teaching

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rudy and the rocks

Medion DIGITAL CAMERAIn first or second grade Rudy found himself in a pickle. He did something wrong, something the teacher didn’t approve of. She handed him a sealed note addressed ‘To the Parents of…’ and told him to take it home, that he needed to have one or both his parents read and sign it. And, well, in his town, a sealed letter from the teacher always meant You are in trouble mister! news.

Rudy panicked, was scared of the spanking that was sure to happen once his mom read what he had done. He knew that his dad was at work so it would be his mom that would handle the situation. Her way.

A classmate, a wee boy about the same small height as Rudy, noticed the fear building up in his eyes, so he recommended that Rudy defuse the situation with just three rocks.

“Three rocks?” Rudy questioned.

“Only three,” the friend responded. “And you must find those three rocks right here, on the school grounds, right now. You cannot pick them up on your way home.”

Rudy ran off to collect the average sized rocks, not much bigger than large pebbles.

“Got ’em,” he claimed, holding out his hand, displaying the carefully-selected-similar-looking gray rocks.

“Good. Now what you do is… when you are walking home toss one rock behind you, and don’t look back. Never look back,” his peer stated.

“So, I just throw the rocks over my shoulder?”

“Yes, but you must throw them one at a time, not all at once. And, you must throw them with an equal distance between each toss.”

“Okay,” Rudy felt slightly confused, and must have shown it on his face.

“Once you leave this spot and are a short distance away throw the first rock behind you, wait until you have walked a little then throw the second rock, and then the third rock gets tossed at an equal distance compared to the first two. Understand?”

Rudy shook his head up and down. “And you are sure I will not get a spanking when I get home?”

“Yep,” the boy confidently stated.

Rudy made it home, successfully tossing the rocks at an equal distance, and never once did he look behind him to see where they landed. He nervously handed his mom the letter, whereby she simply smiled, and let him pass without a word.

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i wish i could talk to my students the way i talk to my children

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Kids want to know. Want to have the conversation. Want to hear it from someone they trust. Kids want to talk about sex. They do. They know it’s out there. They know it’s happening. But they have no one to talk to. Because? Well, because it’s taboo for kids so young to have that conversation. I mean, really, how many adults believe that if you talk to kids about sex that kids will take that information and use it. Use it for real, and actually go out and have sex. Lots of adults believe it. Believe if you talk about it, that means you are giving them permission to act on it. Or, they believe the opposite. Don’t talk about it. Even if kids ask. About sex. About what it is. Or what this or that means. Because, well, it’s embarrassing for them, the adult, to talk about an adult thing with such a young kid. That the best way to handle such a conversation is to ignore it, and to change the subject as quickly as you can. But, I am telling you, kids want to know. They want to have the conversation. With someone who is informed, and will tell them the truth.

Long ago, when Elizabeth was, maybe, five years old, she asked me where babies come from. I answered her with a question of my own. Where do you think they come from? She thought for a moment, and in her small, young girl voice she questioned From here? pointing to her belly button. Not that I was shy about the conversation, in fact I embraced it, loved where it was going, but I also knew she was teeny tiny and could only handle so much. So I simply answered something like, Sounds good. And that was that. Over the years she’d asked simple questions that I knew were building up to more in-depth important sex questions, and every time, without hesitation, I’d answer her, based on her question. But, wait, she wondered one day, how does the baby get in there? She must have been about 8, 9, or 10 years old at the time, and I matter-of-factly told her. Yes I did! I knew she was ready for the info so I told her, using vocabulary she’d understand. Oh, is what she said, with interest, seemingly happy to know something maybe many of her friends knew nothing about. And so it went. We talked. About everything sex. Over the years. We talked openly, without embarrassment. And, along the way, her two younger brothers learned that they too could ask me questions and talk about things they wanted to know. Things about sex. Things they heard, or read about but didn’t understand what it meant. They’d ask as casually as if they were asking what was on TV. And, you know what, the best thing is – for Liz, my one and only daughter, a girl I wanted to grow up with a strong sense of self respect – did just that.  When high school was all said and done for her, the main thing that prevented her from ever doing anything too emotional with a boy was due to our open conversations. About sex. And me explaining how the intense emotions involved should be saved for when she was ready to handle such relationships. I know this because she told me so.

I wish I could talk to my students the way I talk to my children because, they too, are curious and want to know the facts. They know things, and have heard things. I mean, how can they not with all the information so available to them. Information that makes them wonder, interests them. But really, all they want to know are the facts. And they just wish someone would talk to them. Have a conversation with them. To help them make wise choices. That’s all, really.

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aggrevation gone wild

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Trying to be nice.

Kind.

Helpful.

Understanding.

Respectful.

Seriously trying.

Putting things into perspective.

Aware of the innocence.

Of the impressionable minds.

Yet.

Reflecting.

Wondering.

Why it’s so hard.

For others.

Regardless of age.

To do the same.

To return the respect.

That has been earned.

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pieces of paper

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Last year I was a 3rd grade teacher. This year I teach 5th. Last year I didn’t have to deal with silly notes being passed around among the students. This year I do.

Those little pieces of paper have covered everything from Hi! to Are you coming to my party? and down the line, asking Who do you like?, or commanding Don’t be friends with so and so. I would walk up behind the receiver and snatch the note from their small 5th grade hands and drop it onto my desk, where it sat, forgotten. In general, kids would either giggle or open their eyes wide, forming their mouths into an oval shape. And then the lesson would continue. As the days progressed, those ripped from the pages of their notebooks shreds of paper began to become more of an issue, which caused my attitude to change from such a cool and nice teacher to students being more secretive and less complimentary. Most of them began tossing me yikes! glances, hoping not to catch my eye for fear of getting in trouble.

My favorite note of the year, thus far, has been a quick drawing of me, looking mad, with the words stating Mean Teacher! But even better, they included Rudy in the drawing, also looking mad, calling him Mean Teacher’s Husband! As usual, I dropped it on my desk, but this time, with my back to the class of kids I smiled. Never before have I been called Mean! Never. I knew then that the environment in my 5th grade classroom differed greatly from the innocent charm I love you, Teacher! of 3rd graders.

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grades

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She talks. Alot. During class. During recess. In the library. While on the computer. At the lunch tables. Talk. Talk. Talk. She’s what you’d call a social butterfly. And a gossip. Someone who knows everything about everyone. I know because she tells me. Gives me the scoop about her life. Their life. Everyone’s social life.

As much as I understand the social aspect of growing up. Of life. Of being a student. I also know the importance of getting good grades. Grades that build upon each other. Year after year. Success after success.

Seriously, people, I tell the kids. You really need to understand how important the grades you receive are. They are a reflection of your determination.

As I was giving my speech, she was talking to the girl. To the boy. Both sitting behind her. I’d look at her. I would stare. And she’d quickly turn around. Until I began lecturing again. About how some day they’d all be going off to college. To educated themselves even further. Go to great colleges. Because they were getting great grades. Because they persevered.

And again, she talked. To the girl next to her. To the boy in front of her. She even passed a note to the girl diagonal from her. A note I had to intercept. A note that interrupted my train of thought. A note that had nothing to do with school. But everything to do with who was dating who, and who be stilled her heart.

On the day I handed out report cards, the grade reports of all my students. Many kids happily accepted the take-home-share-with-your-parents-news while others cringed at the thought of what lay inside the sealed envelope.

I watched her skip out the classroom door. Across the blacktop. And then she ripped opened her achievement marks. She tossed her head back. Wasn’t surprised by the comment I wrote. The comment stating she needed to focus more, talk less. She leaned her face down. Concentrating on the not-so-great marks she received. Then she looked at her friend’s report. Seeing how they compared. They laughed. As if everything was A-OK. That life was just grand.

Suddenly, she was at my classroom door. Having returned unexpectedly. And all she said to me was It’s your fault I didn’t get good grades.

Explain that to your mom, I responded. And she walked back out. Onto the blacktop. And sat with her bestest friend. Watching the cutest boys in school. Giggling about this and that. Him and her. About everything except the importance of good grades.