Read this and tell your friends...
A friend at school sent me this from her mom today and I had to share. If you don't get School Library Journal, you should check it out!
This speaks right to the heart of what is wrong with the current system of education in this country. Read it and share with your friends. In NYS, remind them to vote for their school budgets next Tuesday.
Linky to
"Killing Me Softly" and my apologies if that song is now stuck in your head.
Labels: politics, teaching
Catching up is hard to do
Interims for the fourth quarter are due by the end of the week. Another year is slipping through my fingers. I have been so blessed for two years now, I am starting to worry about next year. How can I continue the streak? From what I have heard, we should be okay, but there are a lot of cliques and catty girls. Bring 'em on.
The lovelies have received their portfolio project outlines and are working hard on their Revolutionary War Literature Circle groups (using
role sheets from Jim Burke over at the English Companion). We plan to have them finished by the end of next week so we can read a Twilight Zone episode, and watch the TWO versions I now have, before Memorial Day weekend. The Multi-Genre Projects were quite good overall, although why some lovelies continue to try to underwhelm: late-late-late projects, half-done, half-*** work, you name it. Hopefully, the Portfolios will get them back on track. I would like to have a year where I get all of them in (and complete). We'll see.
I am working on my list of lovelies for whom I am teaching this year. My first class of lovelies is edging closer to their HS graduation. I will try to compose some more worthy entries over the coming weeks. A lot of bittersweet reminsicing ahead, I'm afraid.
My mother has had some health concerns lately. Hopefully taking her medicines now will keep her out of the hospital. She thought that just eliminating salt from her diet would heal her high blood pressure. Apparently not.
My father's health continues to decline. He has not walked since January and needs ground food completely fed to him. His occasional mutterings are rarely connected to anything. However, once and awhile, for just one second or so, when I visit him (sometimes with my Beloved Offspring Bear and the DDQ, sometimes with my mother, but mainly alone) I believe that the flash of a smile in his eyes is there just for me.
Labels: family, teaching
Reading, Reading, Just Keep Reading...
This year's crop of Multi-Genre Projects came in on Monday. There were very few stragglers. I'm looking forward to getting to read them: each a representation of a student's interest in a topic of Social Importance. As usual though, I'm spending time in the evenings with my physical offspring and some good books (Ian Rankin, Libba Bray, Carol Jago). Spending time with my children is the only legitimate reason I have for not having started grading in earnest.
Bear and the Diva Drama Queen are off all of next week and I'm not. This is one of the times I wish I was working in the same school district as my offspring (but then I remember my paycheck and get over it). They're going to be visiting friends who have been generous enough to keep them occupied during the day whilst I and the Bitter Half are at work. Grr. I really wish I had at least Monday off. Next year, this won't be so much of a big deal, as the Diva Drama Queen will be old enough to Be In Charge of herself and her brother during the day. Oh, she's Been In Charge for an hour or so, but all day is a bit much. After the summer and the start of her (gasp) teenage-ness, I'll feel better about leaving them for longer bits of time.
I can't believe we're at this point in the school year: a few weeks away from the start of the Final Quarter. We're revisiting short stories by way of Science Fiction for awhile. Mostly we'll be reading Ray Bradbury, but I've found a few other shorts I'll use. I stick to Ray mainly because I love his writing, but also because I have access to the entire
Ray Bradbury Theater on DVD thanks to my goddess of a collab teacher. We'll read a little, watch a little, and read some more. We'll end the year with some reading and watching of
The Twilight Zone while we prepare our portfolios. So much to do and so little time it seems.
Today Arthur C. Clarke died at the age of 90. We lost Madeline L'Engle last September. Ray Bradbury and Ursula K. LeGuin are still going strong.
I've named mine.
Who are your favorite Science Fiction authors? What are your favorite stories?
Labels: reading, teaching
Things They Don't Teach You
I had some pretty good teacher-training, I must say. From the excellent role models I had in HS (thanks Mrs. A and Mrs. M--rest in peace), to the dynamic profs in college (Dr. P and Dr.OD and many others) to my inspiring trainers in graduate school (Dr. S squared and Dr. D) I was taught and shown, how to be a teacher. I try to live the ideals they instilled in me every day. I am actively conscious of
how to be a teacher. Believe me all you who are new to the profession, there is a lot more than just knowing your subject, as important/essential as that is. You have to learn how to know your students, how to help them be the best they can be, even if for some/many it does not involve being A or even B students. Not everyone can be. And that is ok. Teaching is so much more than following a script, or reading through a textbook. Teaching kids is not teaching to a test. Teaching is not something just anyone can do.
What we want to instill in our students is that they can be themselves and that it is ok: as long as they try, as long as they see something of value in the process of education. They can be honor roll material and they can just pass-- if that is their best.
When they struggle, we should be there to help them. When they feel alone, we should help them see they are not, when they say that they can't, we should work with them to see that they can, providing of course, in all of these instances, they allow us. Teaching is a reciprocal relationship.
Many times, they will leave our classes and we'll never see them again, we'll never know if we 'did it,' if we made a difference, if it all mattered, even just a little. Sometimes, we'll know. Maybe they'll come back to visit, "Ms. George, you made me feel like
I was somebody." Maybe you'll find out through a parent, "After three years, you are still Jon's favorite teacher, the only one who he said taught him something." Maybe you'll hear by way of a sibling's passing a picture inscribed with a note, "Hey Ms. George! I'm so happy my sisters have you. I really got stoked on English in your class. I'll never forget how you made me confident in myself. PS your still my favorite teacher."
I had a great education, but it wasn't complete. I haven't even begun to see 'complete' and I've been doing this for six years. Nothing in books prepares you for the ache you feel as your favorite (don't lie-you have them, too) students leave at the end of the year. Even your most troublesome students share something with those who have shared many things with you: the death of a parent or grandparent, the pain of eating disorders, or the secret shame of cutting (yes, all these things were known by the appropriate people as well) the students who would seek out your classroom as a refuge from bullying or boredom, who would visit from the HS letting you know they were there by tapping on your window, who would rush in to your room at the start of a new year and a new grade to tell you about his sister's new pregnancy and how he was excited to be an uncle, leave something behind as they move up grades, out of buildings and away from your class. They leave the memories. It's hard. You become connected, you struggle, you share, and then the ties are loosened and lost.
Nothing in books prepares you for the message whispered from a colleague, passed on in print from the principal, and emailed from the Superintendent: one of your students has died. One of
your lovelies from your first year teaching, the class you were so lucky to have been given as a 'newbie teacher' has
died. A senior in HS with the world ahead of her. Why? It is too soon to know. Rumors circulate as they are wont to do. You don't want to believe them, so you think of other things. You look at that picture her younger sisters gave you, the one that said, misspellings and all, "PS Your still my favorite teacher." You sit at your desk, you look out at your empty classroom, and you cry.
Labels: loss, teaching
Happy New Year, Good Night, and Good Luck!
I have so much on my mind these days with school (still going wonderfully well and I really, really enjoy the hell out of these kids) and with my physical children (growing like weeds and I really, really enjoy the hell out of them) doing fine, while my father is so, so not.
We are still trying to find him the right home, but his Alzheimer's is making him now get a bit aggressive with caregivers so he's had to be placed on the lowest dose of a sedating drug to hopefully take off the edge (and prevent any further injuries on their parts). For me to have to write that my father, the man who probably was the most gentle man I've ever known, a man who had not needed to spank me more than the fingers on one hand (saying much more about him than me-trust me), and who I only saw get visibly angry
once, has been aggressive with his caregivers, is as hard as you could imagine it to be, multiplied by thousands.
Please keep reading the wonderful teacher-bloggers out there who have insightful things to say about their teaching. Thanks especially to
CTG and
Bellezza, but thanks to all who have spent time commenting here. Although I don't respond to your thoughts as much as I should, I have appreciated everything you have said and I'm continuing to check up on you even if I don't write. As for me, I'm writing in my journals and writer's notebooks with my lovelies, but I don't have the time/energy to sit and try to be witty or interestingly profound here. 'Here' is the only thing I can run away from, even in a metaphorical sense, so I'm running because I can.
Perhaps I'll see you in the comments section on another blog; perhaps I'll pick this up again.
If not, again I say in the words of
Garrison Keillor, "Be well and do good work" (if you want to keep in touch, leave an email in comments- when I post it, I'll remove it if you want).
First Day Back
A few short years ago, I dreaded the day I returned to school after a sub had been in. My lovelies that year were sometimes not-so-lovely. The last two years though have been quite nice. I haven't had to write up a blessed soul. I'm going to give my whole team 'positive behavior' tickets as soon as I can scrounge that many up from the PBIS people.
Thanksgiving evening is usually a time of relaxation, movies, and a nice warm fire while we try to digest turkey, ham, pie, stuffing... This year found me leaving my Bitter Half and our Beloved Offspring to race the two hours to my parents at the hospital where my mother had been admitted for observation following an unnaturally high blood pressure reading and some major fluid retention. Typical for my mom, when I spoke to her about noon that day, telling her that the children and I would be out to them by about seven, she sounded a bit weak, but otherwise o.k. saying how my father was "having a slow day." She didn't tell me how badly she actually felt. Which would have been easier than the gut-wrenching statement by my father-in-law, "It's a woman, but it's not your mother's voice," as he handed me the phone. I thought something had happened with Dad.
With a stern-but-compassionate discussion with her new doctor (she hasn't had a regular one since Dad takes up all the medical time these days and she is a typical Southern woman putting herself last) she has realized that she can no longer care for my father, her husband, at home. His Alzheimer's has progressed far down into that void that grows ever larger toward the end of this tunnel. He rarely recognizes me, or my children. He talks, but it is rarely connected to things that are going on at the time. He is up on average of 3-5 times a night and only has about an hour and a half of awake time between naps during the day. He can be resistant to hygiene, relying entirely on my mother to clean him and dress him. He will still feed himself, but not his medicine. We have to hide that in applesauce or yoghurt after we've crushed it. He will go into the car or come in from meals or go outside for a short walk only with continual prompting and encouragement. If he were to fall, my mother can't pick him up, not like she could before, but now she can't lift anything over 15 lbs.
When he came home from the first home over Labor Day weekend, I thought it was a bad idea. My Beloved Sister didn't like the nursing home he was in. I really didn't either, but it wasn't as bad as some I'd seen. Dad wasn't being abused, but neither was he being interacted with or talked to. I won't even mention the meds the hospital put him on without our consent that had contraindications to his Alz and heart meds leaving him in a stupor that resembled the Thorazine shuffle I remembered from my direct-care days. Except my dad wasn't even able to walk anymore. I blame the hospital for this though, the nursing home just followed the Doctor's orders and I didn't think to check his meds (neither did my mother until his 30 day intake which was when we found out and took him off of them). Once my mother brought him home and enlisted the help of PT and the County Nurse, my dad is walking again. My mom's main concern was that Dad wasn't getting the love he needed like at home. Unfortunately, the three months between then and now have wreaked havoc on a 78-year-old woman's constitution. Even the constitution of a farm girl can have havoc wreaked by Alzheimer's care.
My mom came home after a day and a night in the hospital. I was home with Dad and remained there until yesterday afternoon as we worked to find a new nursing home and get the financial papers in order. Mom rested as much as she allowed herself to and is finally taking what appears to be the proper medications. She has more tests next week. Dad is now in respite (30 day break for caregivers) in an awesome nursing home. He is talking with the other residents and seems much happier than he was at the old place. Of course, he's awake and walking now, but this place is like a hotel. What could be wrong? Well, they have no permanent beds. Dad is now fourth in line for a male bed. There is no Solomon-like wisdom that can be found to make up for the fact that three other men---fathers, husbands, grandfathers, brothers---have to die so my dad can have a place to live out his life. How do you pray for something like that? How can you believe that it is in His hands? I've been struggling with faith since my father's rapid decline has taken him away from me, my mom, my sister, our children. My father was a good man, a great father, a gifted and beloved teacher, a loyal brother, caring friend, pillar of our church (devout, Lector, Knight, member of the Parish Council and the HNS), loving Uncle, Godfather, Brother-in-Law... and this is what he deserves? This is what he gets after years of prayer and sacrifice? My mother deserves this? This is what she gets after years of prayer and sacrifice? She is still holding on to her faith, believing something will work out. Dad will still voice most of his prayers from memory although repeating them out of order.
I, on the other hand, don't know what I still believe in anymore.
Labels: Alzheimers, family
Happy Thanksgiving wishes and a bit of poetry
"Nights
"
~Kevin Hart
There’s nothing that I really want:
The stars tonight are rich and cold
Above my house that vaguely broods
Upon a path soon lost in dark.
My dinner plate is chipped all round
(It tells me that I’ve changed a lot);
My glass is cracked all down one side
(It shows there is a path for me).
My hands—I rest my head on them.
My eyes—I rest my mind on them.
There’s nothing that I really need
Before I set out on that path.
This poem seems to speak of the perfect Thanksgiving spirit: there is nothing that I really want because I have what I need and I'm truly, completely thankful for it all. Be thankful for those who love you and whom you love in return. Blessings and Peace on this Thanksgiving Eve for today, tomorrow, and the days that come. This poem is part of the wonderful collection on
this site...read and be merry, or be moved!
Labels: poetry
