Warmth

One of my favorite things about winter is being tucked up all cozy in a warm house full of friends. There are very few things I like about winter, but that image stays with me as a comfort. This fall, we celebrated our 2nd annual Practice Thanksgiving, in which every family brings a dish to practice new and tricky recipes before they fall onto the plates of judgmental relatives. This group of people is full of the warmth that is my greatest joy in barren winter, and I am so thankful for their graciousness and fun and adorable progeny and delicious cooking skills.

I don't know who took which photo, but I assume the best ones here are taken by one of the artists. Feel free to give them credit.

Spanish class is (almost) always appropriate.

High school students can make almost anything sound dirty. It's a real battle to keep blush-worthy items out of the classroom, and I have to repeat the phrase, "Spanish class is always appropriate," at least four times a week. I learned pretty quickly to avoid saying things like, "This test is longer and harder than the last one, so make sure to study," because of the snorts of laughter from two or three corners of the room. Snigger, longer and harder, he he he. I'm usually pretty good at thinking about what I say beforehand, scanning the phraseology with my Will-Teenagers-Twist-This-To-Be-Sexual filter, and rewording as necessary. This is a very specific skill that high school teachers develop.

This last week, however, my filter has turned out to be faulty.

How else can I explain saying things like, "Show your Peter to your neighbor" or "There are no double D's in Spanish." OUT LOUD. IN FRONT OF STUDENTS. I must be going insane.

For my curious friends, the context: Peter was the name of a monster they drew as I explained what he looked like in Spanish to practice body part vocabulary. Spanish words don't have two letter d's in a row.

Any advice for fixing the filter? I don't know how much more I can take.

Spelling

One of the glories of being a Spanish teacher is that I don't have to read much of my students' English writing. On the rare occasions I do, it makes me want to teach 5th grade grammar and spelling. To all the 5th graders in the country. I would be the most-loathed teacher in these United States, and dadblastit, they would actually be able to communicate with others in their mother tongue. Instead of curling up under my desk and crying (I save that for meany-pants parents), I have been compiling a list of crazily misspelled words for your reading enjoyment and a fun game.

Because if I think about it to much, its enough too make a girl waist a way in destress. Honestly, there lose cents of grammatical structure is the mane issue, but I could ring their necks for some of the spelling mistakes I've scene. Seriously, it makes me want to dye. Lets take a pique into the sole of the problem:

The homonyms... O, the homonyms. One student wrote he was excited to meat Megan Fox... which might be a fun episode of CSI, but nothing at all what he expected. A doodle on the back of a quiz had someone yelling in distress, "Oh no! A bare!" GACK! A bare what? The suspense is killing me! Back in my student teaching days, a student wrote a persuasive essay about keeping pop machines in schools because of all the prophets that come out of it. Why look, Elisha is only a dollar! Or do I want a Diet Moses Dew?

Unfortunately, reading misspelled words all day plays with one's mind. I just misspelled "dollar" three times.

Ok, here's the game! Identify correctly the following words in the comments, and you might wean a pries! I've even been warming up your brains.

1. annor
2. musten
3. saro
4. baised
5. barry
6. zizers
7. krymet
8. scelotins (an easy one!)
   

Sick Day Diary

I felt seriously ill yesterday - the vomity kind. First period was almost over. We were practicing reflexive verbs (whiteboard markers on the desks - they're colorful and easy to read from a distance. Plus, writing on desks makes them feel naughty enough to like grammar drills... weird). And I was certain if we continued I would projectile vomit all over three or four of them. So I told them to put their stuff away while I stepped out in the hallway to lean over the garbage can. They're good kids. Anyway, long story short, I went home.

And stayed there.

Here I am, still at home. Feeling gloriously rebellious even though I was legitimately sick. I do feel much better today (lightheaded and tired, but no tummy troubles). Here was my day:

7:27 Wake up, check time, snuggle with the handsome husband
8ish Read murder mystery (Anne Perry... good stuff)
9ish (Chapter 5) Get hungry, go to kitchen
9:05 Realize kitchen is a dump and wash all the dishes
9:28 Still hungry, make oatmeal with blueberries
9:38 Eat and read... for hours (the reading... the oatmeal only lasted 15 minutes or so)
12:05 Heat soup. Eat and read... again
3:00 Finish book, watch Bones
4:00 Prep for dinner
5:00 Go to gym (I am feeling all the way better by this time)
7:00 Come home, ice knees, blog.

This was the best sick day ever. Sick enough to avoid severe guilt. Not too sick to enjoy. And my kids watched a travel movie. Everyone's happy! So, thanks, nausea, for coming and leaving so quickly so as to improve everyone's Thursday.

Remember, remember, the fifth of November. Not for silly old Guy Fawkes, but for my silly daddy, who passed away 13 years ago today. He is still sorely missed.

Overexuberance

Yesterday, I made six mini-apple crisps with apples I picked myself with a recipe I developed. Perfect with the homemade vanilla ice cream. I also made two kinds of cookies for 2nd period because they won a vocabulary contest, dinner for today (late-season eggplant in a spicy Pasta alla Norma with chicken meatballs), roasted carrots and mashed potatoes for dinner that night, and went to the gym. It was chaos.

And I loved it.

Parents

Today is arena conference day! A chance for all of us teachers to gather together in the commons, sit at cafeteria tables with our names calligraphed on lovely big signs, and discuss student progress with parents! We are allowed this privilege for three glorious hours after working a full day. It is the equivalent of a twelve hour shift, but with parents.

It is my least favorite day of the year.

My interactions with parents have been mixed, to say the least. At this point,, I am fairly certain that teachers who rave about the benefits of parent interaction and cooperation have never worked in a district with more than 50% free and reduced lunch (the most common determiner of poverty). The parents of many of my students in poverty don't have a phone number, much less an email, because they move so frequently (read: are evicted so frequently). They are often my age (that's 28 years old with kids in high school. That there is some scary mathematics). Their students tell me horror stories about their parents being drunk every night and cussing out their kids without providing them any real love or discipline. I've heard of parents prostituting themselves for drug money in the house while their children are in the next room. Some parents do and/or deal drugs. They are either absent or abusive. About a third of parents I try to contact never get back to me. I am sad for the kids, but glad for me.

Which brings me back to arena conferences. The parents who come here are the parents who care. For example, I just told a mom, "Your son is a joy to have in class. He understands everything right away and he has a really fun sense of humor." And the parents just before her were the parents of the highest grade in the class, who also has a wonderful heart. He sits next to a special ed student and helps him patiently everyday and never sounds like a condescending jerk. Some of them are obviously poor, but they also just as obviously love their children. Every once in a while, I get a crazy.

My very first year, one mom came up to my table literally shaking with rage. She held out her trembling arm, pointed a finger at me and said, "What is wrong with you? Why did you give my son an F on his quiz? He is an A student." He had let someone copy the answers to his quiz. They both got zeros until they came in to retake it. Of course the student in question, Mr. Angelic himself, forgot to mention this to mom. And by the time she arrived at my arena table, she had turned fully into a hydra and was incapable of understanding the situation. She made me cry (I managed to leave the room first, but I got lost in the new building trying to find a bathroom. I hid under a table in the art room for a few minutes to pull myself together. That is a true story).

The following year, a mom wrote scathing letters about my lack of teaching ability, and showed up in the classroom while there were students in the room to confront me about her son's missing assignment that I apparently had lost. Her son was fine as soon as he turned in his late work which was half-complete in his backpack. I did not lose it. I did not fail him on purpose.

And the year after, an athlete failed my Spanish I class for the second time, and his parents put me on speaker phone so they could both cuss me out at the same time. It was my fault their son failed (never studied, never turned homework in, and never paid attention in class) and now he was dropping out of high school and would never be happy again on account of me. No matter that he failed three of his other classes. It was my fault! It took three times to get the message through that they could call the principal because I wasn't going to talk to them until they could talk like actual grownups, please. I worded it differently.

After these (and more) interactions, I'm wary of parents. And I wear waterproof mascara.

Sometimes I wish I could be completely honest with these people. Someday, I'll lose it completely and say things like:

• I know he said he turned it in. He lied to you. It's in his binder.
• She actually did skip class. I don't just not see people.
• Your child is a mean-hearted twit. And I think that's your fault.
• Maybe if you hid your marijuana better, your child would be able to focus better in class.
• Are you high right now?

But usually, I bite my tongue and smile and keep calm and try to remember the good parents. The ones who thank me for the work I do, the ones who know their students and consistently try to help them do their best. So, thank you, calm and reasonable parents! If it weren't for you, I would have quit a long time ago!

"Sometimes when you are a man..."

Tuesday was a real low point. In first period, one of my second year students was a real jerk. That is surprising for two reasons: they are usually still asleep in first period and unusually compliant, and my second year kids know me and respect me and don't cause discipline problems. So he caught me off guard. He threw a pen across the room to a friend instead of walking it over or passing it along. The friend threw it back. I said, "Please stop throwing pens, you're going to drive me crazy." He responds with tone, "Don't talk to me like that and I'll stop." And throws the damn pen again.

Yup, kicked out. Coach talked to. Mom called. Apology received.

But still, it ate away at me all day. Usually when kids are jerks I shrug it off, laugh at them, and tell funny stories about them. This one really got to me. I'm still trying to figure out why.

Then on Wednesday, I was surprised by another student in 5th period. 5th period is the class that usually makes me want to quit my job before 6th period makes me feel better again. This student, Juan, failed my class last year and is retaking it. He is a clown. Last year, he would flirt with all the girls, shuffle across the room slowly to sharpen his pencil and talk to everyone along the way, and talk in a fake Mexican accent to make the kids around him laugh. He got an A+ in these things, and didn't have enough time for Spanish. He was pretty darn annoying. This year, he's kept the fake accent, but he's also trying pretty hard to do well. And he's grown up quite a bit. Here's our conversation (don't forget to make him speak like Nacho Libre):

Juan: Profesora! shoots his hand straight up in the air
Me: Yes, Juan?
Juan: gestures me over Are you ok today? You seem sad.
Me: I'm having kind of a rough week, but I'll be ok.
Juan: Can I help you? I could tell some jokes and create some laughter.
Me: That would be great, thank you.

And then gave me a high five. It was so unexpectedly compassionate and perceptive I was completely caught off guard. So at least for every demon there's an angel in there too.

Extracurricular Teaching

Yesterday, as I was explaining the difference between a sweatshirt and a sweater to no less than seven very confused students, I realized I'm only a part-time Spanish teacher. Here are some other things your tax dollars have paid for me to teach the youth of America:

• Our Independence Day (they thought it was in November? Or August? maybe in the 1830s?)
• A toucan is a tropical bird (Like the Froot Loops bird!)
• Horizontal goes sideways. Vertical goes up and down.
  
• One never asks a woman if she is pregnant. Even if it seems obvious. A polite lady or gentleman waits to be informed by the woman herself, then acts surprised.
• Aforementioned polite ladies and gentlemen also never say, "You look tired." They say, "You look fantastic as usual, but you seem a little tired today."
• Is is a verb.
  
• Vermicomposting will be unsuccessful outside in a Spokane winter.
• Spaniards speak Spanish too... not just Mexicans.
• You should capitalize your name. And other people's names.
• Tittie Twisters are not appropriate in a professional environment.
• All prosthetic limbs (namely ears and legs) must not be flung across a classroom or used to hit classmates.

I'll let your imaginations fill in the blanks for each of those specific circumstances.

Barbie and Ken dolls

High school students are notorious for thinking about sex. All the time. And I've made it my personal goal from the beginning to have a nice, placid classroom with Victorian standards of morality. This is my quest.

Most of my students appreciate the G-rated and still wildly entertaining (at least in my mind) atmosphere: finally they have found one place that is safe from innuendo and fear of saying the wrong thing and appearing less desirable. Before you start commenting about my hyperbolic optimism (or pathetic insistence of outdated norms in a sexually free society), please just let me try. It is very hard to learn Spanish (or calculus or history or even weight lifting) while the guys in the corner are telling dirty jokes that make half the class uncomfortable, and that other kid is calling something or someone "gay", which makes everyone afraid of their own sexuality being questioned regardless of which team they play for. Ostracism and name-calling knows no truth.

Which brings me to an incident from my class yesterday. To get to know my students, I have them fill out a notecard with some basic information (Are you allergic to food I might bring? Who are your favorite celebrities? Do you have internet at home?) and two fun facts. The fun facts I read out loud to the class, and everyone guesses who it is. Is the dirt-biker who broke his arm three times Diego or Pepe? Oh! It's Maria Guadalupe! I ask some questions to the student in a desperate (and, at this point, belated) attempt to learn names and get some idea of personality and interests. Yesterday, I had all the students who were not in class the day we filled out the cards complete theirs. One girl, who had been sick for 2 weeks, wrote four fun facts.

The first one: I'm gay.

Followed by her favorite color, number of siblings, and favorite band. It wasn't really a huge surprise that she's gay, honestly. And it doesn't bother me except that I know high school will probably be extra rough for her. But I made the decision pretty quick not to read that out loud to the class and have them guess who. Can you imagine being the kid they picked and guessed wrong (or right, but you'd been trying to hide it)? Pepe's gay!!! But he's not really, and now everyone will call him that for the next four years, and people will avoid being his friend so they won't be called gay too.

Also, I was pretty sure I told her I would read them out loud to the class, so don't write any deep, dark secrets. But I couldn't remember for sure. And I sure wasn't going to be responsible for outing her if she only wanted me to know.

And the last reason: this is my period with four special ed students, a multitude of freshmen, and 33 students. Can you imagine the chaos? It would last for days. And I would have to give them the "gay" lecture multiple times, using my Spanish instruction time on a class that is already behind in the material as it is. Holy cow.

Not only would it be a disruption, but it would do battle with my insistence on considering each and every one of my precious darlings completely asexual. They never have sex, much less think about it. Ever. They are like little Barbies and Kens running around. They have the right shape, but none of the parts that matter.

My Frist Spanish Book or How Freshmen Are Sometimes Charming

My first year students had to draw comic strips to practice their greetings and very limited vocabulary. One boy got so excited he asked to make a book. Of course I said yes. And here is the result that made me smile all day:

and the cover page made me tear up a little, if i'm going to be honest.

It all the way makes up for this conversation:

Pedro: Mrs. S, I have no idea what this word is.

Me: It's in your notes... right there. points to word on notes right in front of him

Pedro: Oh. The one I circled.

Yes. Yes, Pedro, the one you circled.

On building my reputation as the teacher who is not fluffy sprinkles all the time

I am one of two Spanish teachers at my school. The other is from Guadalajara, Mexico and speaks delightful Spanish. I am from Seattle. When I first started working at my school, the students liked that I was American and spoke English without an accent. I believe they also liked that I look nice and sound nice. I am not, in fact, as nice as my colleague, Mrs. P. I make you work. I make you be appropriate. I make you be nice to your neighbor even if he or she is super annoying. I make you stay after class if you've wasted my time. I've been trying to convince the students of this fact for four years. They ask me, "Why does Mrs. P's class get to eat tacos today?" and I respond, "Because she's nicer than I am." They are finally starting to believe that I am not the sweet, easy to manipulate, youthful and naive person I appear to be.

Overheard in the hallway:

"Mrs. S's room is closer."

"Yeah, but Mrs. P is nicer."

Darn right, she is!

On a somewhat related note, a mother came by to see me this afternoon. We've chatted two or three times face to face (she is the mother of my student with autism). Today, she walked in and almost turned around. "Oh! I almost didn't recognize you! You are so young, I thought you were a student." I thought I was past that! Maybe I can't wear jeans to work after all.

Second Week Adventures

This morning, I was going about my usual business teaching first year Spanish. It was second period - one of my larger and more unusual periods. There are 31 students, two have Individualized Education Plans (IEPs - it means they have a disability and need accomodations). Today was the first day one of the special ed teachers came in to be an aide for those kids. This teacher is super cool, but I don't know him really well. The students finished their entry tasks, and we had just started new vocabulary for the day. Señala la profesora. Señala las flores. Señala el dinosauro. The students are mostly doing what their supposed to be doing (pointing). One girl was not. She usually doesn't. I turn to write señala on the board. One of the kids with an IEP came in late, and the aide stood up to give him a paper.

And we both see the girl falling from her chair to the ground, seizing.

He yells, runs and moves chairs out of her way, I run to call the nurse.

I've always kind of wondered how I'd react in a crisis. In my daydreams, of course, I'm a hero. Calm, quick, intelligent, superhumanly strong and filled with remarkable insight. In real life, I was quick, but not calm. Definitely shaking. I called the nurse, but didn't think to send the other kids out to the hallway. Didn't check to see how coherent she was. That was a real personal letdown. I'm trying to have a little compassion on myself. The other teacher, as a coach, has to take first aid classes every year. I took my last one... six? seven years ago? And then it was one of those, "I know we're supposed to be here for 8 hours, but I'm going to summarize so y'all can leave in 2 hours" deals. At the time, I was glad to leave. Now I want my money back.

But the other students were sent into the hallway, the nurses came to save the day, the student is as ok as a girl can be after having her first seizure the second week of freshman year. Poor girl.

Of the 30 remaining students, only one girl asked if her classmate was going to be ok. I sent her parents a nice note telling them how I appreciated her compassion and empathy.

And now it's definitely time to go home. Thank you, Jesus, for sending that aide today.

First Impressions

The exhaustion of the first week is starting to overpower the adrenaline. I have very few solid memories of the last three days, probably because as soon as the bell rings my teacher persona clicks on, and I just go. I'm left with only some impressions. My first year classes are undisciplined. It will take a while to show them how to be students. The freshmen are especially rowdy and immature. Overall, they want to learn and do well. I think most of them think Spanish will be fun. My second year classes are nervious about the year. Some of them know they should retake first year, but are too embarrased to do anything about it. I have a student with autism for the fist time. The other students haven't decided how to respond to him yet, so I need to find the class social leaders and pull them aside to talk to them about how they can influence their classmates for good.

At the fall sports assembly, I watched all the football players line up, proud in their uniform and their status. I was suddenly filled with compassion. These are my toughest students. The ones who don't shut up, who are mean to their classmates, who give up before they try, whose need for attention is never sated. I think Jesus gave me an understanding of what he meant by having compassion on the crowds because they are like sheep without a shepherd. These are the boys who want so much to be men, but don't have any comcept of what that means or how to get there. These are the students who, when asked what I should know about them as students, responded:

I learn slower than other kids.

I'm annoying, and if angry will talk back.

I'm a slow learner

I can't speak in front of the class.

Those labels must run deep for them to write it as information for a stranger. Or the student who wrote, "I have a short temper and I'll respect you as long as you resepct me." How do you teach a young man to have enough respect for himself that it doesn't matter if people respect him? I will respect you regardless of your behavior or attitude. I hope you receive the respect I offer and don't misinterpret it as anything less than it is.

But there are plenty of these as well:

I'm quiet but funny.

I wanna try hard.

I am trustworthy and will always give my best.

Being a teacher can be a lot to live up to.

The end.

I spent all last year thinking about starting a new blog. So much rumination should lead to something almost catastrophically amazing, which is part of the reason I keep putting of the beginning. First Post pressure was just too much for my latent perfectionism. Add the fact that I don't have a focus or area of specialty. I thought about writing a blog for teachers. I thought about a food blog. I thought about a book review blog. What it will probably be is a blog that helps me sort out thoughts, deal with problems, share excitement, and tell the ridiculous stories that my lovely students provide so generously.

In the meantime, it is currently Labor Day, aka'd as the Last Day of Summer Vacation. And a beautiful day it is: sunny and 86. The teacher in me simultaneously wants to triple check that everything actually is ready for the kids and avoids thinking about the new school year because, goshdarnit, I already went in and made all my copies for the next three weeks and make sure my computer login still works (it does). That internal struggle is fed by a severe case of the pre-year nerves. I really don't like the first day of school. I have three sections of strangers coming in to stare at me and challenge me into really becoming an authority figure they can respect (or not). All I know about them are their names, past grades, and disciplinary records (yikes and yikes... what kids get up to these days). We'll see how Mr. 97 disciplinary referrals and 0.6 GPA does. I'm willing to give him a real chance. If all goes well, you won't be hearing about him again.

In anticipation, today I tried on some work clothes to see if and how they fit. And, 10 points for me, I can button up pants that were impossible to pull up all the way last June! That half marathon training is good for something after all! But pride goeth before the fall. I tried on one of my favorites, a nice dove gray sheath, and it zipped all the way up. I spent a few minutes admiring my newly flatter tummy, then turned around. Holy cow, it is a bootytastic dress. That is not a first day dress. I want them to love me for my brain, please, and not notice my rather ample backside. First blow to my vanity.

The next blow came as I was preparing for Labor day small group festivities. Ten minutes before group, I went outside to light the barbecue. A giant ball of flame billowed out, engulfing my head and taking out all the hair on my right forearm, a couple locks on the right side of my head, half my eyelashes, and (strangely) all the hair between my eyebrows. That last bit I'm certain was a gift from Jesus. I won't have to pluck for a while. The rest of it made me shakey, as most of my childhood nightmares involved running away from fire, and deflated. Oh! my vanity. Oh! the first day of school with short short eyelashes and missing chunks of hair. Oh! the end of glorious summer.