An Old Blog and an Old Post

I've decided to re-post an entry that I wrote in my (now defunct) blog Pre-K Ponderings. It echoes the sentiments I have now as I prepare for my fourth year of teaching.

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Whenever a new school year rolls around, I start to feel antsy. I look for a new hobby, like crocheting. I consider signing up for volunteer projects. I plan to see the dentist for the first time in 9? 12? 18? months.

And then it really hits me. After my students arrive, I realize what I need to do. I have an urge to record what they say, those miraculous little statements that vanish from memory too quickly. I invariably find myself thinking, “I should be writing about this.”

Those of you who know me probably remember my previous attempts at documenting my teaching experience. There was “Day in the Life of a 5-Year-Old” and “Now We Are Six.” While I considered an ill-fated career in business, there was the equally doomed “Venture Girl in a Boy’s World.” During my teenage years I also kept a blog, though I no longer remember the name. Perhaps there are some things we’re better off forgetting.

So here it is: Pre-K Ponderings, named in honor of all of my brilliantly authentic charges. I hope to record not only what they say but also what I, their wonderfully inexperienced teacher, learn from them.

Since my first post is being published on 9/11, I offer you a 4-year-old’s wisdom:
When his son was asked what the city should do with Ground Zero, the boy said: “They should build two giant jungle gyms, so that kids can play there, and they should call it the sad park.”
I encourage you to read the full story of Michael Gordon’s “The Sad Park” on NPR Music.

This is My Life: December 17

Alexander: Is Jesus still alive?

Me: No, Jesus has been dead for a long time.

Alexander: Five years?

Me: Much, much longer than five years - about 2,000 years.

Alexander: 2,000 years?! How old was he when he died?

Me: Well, we're not really sure, but history tells us he was about 34 years old.

Alexander: How did he die?

Me (with hesitation): Well, do you see that cross up there? (I point to a cross suspended from the ceiling of the cathedral.) He died on the cross.

Alexander: What? Did he fall off the cross?

This is My Life on November 17

"When did you go to South Africa, Aisha?"
"Last winter. It was so so fun, but it took a long time to get there."

"South Africa is pretty far away. How long did you ride in the plane?

"A long time - like one hour!"

"Teddy, I noticed you had a really hard time concentrating in calendar today. Why was it hard to listen?"
"I don't know! I just can't help myself!"

Alexander Moment of the Day

Alexander, one of our "active" boys, has been reminded to sit down several times.

Me: Alexander. Sit down. On your bottom.

Melanie (my co-teacher): Alexander. Down. Bottom.

(Alex walks around the room and smiles at Melanie through the legs of the easel.)

Melanie: Alexander, you need to sit down now. We have asked you three times, and you are stopping our friends from moving on in their writing. That is unacceptable.

Alex: Why is your face red?

Melanie: My face is red because I'm upset, Alexander. I'm upset that we can't move on in the lesson.

Alex: Your face is always red.

Preparing for a New Adventure

It's been over a month since my last post. Where did the time go?

For starters: I now live in Washington DC and am preparing to teach kindergarten. After the craziness of moving to a new city subsided, I jumped into orientation and classroom preparation. Our first day of school is Tuesday, and I can't wait for the kids to arrive. I've written their names on so many folders, name tags, snack orders, and welcome boards that I can recite our class list in alphabetical order. Here goes: Agnes, Aisha, Alex, Asha, Charlie, David, Griffin, Jaden, Kimora, Liza, Luca, Lucas, Luke, Mackenzie, Max, Mia, Nina, Olivia, Phillip, Ryan, Sigrid, Teddy.

One of the things I've studied (at length) over the last week is our kindergarten curriculum. My directing teacher, Mrs. L, is in her 8th year teaching, and she is a veritable curriculum rockstar. She is amazingly organized, to the point of listing books and chants for each lesson on our weekly planning sheets. She also has insight into the huge variation of skills our kids will have mastered when they arrive in our classroom. She explained to me at one dinner that we can expect reading levels ranging from "little to no knowledge of letters" to "5th grade comprehension." We'll have kids who don't know teen numbers and those who understand the concept of a factorial.

"How do we work with that?" I asked, wondering (understandably, I think) how to help each of our 22 students fulfill his goals.

She gave me the answer I've come to expect in education: "It depends on the child."

Is there anything in this business that can be boiled down to pure formula? My experience, and the experience of my infinitely more qualified colleagues, suggests that the answer to this question is, "No." It seems that the only rule for working in a school is that there aren't any hard-and-fast rules.

This leads me to another, larger, question that swirls around my head almost everyday: if we can't simplify the workings of a single classroom, what makes us think that there is a silver bullet to reform the entire system?

This reminds me of a conference I had with the parents of one of my students last week. The conference was a chance for the parents to tell us about the "hopes and dreams" they have for their daughter in kindergarten. It's a fact-finding mission for teachers that helps us understand how the child learns, her strengths and weaknesses, as well as areas where her parents would like to see her improve. This particular student has an older brother who is quite advanced and introverted, and one of his favorite things to do is correct his baby sister. Their dialogue goes something like this:

Baby Sister: "Well, I think it's a little like this..." (Baby Sis demonstrates, explains)

Older Brother: "Not exactly."

According to the student's parents, this near-constant refrain of "not exactly" from her older brother sensitized the younger sister to making mistakes. Because she is a big-picture thinker, she uses broad strokes to understand the situation. Her brother, however, always seeks out nuance and points out moments when she could be more precise.

It strikes me that such a dynamic is not unique to this pair of siblings; we can find examples of it everywhere we look. Because I spend quite a bit of my downtime reading education blogs, they are my most salient form of reference. Every issue in the world of education reform, from "value-added" to charters to the achievement gap, essentially breaks down to one party painting the broad strokes while another reporter approaches just in time to write "not exactly" in his next post.

So where do we go from here? I can only hope that my 5-year-olds have some insight in this matter to share with me.

Education Utopia: No Place?

Utopia lies at the horizon.

When I draw nearer by two steps,

it retreats two steps.

If I proceed ten steps forward, it

swiftly slips ten steps ahead.

No matter how far I go, I can never reach it.

What, then, is the purpose of utopia?

It's good for walking.

— Eduardo Hughes Galeano

The other night, I went to a lecture on utopian art at the Walker Art Center in Minneapolis. The speaker was Stephen Duncombe, Professor of Art History at the Gallatin School at NYU. Duncombe's talk centered on a growing minority of artists who have abandoned the "truth telling" function of art in favor of seemingly far-fetched utopian propositions. These ideas push against atrophied imagination, forcing the viewer to consider unprecedented societal change. One of the most interesting utopian campaigns Duncombe discussed was Steve Lambert and Packard Jennings' "Wish You Were Here: Postcards from Our Awesome Future." Lambert and Packard describe outrageous (and hilarious) ways to improve San Francisco. Here are some of their suggestions:

- Turn Candlestick Park into Candlestick Organic Farms

-Install a zipline between Coit Tower and Oakland

-Turn the Muni into a roller coaster

The point of the work is to challenge perceptions of what a city can be. Dumcombe says of "Wish You Were Here," "Unless you have imaginative leaps, you're always going to create the status quo."

Duncombe's talk got me thinking about applications of utopian ideas to education. What could we do if we could think bigger about schools?

People like Geoffrey Canada are already doing this in places like Harlem Children's Zone. HCZ provides wraparound social services for families who live in the Zone. Canada said in a recent press release, "If your mission is about all of the students in a community, then dealing with family crises, gangs, drugs, violence, and health all become part of your strategy to support development of the whole child, not just how they perform on standardized tests." I believe wholeheartedly in supporting the whole child and seeking other measures of success than standardized tests. But perhaps we can reach even higher.

So what would I do if there were no limits? How would I change the system, Coit-Tower-zipline-style? What would you do?

(As a side note, I just finished the season finale of The Bachelorette. So so entertaining.)

Phone Calls: Keeping Kids Off the Streets?

Last week, I was reading Ross Trudeau's analysis of Lee Canter's assertive discipline. Canter is bringing some of his strategies to the MATCH Teacher Training Program, including this crazy walkie-talkie system that gives teachers immediate feedback on their presence in the classroom. (I'm not going to describe it in-depth, so read Ross's post if you want to know more.) Canter believes that urgency must characterize a teacher's every move. His justification?

"Hey, that classroom is chaos. You know the only thing between those kids and the street? YOU. You gotta dig deep and find that stronger voice or it's the STREET."

I happen to think that factors other than vocal urgency keep kids off the streets. (I'm sure Canter and Ross would agree with me). The gist of Canter's message, however, hits a powerful chord. Here's the chord it hit with me. I thought, "I should really call my students from MATCH."

It wasn't guilt that caused me to pick up the phone. Canter's statement was a powerful reminder of what I already knew: kids from low-income, tough environments need all the support they can get. My 7th graders need reminders that I care about them: I care about the video game that Gardy just beat and what Joselia's camp counselor said to her. When you're 13, those things mean the world to you, and you're bursting for someone to ask you about them. I want to be that person for my kids.

I remind all of them (and their parents) that they can call me anytime. I'm not just an academic resource, and I haven't disappeared because the school year is over. Instead, I am one of the many supports that will keep my kids off the street. That's a role I'm proud to play.