I have sat down at the desk. It's filled with files, folders, file pockets, and these little spiral notebooks with pockets in them I like to keep. I've decided to throw away the used spirals. But before I do, I read them to see what it is I'm throwing away.

Here is something I found:

I suppose my mind goes to moments and to people, former students, discussions about MLK's "Letter from a Birmingham Jail" or John Cheever's "The Swimmer." Students curious or baffled, but more times than not, excited. Learning is beautiful to me. We stretch ourselves. It is hope. It is understanding. And it always involves exchange. It can't be done alone. There is goodwill inherent in that.

These are notes I made while an applicant for the NYC Fellows Program. I knew the job would lead me someplace different. How far away from this place it's taken me. I don't love learning anymore. I remember feeling that way. I remember how clear I was as a teacher and a student back then. These two years have convoluted my thinking, my writing, my teaching, and my purpose. My zest is warn down as well. Reading what I used to write scares me a little. I'm sloppy now. I lack control. It's like seeing your handwriting deteriorate.

But I also know I'm not that far away. I can get it back.

Teaching these children has taken the student out of me, but it's given me other things of equal value. I do not write these things to bash my experiences. I'm noticing the differences and the trade-offs.

(at this rate the packing will take all month)

Ashlee's Poems

Escape

I wish I could escape
my bad feelings. I wish I could
escape myself when feeling mad,
sad, and lonely. I wish I could
escape problems and make solutions.
I wish I could escape being
scared, uncomfortable, and
small. I wish I could escape
falling without my wings

can I escape?
E-echo
S-scared
C-curious
A-appreciate
P-personal
E-especially

signed anonymous


One Thought

I wish one thought could
change how people think
I wish one thought could
change how people feel
I wish one thought could
change how people process.


Flowers

Roses, daisies, tulips. Flowers
everywhere so lovely I cannot
despair you smell so good so sweet
flowers everywhere.


The earth

The birds are chirping
The sun is shining
The sky is blue
The grass is green
The flowers are blooming
It's spring!!


Hot

It's hot hot hot very very
hot so hot I'm sweating
it's hot hot hot, I wish I
could go ice skating it's so
frustrating it's very very
hot!!!


The Way

The way the animals roam
The way the plants grow to trees
The way the flowers bloom
The way the grass grows
The way the sun shines
The way the birds fly
The way the fish swim
The way.


We Move With the Earth

We move with the earth
We go wherever it goes
We roam where it roams
We soar where it soars
We all move with the earth


Misery

The misery of sweat running from my
face. The misery of the sun being
in place. The misery of the heavy clothes
in this case. Misery Misery Misery.


Stars

Stars every where
How they glow
How they shine
How they shout out in the galaxy
Start stars stars


The Plant

Little flower plants falling
from the trees so windy I
can feel the breeze so
pretty but strange


Monday Morning

As the sun rises and
the day has begun
you're waking up getting
ready you go so slow
and steady. You're so stiff
like tin and that is how Monday Morning
begins


Cloud

As soft as a pillow
As fluffy as fur
As fragile as glass
As gentle and tender as a
mother
Clouds clouds

My fourth graders have been writing poetry. You will like it.

Snow

I
like snow
a lot. It is
really cold. It is frozen
water, but when
you put it in
your
mouth it
melts. You can
make a lot of things with
the snow like
angels, snowmen
and a lot more.

Ice Cream

Ice cream
is cold and
good. There are
different kinds
of ice cream.

(by Luz)


My Poem

I love my friend
She went away from me
My poem ends soft as it began
I love my friend.

My Poem

Snow made whiteness where
it falls. The bushes look like
popcorn-balls. The place
where I always play looks like
somewhere else today.

(by Katherine)


Me

I am a little kid. My name is
Louis. I like to play games. I am
like my big brother who loves to play
ball. We act like we are basketball players
and I play best. I don't act like a basketball
player. Sometimes I act like a regular kid. I don't like football like
my brother's friend Shakim.

Part 1 For Ms. Gordon

Violets are pink, Violets are red, Ms.
Gordon looks so beautiful today
and everyday too.

Part 2 For Ms. Haley

Violets are red, Violets are
pink. Ms. Haley your eyes
are so beautiful.

(by Louis)


Butterfly

Butterflies are nice and so fast
as the night so bright
as the light made as the sky
and high to fly.

NBA

N--No
B--Babies
A--Aloud

(no title)

I saw a little boy sitting
in a tree. He was eating a nut
and was looking at me.

(by Richard aka Baby Thug)


(no title)

When I am writing it feels like I can
Do anything, like I can
play like Jordan in the NBA, or
I can fly like a bird, or race like a
Nascar Racer.

Home

Home is a place where you feel good,
Happy not sad maybe sometimes sad.
Home is a place where you have good and old memories
Home is a place where you have family to
support you. Family tells you what
is good and what is bad. Family
supports you wherever you go. That is
what Home and family means.

(by Jonathan)


What I Hear When I Wake Up

This day I woke up feeling fine
in my mind, hearing the bird twe, twak
and listening to my mother's shoe click clak. I
went to the bathroom, did what I had
to do. My little sister woke up and said Winnie the Poo
I had wondered what that means. Was it her shoe
or her toe?

Love

Love can be so sweet
just like some meats I love
my mother and love my grandmother
and all the time I hug her
Love is in the air and it
smells like my mother's hair
Love
Love
Rob
the
Star

(by Robert)


Ice Cream

Ice cream is so good.
Ice cream is also very cold
Ice cream is very good.

H.
C.

My Shepard

My Mother is my Shepard,
My owner, my Guardian,
She feeds me, takes care
of me, I love her and she
loves me. She buys me
toys, she does everything
she can do for me.
She is my shepard.
My shepard.

Today

Today the sky is blue and white,
the grass is green,
The sun is shining yellow
like a diamond.
The wind breezes through
my face.
I see kids playing. I sit down
and relax.

Trees

Trees are my friends. I love the
fruits that come from
sweet trees.
Trees help me
live, Trees give
me food, Trees
are my friends.

Outside

Outside I play, Outside my
friends are outside. Kids are
yelling, playing, running. The sun shines
outside.

Nature is Mine

The sun is bright.
The light touches the
earth. The birds are
chirping, the squirrels
are working. Everything is fine.
The nature is mine.

The Forest

The forest is a living place.
The trees are a living place.

The Moon

The moon is bright
You can see the
best of the moon
at night, the moon
is bright.

The Peanut

The peanut is big
The peanut is long,
The peanut is lumpy,
The peanut is very good
once I eat you.

(by H.C.)

(Miss Ashlee's will be posted Monday, her Writer's Notebook she keeps so safely by her side. The poems delight, and I will share; do not despair, says Ashlee.)

Year 2, final semester, NYC Teaching Fellows

I don't identify myself as a Fellow any longer; there are few ties left, although I've taken to carrying the black cotton tote with the Fellows insignia branded on it lately. Who knows why, but I turn the insignia against my body. Maybe it's my way of physically rejecting the program a little each day.

I no longer attend education classes at the CUNY schools, but I suppose I've kept up with all other obligations (teaching kids). One real sadness for me this year has been the loss of my comrades, Katie and Salim, from last year. Both are no longer teaching. There are fellows from my cohort (they call it) there with me still, those with whom I was initiated, summer-schooled, trained, tested, who faced the gulf in humanity that was P.S. make believe # last year with me. These ladies still draw together at our faculty meetings. We greet and offer goodbyes mostly. But they continue to go off to their Fellows classes while I stay behind.

The school is quiet this year. The environment is a place to arrive at each day, approximately 10 minutes before time to collect the children from the auditorium, and to leave by 3:15, upon escorting them out. I plan my lessons throughout the day, during the prep period or at lunch. I leave it all there. I come home.

This experience has affected my insides like you wouldn't believe. It has affected who I am. I was crossing the street the other day and looked into the faces of the people standing there. I thought: there is goodness here.

It's still tough for me to reflect upon, to find the insight I'm looking for. I don't see my students' homes; I am their teacher. I greet them with a smile each day. Some of the parents come to school with their children each day. I am able to see into their homes then, and what I see is good, for the most part. Sometimes I see drug-addicted moms come along with grandmothers to the conferences. I see 99% single-parent or guardian homes. Children change living situations as part of everyday life in this neighborhood. We require updated contact information 4 to 5 times a year because phones are disconnected so frequently. And the nutrition of these children is frightening, save for the school breakfast and lunch. On a recent field trip probably 38 out of 40 children brought corner-deli-purchased lunches. About 5 had sandwiches, and the rest dined on chips, candy, and soda.

Things like this are what disturb me this year, inside, because I know it to be a sign of neglect. I've got a gaggle of bright-eyed babies, that's how I see them. They make me happy. They are young and sweet and full of everything you could imagine. But they don't get what the rest of us get. I compared notes briefly with my cousin, Jana, at Christmas. She teaches Kindergarten in Dallas at a suburban school. Our conversation brought to mind class parties I'd had as a kid--the parent involvement that was always a part of things.

I don't want to take away from the good parents I do have, but there is no parent involvement in my class.

Earl, one that I am close to this year, (who lives with Fran, his guardian) was telling me the most matter-of-fact tale at our class Christmas party, like kids do, you know. "Ms. Haley, I used to have a cat," the tale begins. "He died under the bed . . . And then I had another cat. He fell out the window." I asked: "How did he fall out of the window, Earl?" Earl replied: "My cousin doesn't like it when the cat scratches him and one day the cat got mad and my cousin swiped at him. The cat fell out the window." I asked another question: "Don't you have screens on your windows?" (I knew the answer to this because I don't even have screens on my windows.) Earl replied: "He fell on the fence. I could see his insides." "Okay, Earl. That's enough."

There's little remorse from dear Earl, little fear. He's as gay as ever. Part of this is due to being a little boy, but part of it must be due to becoming desensitized. I wonder what Earl has seen in his life, in his building, outside it, in the different buildings he has lived in. I wonder how Earl feels knowing that his father is alive but does not care for him.

I am becoming adamant about marriage and family. Some of it is just me, the traditional parts coming through, but a lot of it is stemming from my Harlem experience. I see life through children's eyes. They need stability, and continuity, and love, and adults who will help them learn how to read and write and do math. No joke. No joke.

There is about a 60% gap between the children's English and math abilities at my brother's school across the Triboro and mine. That's just one example. I could compare my kids to those at Jana's school, or my little godson, Jacob's, in Austin. The gap would be closer to 80% in those instances. Jacob has everything he needs for a good start, my favorite lady as a mom, a loving dad, grandparents, a room full of books, a computer, team sports, and plenty of people who love him and buy him architecture books or gardening sets if it's a new interest of his. Do you think Earl knows he's different than Jacob at age 9? Earl is happy. He's loving. But I think he knows.

I wouldn't want to grow up in Harlem. I suppose Plano wasn't the bomb in the early '90s either. You think you have a lot of power as an individual. You can close your classroom door and create a situation equal to that in my brother's school or Jacob's. But you can't. It doesn't happen. The way these kids live comes with them and affects their behavior, their anger, their motivation, their belief in relationships, in what the world is about, in what is worth trying for, in what is worth becoming.

note from teacher: never say a phrase like, "it's easy street."

it's easy street

Two months in and the prediction is partially true: this school year is much better, but I was wrong about it being physically and emotionally draining. It's easy street.

Now what am I supposed to do with that? I spend as much time as I can noticing the child--catching fireflies on the carpet is one of my favorite glimpses, wiggling loose teeth and being so proud of the blood, not being able to possibly be the last one touched in a game of tag, all the tattling, being vulnerable to the hundreds of opportunities for praise and reprimand each day, tears, bright wide eyes, holding hands, kindness, tenderness, dear little people.

Within the first three weeks of school, Lacey pushed me to reach another child he wanted to fight. This was in front of the class, and purposely done to test the boundaries. This child tries to be away from the crowd, prides himself in not being duped by teachers' ways to motivate kids to do what they want--okay, bribery. He's preteen at ten, has older cousins. You know the type. But after several weeks, I now feel close to Lacey.

I've befriended him and made inroads through letting him know I'm checking up on him. He knows I care, I suppose, and has found a little more security from that. Progress like this so quickly amazes me. I was sure he couldn't care less. I was sure he knew, like I, that I'm a wimp of a teacher. But that's my internal speak, my doubt that the children really don't see, no matter how perceptive I believe them to be. This is part of the second-year teacher curve--what I'm supposed to be doing with what I've got.

I've said many times that I don't know how to teach children. I absolve myself when I use that statement, but also humble myself so that perhaps some learning will permeate my teacher persona. There's language to every professional culture. "Community building" was big when I was with the Lutherans. As long as you used the language to build messages and then delivered them, you were doing okay. With teaching there's the oral, the behavioral, and beyond that, showing all the aspects of your own humanity.

Lacey remains the most problematic student in 4-320. He continues to test me, and Ms. G too. He constantly needs to know that we can in fact make him abide. For people who have this need, the burden shifts to those around them. It's rooted in something I have not yet identified. But it has something to do with a security that is missing within. I like Lacey. I like them all. I really do.

The word from fourth grade . . .
Sistra Teach

Girl Kicks

Little girls like to giggle.
Chocalate milk bubbles,
holding hands,
catching fireflies on the carpet made out of white lint fuzz.

Big girls like little things.
Ping, a Corduroy panda
with beans in his bottom that squish.

Little girls like to mind.
Showing off little lady ways--
Stand tall.
Rules to follow.
A slight dip and turn of the hip.

Big girls like pretty things.
Dots on frocks,
paints on toes,
poems by cummings shared together on the train.

jeffrena

I had lunch with Jeffrena today. She is nine years old. Me gusta Jeffrena. She wears her hair high on her head in a little top-knot that looks like a poodle puff. Today she added a Chinese hair stick with several little blue tassels of beads draping off the top--tre chic.

As the class was lining up for lunch, Jeffrena refused to take her place. What I've taken to doing lately with these little moments of protest (or inability to control bodily outbursts like slapping ones neighbor) is telling the child to walk next to me at the end of the line. I take his or her hand, and we go along nicely together.

Somehow this and a brief conversation outside the lunchroom after the rest of the class had been settled wasn't enough to settle my little Jeffrena. So I took the opportunity to invite her to join me at the "Conference Table" in our room for lunch.

She told me all her troubles, how Lacey sneezed on her, twice, how Itima wants to beat her up, how Lorna doesn't want to be her friend anymore. Most of the trouble centers around the idea that no one wants to be her friend. Luz says she walks too slow on the line. So, I asked, "Did you try to walk a little faster? Maybe Luz doesn't want to get in trouble." This is when Jeffrena says that if she walks fast she might have an asthma attack--that it happened to her one time when she and her aunt were hurrying somewhere. Jeffrena is a slow walker, I've noticed this about her. She's cautious. So I talked to her for a long time about how scary it is to have asthma attacks. She told me that one time in class she felt one coming on and cried a little, but it didn't happen. She didn't tell anyone. I told her that that was brave. Then she told me that she tried to explain why she walks slow to some of the girls, but they didn't care.

The gist of the talk was for little Jeffrena to focus on the positive--those children who do want to be her friend, rather than those who cause her angst, and even if it is only one friend, that that is her blessing. She went on again about this child and that, but I quietly repeated my words and told her to think about them. After school she hugged me and said she was glad she had someone to talk to. I'm very glad I had someone to talk to too.

Ms. Haley

Do you hear them? School bells, friends. Year two, day 1, Monday, September 8, 2003. My post: fourth grade inclusion, which means the class will consist of half special education students (some who will have physical disabilities, such as cerebral palsy, others with emotional problems, others with learning disabilities), and general education students who have been identified to require more than the regular classroom environment provides. Two teachers work with these students at all times, one special education and one general education teacher. The class also has a general para-professional, and some individual students have their own para-professional assigned to accompany and assist them each day. (A para is like an assistant teacher.)

As Monday begins, my environment will be made up of 5 adults and 17 students, quite a change from one teacher to twenty-some-odd students, quite a relief for me.

I am one of the lucky ones at P.S. "She's Going Back to That School!" Ms. D, my principal, chose me to co-teach with Ms. G. Ms. G is a real teacher. Even in the midst of Mary J. Blige's kind of "drama," she maintains herself in her own foundation of what it is to educate children--a combination of the self-knowledge she has gained working as a teacher for 10 years, and the desire to understand curriculum and how students best learn it. Ms. D has come to think of Ms. G in the capacity of teacher trainer. She chose me to learn from her. It is a luxury, friends. Especially since I have never been trained, just plopped down into one of the thousands of schools across the country caught in a black hole of low performance, and doused in societal dysfunction, "where teachers can't teach and children can't learn." I heard that one at the Dean rally--some politician from Brooklyn going for the line. (Dean didn't speak in sound bites, though. He spoke in detail. He is thoughtful.)

Even with this spot, the year will not be easy. It will be hard. It will be physically and emotionally draining. But this year I hope the stretch derives in more instances from learning how to teach rather than how to keep the masses from busting out the doors. I love these children. That has carried me through and gives them some stability, but they need more. They need chances.

Pronto (soon), as my friend likes to say.
Sistra Teach

test scores

Dates seem to be one of the stand out features of the blog spot. June 3, 2003. And then January 11, just prior, skipping stones through life.

So, today the state told me which of my students may continue progressing through their lives and which may not. At this point I'm down to 17. Nine will go on. Eight will not. Of those eight, 3 are on grade level presently, meaning those who are not functioning within the system set up to educate them, well, they're still not functioning after the stellar year we've had in Class 603.

Teachers received their scores in a schoolwide meeting. I received mine in class after an incident. By now you know the definition of an incident. No need to describe. The lecture from the AP (this time Miss P--no more Mr. S) went a little something like this. "Some of you will go on. But there are those of you who will stay right here, choosing to throw away your education. You laugh now and you're having fun. But some day you're going to be 18, and people won't find you funny then. Then you will just be slow. You won't be going anywhere, and eventually you will become a burden to society. People will be forced to support you, and people don't like that very much."

By the end of Ms. P's very effective speech my frustration had welled up. I looked down at the paper and counted nine names. Half of the class. Half failed. All the hours, all the stupid charts I made. All those moments attempting to gain quiet so that we could just simply go through the directions, so that they could have a sliver of the concepts and make an attempt at learning them. September through June. So much of my energy to the cause of Izaiah, Jamaal, Rachel, LaShonda, Angie, Sade, Desmond, Khadim, Synard, Sheena, Destini, Shawn, Qiyana, Jonathan, Vernett, Bernard, Sayyed.

Tears started coming out. I thought of trying to stop them. But that seemed like effort that I didn't want to give. I wanted to give up. Then I just wanted to cry. So I did. I stopped and announced all the names of those who failed. My AP said I should do this publicly unless I objected. My compass was kiddywampus, so I just went ahead and read out the names.

My compass is back. I know that tomorrow is a new day and that we've got work to do, that it's fine to have an emotional let down to bad news, but that after you experience it, it's time to pick things up and get back to business. That's what I plan on telling my kids tomorrow. I plan on pairing them up -- a buddy for those who will need their portfolio work to pass them. Seems proactive and positive. But there's this other part of me that is churning because I'm angry at this whole experiment in public education for these particular children. Half pass. Half fail. It's just not okay with me. I'm seeing them slip as children. They have free will and they make their choices. But they are children with spirit and ability. They can accomplish something in the world, and they're slipping.

It's a new year! Always uplifting if only for a moment. I am rather uplifted of late. Things began to shift about a week ago. I watched The Lord of the Rings and got swept up in the melodrama of Froto's perseverance. Yes, Froto, yes! I wish I'd never found the ring either!! I wish I'd never found Sayyed and Silvester and Jamall, or that they had found me. But it happened. And now all that's left for me to do is to decide what I will do with what I've got.

So as you've probably gathered, I remain in my post. My Assistant Principal, three cluster teachers, two second grade teachers and one fifth grade teacher have left. Things are shaking, but they are also settling.

I'm off to see 25th Hour, so I must be brief. But I think it's time for a new look to this site. I'm not feeling very orange. Hip hip hooray (I hear out in the distance).

Have things gotten better at the Dirty Dozen, you may inquire? You better back up with that shit. (That's D.D. lingo) It's six hours a day in the Gibbon cage. My coping strategy is to stop living there constantly. I had a lovely weekend, celebrating birthdays and life, eating tacos, sirloin, deviled eggs, sweet and sour chicken, chorizo and eggs, and cookies. YUM. Went dancing at the Pyramid, jumping and scream-singing, my favorite kind. And I sorta found some resolution to my dissolution of expectations.

I could have found myself in a nice little teaching spot, say with second graders at one of the "model" schools. It's possible. I have friends there. But instead I was placed in hell for awhile. Sometimes people still say, "You're doing a good job with them," or even better, "You're such a good teacher," or once I got, "You're a hero." That was good. But everyday when I sigh, and then take in a slow breath big enough to fill the new and improved diaphragm, then scream-talk to pronounce my will over theirs, I simply say to myself, "I hate this."

I don't think the problem is with schools. The problem is with kids. I've got plenty of good, dedicated parents. It's the kids, and how they are influenced by what's around them. During one golden moment last Friday, some of my kids opened up about their fathers during a book discussion, fathers in and out of jail, who've killed people, who deprive their kids of love on a regular basis. That made me think for awhile about little Kevin's resentment, and Cherif's desire to inflict violence on his pop. But then there's Davon with his ma and dad right there, calm, guiding him sternly. Is it that people don't know how to parent? I don't know how to teach. I still think more responsibility should be placed on the kids. Maybe they're outright rebelling against the norms of this society as if to say fuck you white America, Eminem style. Fuck rules. Fuck making me do anything. I'm tired. I want to eat seeds and roll around on the floor, throw pencils, say fuck you to anyone who stands in my way. I don't know. I haven't gotten wise yet about these matters. Raising kids is quite the complex conundrum.

My resolution is that I can leave this behind without feeling like I couldn't cut it. I don't enjoy making people follow rules. Rules are what school is all about. I suppose it's what societies are all about, systems, yadayada. No thanks, folks. I'd like to fit into some other spot as a community helper. I have my dream job pretty clear in my head. I have trees and hills and open fields pretty clear in my head.

Sometimes finding yourself in extremely uncomfortable, non-form fitting situations tells you the things you need to know. For that, I thank my children. But I won't miss them next year. I'm not sentimental or idealistic about public school teaching in the least. I'm glad I'm here in the middle of it to know and to explore facets of our world. This one is shocking, but very real. Knowledge is liberation, my friends.

Philosopher V

I've developed a strange tick

Sometimes in the morning when I'm arranging my room, moving chairs around and moving ten steps ahead in my head to the math, the Writer's Workshop, the gosh darn SFA!, I say "shhhh." No one's there.

When walking around a person or two in the busy subway underground, instead of saying "Watch it!" or "'scuse me," it comes out as "shhhh."

Then I say it back to myself to see if that's what really just came out of my mouth. "Shhhh"?

* * * * *

The news from 301--
I told a City College observer to get out of my room today. People skills. I got 'em. The kids are getting hyped up UP UPP. Today was muy mal. I was angry. Grrrr. But I'm not really discouraged like the Ms. Haley of old. I'm tired. Tired. But I think I'll whip 'em back to acting right. I've got to make parent phone calls up the wazoo, which I hate doing. DEspise. I told the lady to git! She didn't say a word, turned around and walked out. Taunting the forces . . .
(the principal accompanied by a police officer came a knocking during the last period today . . . so what else is new.)

Ms. Haley

Good morning friends. If any of you will be driving Texas way for the holidays, avoid the state of Virginia for gosh sakes (I'm watching Sunday Morning and Joey Chen reporting on the latest shooting).

Thanks for all the cents y'all chipped in. An update--they were able to figure out most of the boys who broke into my friend's room. Police officers were at our school on Thursday and Friday. The boys have parole officers now, and if they get another offense they will go to juvy. Apparently our principal gave the fourth grade a big speech with weight. Our school on Friday was more of a normal place, but I'm not fooled. These kids' moods swing wide. I do not know why they act out the way that they do. Seeing and hearing violence and having it well up within me is a disturbing place to be. I'm sure whatever is coming out of them is a result of their surroundings.

Drifting in and out of blog and Sunday Morning, the movie reviewer reviewing "The Grey Zone" quotes, "We are all in the ghetto."

I haven't made any decisions. I was able to have a very good day with my class on Friday. Those days help but are rare. I need the paycheck. That's a big motivator. Oh, and I want to be a teacher. That's motivator numero uno. Every first year is difficult, but is every first year violent?

Our job at PS Dirty Dozen (The Post grouped us as one of the 12 worst schools in the city) is to socialize these children. I don't believe I have any special talents in that area, no inclinations or affinities. I'm free-to-be-you-and-me girl. Never had the sales touch. I'm down with the mind, analytical processes, language, expression. Socialization is for social workers. Mom, Dad, how did this happen?

Joking aside, I'm not a social worker. I've lived, learned, and I know this about myself. When whimpers come out like "I suck . . . I can't do this," I'm saying this isn't me. We are most miserable when we try to be something we're not, right? But I do believe there are teaching jobs where you're primarily instructing. Alas, I'm going to keep at it this week. I hope I stay with it so that I can find myself in a rewarding teaching job perhaps next year or the year after with some stability in my life.

Me, me, me!!! What about you! Let's hear some posts about you!

I was going to blog last night with cheer, but the site wouldn't let me in. Perhaps it knew more than I. Today all I can say is, uuuuuugggghh. My brother warned me last night. He was right. Today I was hostile towards them. That's what lingers with me, my growing resentment for it all. I have four tables. One became a table of four boys who resisted their new seating arrangement. They got away with it, and proceeded to push my boundaries at every turn until they were throwing paper wads, one after the other, right at this poor little girl's head. I couldn't do anything to make them stop. I can't do a thing. I'm useless. I suck. I fucking hate it. There's no detention room right now, no one to call for aide, just me and my babies, threatening phone calls home, which I made tonight. But I hate them for doing it to me. I am taking it all personally, which is going to defeat me all the more.

Today the fourth graders rioted (about 70 of them), throwing chairs at Ms. Berry and Ms. Taylor, breaking the metal door handle off of Ms. Brown's door to break in and wreak havoc. They stole stuff and threw books and papers around the room. They inflict and they inflict. The smart ones (the teachers I mean) maintain themselves. They stay centered, thus maintaining their authority. I get angry. I scream at them. I've been manhandling my boys, yanking them by the shirt or coat to get them in line or to keep them inside my classroom or to make them sit down. I said, "Get the hell out of my room" today to this strange little girl who kept popping in. I don't even know who she is. Kids coming into the rooms all day! Whose kids? I'm sure some are mine after they decide it's time to roam. I feel like I have nothing on them to make them do the right thing, thus I don't. I see teachers who struggle and I see myself. I see teachers who are cool and who know who's boss. I don't have that. I can't seem to get it. And underneath it, I don't think I want to get it because it's not who I am. I don't know how to find it because it's so unnatural.

Terrific Tickets, they're Grrreat!

Shout out to Pinky B for your kind words last week. Shout out to Anne for your many superb inspirations. I believe in the bribe. I'm a believer. My friends who came in this week to shake up the joint (4 Fellows were sent over to help the international teachers--Americans take it to the mat) started this whole Terrific Ticket thing. You get a ticket for each thing you do right. Positive reinforcement all day long! Complete switch-a-roo from, "DAVONDAVONDAVON!!!!!!!!!" Now it's, "Thank you for being on task," "Thank you for raising your hand and not calling out." ["On task," "Calling out," "She's fresh," "He's fresh"--this is teacher speak.] "Fuckers" is also teacher speak, but only after hours.

So we had this whole blind drawing and prize giving at the end of the day. It was fun. Good times. One of the best girls won. My girls. And then two of my annoying-but ever-so-cute-in-a-weird-hateful-kind-of-way boys were stomping their feet, twisting, crying for ANOTHER DRAWING. "Only one a day," she says with glee.

I was laughing out loud, saying, "Straighten your lines!" hee, hee.

Prizes are so complex and psychological. They're amazing.

So today was a good day. Grace be to God.

Sistra Teach

the yard

Today was humbling (as is every day). I called in sick yesterday thanks to my sweet brother's insistence, slept for 15 hours, no shit, did some school-like stuff, and then went out to a comedy show last night for a few hours. I felt like a human being again, or at least that I was playing one on TV. So this morning it was back to PS in yo face, and what a difficult walk it was. I said "grrrrrr" as I entered my room, thinking, "What did they trash?" After a minute or two my eyes found their way to my board, which read: "Ms. Haley, we talked a lot, but weren't that bad. We miss you and hope that you're okay," signed 5 of my girls. Lashonda, my bad ass tough mama, who I love, wrote me that she loves me and misses me. What? And then tart Destini wrote that she followed my homework direction accordingly to sign each child out a library book. (no boys expressed no love, you know, but they feel it, right).

Well, anyway, that gave a jump start to my day. Downstairs in the yard it was a show. Every teacher in the place was on hand. We were told to keep our children there until they got it right. If they couldn't walk up right, we were to walk them back down. My class was the last to go up. We made it to floor two, and then headed back down. We made it to floor three, and then Ms. Garvey told us to go back down for one girl at the end of the line, leaning on the wall, and not in line. We went all the way back down to the yard, and slowly crept our way to the top of the building on the far end. (This was an hour after school starting time, no lie).

So the morning started off with children sitting in my chairs, but after an hour or so their unstoppable will crept back in and I was fighting them yet again. Not sure what to do, I asserted my authority by calling them out one by one in the hall (which never works, but today it did a little good). By noon, their heads were down with the lights off. They hadn't gotten the message, were talking all over the place, ignoring their classwork and me.

One of the APs gave me a long talk after school, saying that they see me as this mild mannered, petite woman. She told me to lower my voice and put on a show. To take vitamins and go in with as much energy as I can muster. Rough em up. Tear em down. Break em. Let them know I'm in charge.

I'm questioning all that because I've tried a million things. I'm not consistent with my persona everyday, which likely hurts me. Sometimes I'm more demanding. Sometimes they're so freaking crazy that I try to ignore their shit. Sometimes I'm zapped. I keep wanting to defend myself to me. Ms. C, who's telling me all this, told another teacher that she'd spent most of her day in my class and was wiped out. I spend every day there. But maybe it's such a chore, or more of one, because I'm not whipping them into shape.

Well, my principal told me this morning that it's my classroom, not theirs, and to do whatever it takes . . . "Whatever it takes." Any clue as to what she's talking about?

my whole school is wack! tid bits: 15 kids having a paper fight, disregarding lunch detention consequences, mother fucker, i don't fucking care, somebody said dildo, paper penises being made, two strangling attempts, doritos in yo face!, discipline board? my discipline board, ms. haley, seed spittin, trash can contents out the window, me locking kids out my room, 5 chanting down the hall as they stroll 20 paces behind my line. ridiculousness. so what do you think they're really saying, yo? that they rule the school? yes. that's it. they do. for fighting they write a sweet little note that retells their story. for disrespecting the teacher, breaking the rules, walking in and out of rooms, trashing the place, swiping, drinking on gin and juice with a side of now and laters they get lunch detention, a phone call home, told to walk themselves down to the detention room, left there alone while the dean gets his lunch, writing on the blackboard for fun, then granted the keys by being allowed to walk back when and how they please.

i writes my shit down.

Last weekend I didn't know if I could make it, lots of sporadic tears leaking out. But I was able to get it together by Sunday evening to take on a new week. Tuesday they did in fact riot (sort of), but luckily the 5th and 6th grade teachers had been sent out after lunch to tour a "model" school and its classroom set ups. The punks were corralled in the auditorium, only gaining strength through their numbers. Mr. S isn't so smart sometimes.

To quell them he says, "You'll stay here until 7 if that's what it takes for you to settle down." They rushed him, broke through, and ran through the halls as pre-K and K kids were being picked up by parents in the entry hall. I heard stories that kids were destoying bulletin boards, but I haven't seen evidence of that.

As punishment, the 6th grade was given silent lunch in the classrooms for the rest of the week. A team of 5 teachers and administrators laid it down first thing Wednesday morning, made them write essays and have continued to come in for spot checks throughout the days. For my part, I created a new seating chart, Daily Assignments folders equipped with sheets for every period explaining the directions and the task. They can't handle discussions or being led from the board. It's simply, "Pass around the next sheet. Read it. And get started. Independent work! No talking!"

Things have improved for three consecutive days. In that time we did have two strangling attempts, so it's not all peaches and cream. But the point is that I'm not going anywhere. It's PS #& and the sixth grade for the year, unless my principal decides otherwise.

Of note: A fifth grade teacher quit on Friday for being hit by one of her students. A sixth grade teacher was replaced last Friday for poor classroom management and poor lesson planning. Two new Fellows have been recruited to take their places. I know them and feel for them.

The word from Room 301 . . .

they're close to rioting.