home to California and never come back—totally worth it.

The Role of Parents

dyliu1 — Sun, 02 Jun 2013 14:37:30 +0100

The longer I am in teaching, the more I feel that the biggest factor in (the vast majority of) students' academic success is their parents. Although there have been instances where a teacher or other school faculty member has had the power to turn a kid around, I believe that the most fundamental element is the parent. I was reading a book at the beach yesterday titled, "Do You Know Enough About Me to Teach Me?" that chronicles the perspectives and stories of four different urban students - some of whom are high achievers, some of whom are low achievers. The book considers a kid who lives in a single-parent household, and whose mother works one job from 8am - 3pm and another job from 4pm - 11pm. This child has no supervision when he comes home from school, and therefore no one to remind him to complete his homework or to ask him how his day was. The kid ends up watching T.V. for hours upon hours until his mother returns home from her second job, around the time that he would be going to bed. No studying or learning is accomplished in those 7 or 8 hours between when the boy comes home from school and when his mother comes home. This particular story actually reminded me a lot of myself and my tendencies growing up - I was definitely a kid who was inclined to plop down on the couch as soon as I came home from school and watch hours of television (Pokemon, duh). In middle school, when my dad was traveling in China and my mom was the only parent supervising me, I would watch TV/play computer games until I heard the garage door opening, and then I would run to the kitchen table and pretend I had been doing homework the entire time. In high school, even though I participated in sports teams, I would still get home in the afternoon before my mom would get home from work (my dad was in China through my high school years as well). My first action taken after getting home was NEVER to get my books out and start my homework. I would usually sit on AIM (haha, remember that?) and the internet until, once again, the sound of the garage door opening signaled my mom's return home. If my mom hadn't been there to watch over my shoulder, I probably would have stayed up on AIM until 2 AM every night and would have copied my homework assignments from classmates in the morning rather than taking the time to complete it myself and actually learn the material. Long story short, as an adolescent, I never had the discipline to sit down and do my homework without my mother's supervision. I certainly had the dreams and aspirations to do something great, as I'm sure most kids do, but I didn't have the foresight to realize that my actions in grade school would affect my life thereafter. If it hadn't been for my mom's badgering and the countless arguments with her about the importance of time management, I don't know if I would have learned the good homework and studying habits that ended up being the foundation for my eventual success in high school and college academics. Do you think you'd be where you are today if it weren't for your parents' guidance?

Drafty

Mr. K — Thu, 30 May 2013 06:31:39 +0100

Over the past month, I've begun drafting three entries on this blog and another two on my private blog. Only one has made it past a few sentences. This is a testament to the disjointedness of my thoughts lately, as I approach the end of the school year while simultaneously ramping up my responsibilities for both Institute and my non-profit role in the fall. If and when I have some time to reflect, here's a sampling of topics I'd like to write about:

Lessons I've learned from the madhouse that is my 6-7 block.
Why home visits are the greatest thing ever.
The weight of being a role model for students who are barely younger than me.
My TFA "experience" and why I'm transitioning to an education non-profit next year.
The opportunities and challenges of being the Director of Data Management at Institute.
My long-term plans (or lack thereof).

In the meantime, I have eighteen school days left, and I intend to make the most of them. See y'all on the other side of the semester, probably.

Rough day

Mr. K — Wed, 22 May 2013 01:03:56 +0100

I drafted a lengthy, pensive yet optimistic, I-can't-believe-it's-already-the-end-of-May kind of blog entry during my prep today... and then period 6-7 happened. It was, without a doubt, the most out-of-control 109 minutes I have experienced in my two years of teaching thus far. I had kids falling asleep, shouting at each other, refusing to sit in their assigned seats, throwing erasers across the room, stealing pencils, lying about stealing pencils, complaining about ClassDojo, and challenging me to breakdance / arm wrestle. At one point, VM even walked up to my computer—which has a touchscreen—and started moving stuff around in the SMART Notebook file. (Granted, this was during Trashball when it's much harder to monitor who's doing what, but still—in what universe is that okay?) I eventually called an administrator, who came and removed the most egregious offender from the classroom (JT... more on him in a future post). But that only brought the misbehavior down to a marginally tolerable level—and then only with literally nonstop behavior narration. In the last ten minutes of class, I made the executive decision to stop the lesson, which wasn't sticking anyway, and have a conversation about the mayhem we had all witnessed that class period. I won't pretend the outcome of that conversation was transformational, because it wasn't—not even close. It consisted of half the students complaining about how I'm always on their backs about doing work, and the other half complaining about how the first half always slows the class down. To be honest, I really just needed the break to regain some semblance of composure, and at least it succeeded in that regard. In retrospect, while I am extremely disappointed that my freshmen demonstrated such a lack of professionalism today (especially after we had made some progress last week), I don't think I could have handled the situation any better in the moment. I never lost my temper, I maintained a firm voice throughout, and in the end, half the class still defended my actions as a teacher. I also could not have planned the lesson much more effectively, given the time constraints of creating three lessons a day, and I certainly could not have expected this afternoon's broken AC or extreme humidity. More than anything, I comfort myself with the knowledge that my other classes are going strong and are well on their way to meeting their big goals. I guess it just stings that after two years of experience, I can still have such a terrible period of teaching or be so helpless amidst chaos. Must keep pressing on. "I can do all things through him who strengthens me."

Two stories

Mr. K — Mon, 29 Apr 2013 02:48:10 +0100

It's not quite dark on Sunday evening, but I've already finished all my planning, copying, grading, and data tracking for tomorrow. This is a very novel experience, even as a second-year teacher, so I'm a little disoriented. I guess I'll use this time to share two stories from last week, one negative and one positive, that exemplify some of the things I've been thinking about lately.

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IR is a student in my 6-7 Algebra 1 block. I have significant management issues with that entire block, but IR is in a league of his own. He has been absent or suspended about half the semester so far, and on the days he's been in, he has exhibited behavior ranging from refusing to do any work despite literally every management and motivational strategy in my teacher toolkit, to racist remarks directed at me (e.g. calling me "chino" repeatedly while I'm teaching), to tearing up and throwing away handouts, to walking up to classmates and punching them—hard. To put it euphemistically, IR has difficulty in a traditional classroom setting. (To put it not-so-euphemistically, IR has a 2.9% in the class and would probably be in the red, if that were possible.) Indeed, more than any other student I've ever taught, IR has challenged my ability to use asset-based thinking (one of the "diversity competencies" that TFA tries to drill into our heads at Institute), and though I hate to admit it, I'm often relieved when he doesn't show up for class.

Last week, after a particularly rough 6-7 block, Ms. T (my mentor teacher) volunteered to ask around about IR's home life / living situation. What she learned shocked me, which is no small feat after my two years in the inner-city. It turns out that IR's father isn't around, and his mother is a drug addict; he lives with his grandmother, who works from 11 am to 11 pm in Boston (an hour-long commute); and he is the primary caretaker for two younger siblings, whom he has to cook for every day before and after school. She also found out that he recently applied to an alternative school in Providence but was rejected, probably because he hasn't passed a single class in high school. As Ms. T, a veteran inner-city teacher of 20+ years, handed me the piece of paper detailing the above information, all she could do was shake her head and look at me sadly.

To be clear, none of these out-of-school factors excuse IR's destructive behavior, but they certainly put it in context—a context in blindingly stark contrast to my own. I can't even begin to fathom what it's like to be the primary caretaker of two children at the age of sixteen, especially without a strong parental model to follow. I also can't fathom how discouraging it must be for academic success to be so elusive and unfamiliar that it's not even worth pursuing. There are less than two months left in the school year, and honestly, I don't know if I can make a turnaround with IR (though I'll certainly try). I still believe teachers can transform students' lives, because I've seen it happen—at my school and elsewhere. But I no longer believe that poverty and other external factors don't matter for students like IR—such arguments are naive at best, malicious at worst.

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I haven't written much about DR on this blog, which is surprising given that he's probably the student I interact with most on a weekly basis. DR is the one who wrote “I love Jesus" on his class survey from my very first day of teaching (almost two years ago!); since then, I have taught him in Algebra 2, served as his senior mentor, written him a recommendation letter for Valley Forge Christian College (where he'll be studying music ministry next year), and most recently, co-founded an after-school music club with him. As you might imagine, we're very close—we share successes and struggles from our lives with each other, and DR is one of only three students I've told so far about leaving next year. Over spring break, somewhat on a whim, I asked DR if I could visit his home sometime, since we would both be leaving Providence soon. He and his family graciously agreed and invited me over for dinner last Monday. The visit started off a bit awkward, with DR's mother and me trying to have a conversation by the door in broken Spanish/English (while DR was nowhere to be found), but things got much better as the evening went on. I got a chance to meet DR's older sister and two older brothers; listen to the story of how and why the family immigrated from the Dominican Republic to New York City and then to Providence; and express my overflowing appreciation for DR's mother's delicious homemade food. (She made spaghetti con camarones, plátanos fritos, and ensalada verde. I don't think I've eaten so much spaghetti in my life.) After dinner, DR's family and I sat around the living room table and talked for hours. It's hard to describe the conversation in detail because it touched on a million different topics, so suffice it to say that by the end, I had a much better understanding of the loving environment DR had grown up in, and the dreams that his mother and siblings have for him. There was one especially memorable point in the conversation: when I asked how the family had become Christian, everyone pointed to DR—evidently, despite being the youngest child, he had convinced everyone to follow him to church a few years ago, and they've been doing so ever since. I almost cried. I may have actually shed a tear. Shh. The visit was definitely one of the most fun experiences I've had in the past two years, but it also solidified two truths for me: (1) some of my students do in fact have supportive home environments that can be leveraged to push them to achieve success (whatever success means to them and their families), and (2) students are such fascinating and colorful individuals outside the classroom that teachers do themselves a disservice by not learning more about their passions and interests and relationships, about what drives them and makes them tick. It was also encouraging just to be reminded that despite how mediocre I feel as a teacher sometimes, there are a few students (DR especially, but others as well) whose lives I have genuinely touched through my love, faith, and commitment to being myself at all times. As I've mentioned before, Paul's exhortation in 1 Corinthians 15:58 is so relevant to this work: "Be steadfast, immovable, always abounding in the work of the Lord, knowing that in the Lord your labor is not in vain." Labor that is not in vain—as an educator, no words could be sweeter.

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This entry ended up being much more reflective than I had originally intended. Hopefully that makes up for my lack of blogging over the last month. Onward to the last seven weeks of the year!

Good Friday

Mr. K — Fri, 29 Mar 2013 20:52:47 +0100

This is a poem-sermon I first heard two years ago. It has no connection to teaching or education (except in a grand, cosmic sense I suppose), but after a physically and mentally draining month, it's a jolting shot of hope and a powerful reminder of why today is called Good Friday.

It’s Friday. Jesus is arrested in the garden where He was praying. But Sunday’s coming. It’s Friday. The disciples are hiding and Peter’s denying that he knows the Lord. But Sunday’s coming. It’s Friday. Jesus is standing before the high priest of Israel, silent as a lamb before the slaughter. But Sunday’s coming. It’s Friday. Jesus is beaten, mocked, and spit upon. But Sunday’s coming. It’s Friday. Those Roman soldiers are flogging our Lord with a leather scourge that has bits of bones and glass and metal, tearing at his flesh. But Sunday’s coming. It’s Friday. The Son of man stands firm as they press the crown of thorns down into his brow. But Sunday’s coming. It’s Friday. See Him walking to Calvary, the blood dripping from His body. See the cross crashing down on His back as He stumbles beneath the load. It’s Friday; but Sunday’s coming. It’s Friday. See those Roman soldiers driving the nails into the feet and hands of my Lord. Hear my Jesus cry, “Father, forgive them.” It’s Friday; but Sunday’s coming. It’s Friday. Jesus is hanging on the cross, bloody and dying. But Sunday’s coming. It’s Friday. The sky grows dark, the earth begins to tremble, and He who knew no sin became sin for us. Holy God who will not abide with sin pours out His wrath on that perfect sacrificial lamb who cries out, “My God, My God. Why hast thou forsaken me?” What a horrible cry. But Sunday’s coming. It’s Friday. And at the moment of Jesus’ death, the veil of the Temple that separates sinful man from Holy God was torn from the top to the bottom because Sunday’s coming. It’s Friday. Jesus is hanging on the cross, heaven is weeping and hell is partying. But that’s because it’s Friday, and they don’t know it, but Sunday’s coming. And on that horrible day 2000 years ago, Jesus the Christ, the Lord of glory, the only begotten Son of God, the only perfect man died on the cross of Calvary. Satan thought that he had won the victory. Surely he had destroyed the Son of God. Finally he had disproved the prophecy God had uttered in the Garden and the one who was to crush his head had been destroyed. But that was Friday. And Sunday’s coming.

Second-year success stories

Mr. K — Tue, 19 Mar 2013 06:40:26 +0100

March is a long and relentless month. I would say it's kind of like October, the other dreaded month, but without even the prospect of the holidays around the corner. March is about when teachers start to believe, whether they verbalize it or not, that there is truly no rest for the weary. But it's not all exhaustion and misery. March is also when relationships have developed enough that small successes become big successes, and big successes occasionally become transformational successes. These are what I want to celebrate, because three months from now, they're what I hope to remember from my second year of teaching—not the times when I felt like passing out from lack of sleep or stared at a pile of grading and felt tempted to toss it all into the recycling bin.

My first/second block Geometry students are phenomenal. The class is small so the semester started off a little awkward/shaky; students who weren't used to being cold-called would refuse to participate, and group work would typically devolve into individual work, or no work at all. But as they've grown comfortable with me and with each other, their engagement level has skyrocketed. There are days when they barrage me with questions based on the first vocab term I put up, until they've basically taught themselves the entire lesson. Differentiated station review is also a breeze, since I can stay with the students who are struggling and still be confident that everyone else is doing his or her work. I can't begin to describe how amazing it feels to start off every day with these kids.

Parent communication is finally starting to pay off, after almost two years of unsuccessful attempts. I had a heart-to-heart conversation with one father whose son had been in my class maybe ten times during the first semester; the student obviously failed, and I still don't know where he spent all that time, but he's been in my class almost every day since that conversation, and he earned a 77% on the last unit test. Not perfect, but I'll take it for now. Another student has historically been a terror to the administration at my school, but after making just one positive phone call to his mother, I've noticed a radical shift in his attitude towards work and his classmates. He even came in for optional after-school tutoring last week—though he did miss the test make-up the next day. Gotta keep at it...

Two of my former Algebra 2 students and their friend have been coming to my classroom every Monday after school to learn calculus and modern physics. Pause. Remember that my school doesn't even offer AP Calculus or AP Physics, and read that sentence again. It has been surreal to teach students who voluntarily sacrifice one to two hours of their week to learn something they won't see again until college—if ever. The coolest part is that they often come in with questions researched ahead of time, like "What does dx mean?" or "What's a Galilean transformation?" If that's not intrinsic motivation, I don't know what is. The impromptu lessons have reached the point where even with all my physics training, I still need to refresh myself on certain topics before they come in. (Trust me, I don't mind.)

My after-school "Jam Session" club is consistently the best part of my Tuesdays—not just because I love jamming with students (and extremely talented students, at that), but because of the conversations peppered throughout each session. All of the club members are Christian boys (assuredly not by coincidence, since D was the one who recruited them), and it's awesome to hear how sincerely each of them applies the gospel to his own life. Take J, for example, who shared that he went around the entire school building one evening, long after everyone else had left, and prayed over each classroom. Or E, who struggles with certain sins but truly believes in the power of brotherly accountability to keep himself far from them. I feel like they're my mini youth group, which I'm so thankful for since ministry is something that has been on my heart for a very long time.

And now... It's very late, and I'm going to bed. But writing about my kids has made me excited about tomorrow. Hooray for blogging!

When salsa is like math

Mr. K — Wed, 06 Mar 2013 07:29:48 +0100

Last September, I joined Brown's salsa club because I wanted something fun to do outside of teaching, and lessons were cheap and nearby. I improved a lot during the first semester, in large part due to my perfect attendance—lessons moved quickly, and I wouldn't have been able to keep up otherwise. At the end of December, I made it onto the performance team, which meant I'd have to attend intensive Friday practices in addition to Wednesday lessons. Fast forward to second semester: thanks to my new prep, I've had to skip several practices out of busyness or fatigue. I finally went for the first time in three weeks last Friday—and it was a total disaster. I tried my hardest, but the rest of the team had learned too much of the new routine for me to catch up. To make matters worse, every time I messed up, the instructor would cheerfully fix my form but neglect to show me the correct steps to get there. I could sense my partner growing increasingly frustrated, despite her insistence that she didn't mind, and she was visibly relieved when I volunteered to sit out and just observe for the rest of the evening. So what does this have to do with learning math? A lot, surprisingly. For starters, in both salsa and school, attendance matters. (Thank you, captain obvious.) I've run a few regression analyses on absenteeism and grade data from my school, and the results are telling: holding all else constant, one can accurately predict a student's grade in his/her math class over 50% of the time simply by counting the number of days he/she has missed in a quarter. Especially given that math classes at my school are semesterized, they seem to share a lot more in common with intensive salsa lessons than one would think. My practice debacle also offers some insights, especially for teachers who did well in their content areas as students themselves. I'd like to believe that I was naturally gifted at math and science growing up, but in truth, I probably owe my quantitative aptitude to the strong foundation I gained from good teachers early on, as well as the constant expectation from my parents that I would do something related to science or medicine after college. I imagine that students taking high school math without such a foundation might feel like I did at Friday's practice: confused, lost, even a little despairing. And just as my salsa instructor corrected my form without attending to my ignorance of the overall routine, well-intentioned math teachers will often fix a students' computational errors—"remember, a negative times a negative equals a positive" or "five times seven is thirty-five, not thirty"—without putting those calculations in context or demonstrating why math is important in the big picture. This type of coaching is bound to frustrate, not comfort. But worst of all for students without a strong foundation in math, students who have only been in school a fraction of the semester for reasons beyond their control, must be the resentment of their peers. I have some students who try incredibly hard—I can see it in their furrowed brows, in the multiple scratch-outs and erasures on their worksheets. Yet because they are so behind and therefore need additional assistance from me or their classmates (which often takes away from whole-class instructional time), they are often on the receiving end of mean-spirited comments and thinly veiled frustration. Differentiation is wonderful in concept—but I can only do so much. I fear that these students will eventually feel they have nothing to contribute to the class and retreat to watch from a distance, as I did last Friday. There's hope, though. After my disastrous practice, I went home and replayed videos of the routine that I had recorded on my phone until I had it committed to memory. Some of my teammates have offered to provide extra coaching before and after practices. And even though I sucked last week, I know that this week is an opportunity to redeem myself. The analogy probably breaks down somewhere, so suffice it to say that even my most struggling kids can and will succeed if given the right supports and mindsets. I just need to figure out how to do that.

Think about these things

Mr. K — Thu, 28 Feb 2013 06:19:25 +0100

I have a confession to make: I have not been myself lately. I've felt bitter about being given three preps (plus a new advisory), just as two were becoming manageable. My feedback for others has been four parts criticism to one part encouragement. When I redirect students, it's less values-driven and more "you do what I say, or else." I rated a substitute teacher poorly for not following the lesson I left, instead of considering that I could have made the lesson more substitute-friendly. Whenever my roommates ask how I'm doing, I respond with a sigh and a laundry list of tasks I have to do and reasons why they should feel sorry for me. Need I go on? It's not that my kids aren't learning (they are), or that I'm not improving (I am), or that I don't have a life outside of teaching (I do... sort of). But given the million things I need to juggle in my head simultaneously in order to teach effectively, it has become easy to forget to think about the source of true joy, about the One who called me to this work in the first place. So even though it's late, and I'm tired, I'm recommitting to being myself again. No matter what else happens, I refuse to let my mind wander very far from the God who sustains me and gives me purpose. I will cultivate a heart of gratitude, and I will recognize that the good in my life vastly outweighs the bad, regardless of immediate circumstances. I will become a living example of Philippians 4:8 — "Whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence, if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things."

A guide to high school slang

Mr. K — Thu, 21 Feb 2013 21:28:51 +0100

After a year and a half of teaching, I've become quite familiar with the slang of teenagers in Rhode Island and beyond. Below is my best attempt to define some of the terms and expressions that I hear most often in my classroom and hallways. Disclaimer: some of these are mildly offensive. amped - adj. excited, joyful; hardly able to control oneself ("The bell is ringing in two minutes? I'm so amped!") beast - n. one who is very good at something ("I'm a beast yo, I just solved that equation all by myself.") come at one's neck - idiom. to disrespect; to be unnecessarily belligerent ("Mister, I wasn't talking! Why you comin' at my neck?") coño - interj. [Dominican] used to express impatience or frustration ("Stop talking, we still need to do Example 3 coño!") cuff - interj. used to express that something is silly or foolish ("Cuff, I just wrote 5 + 3 = 9.") diablo - interj. [Dominican/Spanish] used to express frustration or disbelief ("We have homework today? Diablo!") dímelo - interj. [Dominican] what's up; what's good? ("Yo I ain't seen you for a minute. Dímelo?") dusty - adj. unacceptable, ugly ("Noo mister, I don't want to make a poster. My writing is mad dusty.") fresh - adj. stylish, aesthetically pleasing ("Dang, look at Mr. K looking fresh in his V-neck and Jordans!") heated - adj. upset, frustrated ("Mr. B got me heated, he marked me absent when I was doing work in the library.") nice - adj. very good at something ("I scored 20 points last night! I'm nice, kid.") que lo que? - interj. [Dominican] what's up? ("Hey mister! Que lo que? Did you try mangú yet?") ratchet - adj. ghetto; gross, annoying ("This school is mad ratchet, our heat don't even work.") ta pasao - interj. [Dominican] used to express when someone has done something ridiculous ("You already finished your essay?? Tú ta pasao!") wavy - adj. excellent, especially in appearance ("Mister, you always dress wavy on Casual Friday.")