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Getting to Know Them

Donald Graves, in A Fresh Look at Writing, suggests a deceptively easy pen-and-paper method to gauge one’s familiarity with students. After creating a three-column table for a given class, begin writing students’ names in the left-hand column and including information about interests (especially academic) and not-quite-obvious personality traits in the middle. The third column is to indicate whether that has been specifically confirmed by the student.

Doing it all from memory should show how well a teacher knows his students. It also shows the students a teacher enjoys and worries about most (the first listed) and the students who are not immediately noticeable in the classroom (those listed last and/or forgotten).

I tried it mentally immediately after reading Graves. There is only one excuse for how insufficiency and insignificance of my list: it’s still very early in the year. It looked something like this (names changed, of course):

SamuelEnjoys talking with friends; plays The Godfather like a master but has never seen the film√
JustinePlays violin; switched piano violin .√
AndrewLikes eating hot food√
SusanShy; admittedly tends to think of herself as inferior to many others in her class√
JanetLikes dancing

It continued on like this for another five or six students.

I learned that I still know nothing terribly significant about anyone in that class. I have given myself a mandate: learn more about these students by the month’s end.

Yet how? The opportunities to have a genuine conversation with students are few. Certainly one could simply spend class time talking to some of them, during student conferences and such, but that’s not always the most efficient method, not to mention it being a particularly ineffective use of class time.

A few of the ideas I have begun implementing:

  • In the hallway between classes. Because our school uses the team-teaching model, students stay in the same area of the hall throughout most of the day. They have the time to chat with each other, so they have the time to chat with me.
  • In lunch lines. There’s always a long line of students waiting to get their lunch. They chat with each other, and it’s a good, non-academic environment for conversation.
  • In the hallway, on the way to the library/lunchroom/computer lab/etc. While I require my students to remain silent as we walk along, I break my own rule and chat with one or two of them quietly. Perhaps it’s unfair, but as a colleague tells students, “I earned a college degree to get this privilege.”
  • During fire drills. Once we get the students outside and counted, there’s always a few minutes before we’re called back into the building.

The single best way to get to know students, though, is through a journal assignment. I have one class writing a thrice-weekly journal, and I learn more about the students in ten minutes of reading than I could ever learn in 180 days of teaching. This girl runs cross country; that boy enjoys using Google’s Sketch Up; she has a talkative father; he has a talkative mother. I walk into class the next day and see a whole person rather than a 50-minute sliver.

Russian Spam

In our spam list was the following comment:

Ты как обычно радуешь нас своими лучшими фразами спасибо, беру!

Given the source, it seems to be a spam. But “беру” also seems to be an off-kilter version of my name, so I struggled with it a while.

Then I called K over, and we puzzled together.

Our Russian is rudimentary at best, but we pieced together a bit. Apparently, the spammer/commenter wanted to say that “You so…” (Ты как) something or other about “enjoying” or “being happy” about one’s own фразами.  And it ends with the the first word most folks learn in Russian: “спасибо.” “Thanks.”

Of course, these days, one doesn’t have to trouble oneself over an unknown tongue — there are plenty of translation sites out there. Google translates it, “You’re normally so happy about us with the best phrases thank you, take.” Little help there. Still, it sounds quite spamolicious.

In response, I say “спасибо.” I think.

Update

Russian spam looks just like English spam: Спасибо автору блога за предоставленную информацию. “Thanks to the blog author for the information provided.”

Critical Mass

Basilica of St. MaryTo hear Catholic Mass in one’s own language was, for centuries, impossible for the majority of Catholics. Vatican II changed all that, allowing Mass to be celebrated in the vernacular. As a result, Catholics worldwide hear the same Mass yet different sounds.

Poles in America experience a certain foreigners in the English Mass, regardless of the individuals’ fluency. This goes a long way in explaining the significance of the Polish Mass celebrated in Greenville today. A Polish priest, on loan from Polska, is stationed in Columbia, a mere hour-and-a-half from Greenville. After much persuasion, he came to a little church outside Greenville proper, and probably almost every Pole in a thirty-mile radius was there. The kids stood and knelt at the all the proper times, but being raised in the States, they didn’t know the hymns or the responses/prayers. They seemed lost. I would imagine that’s what they’re like visiting Poland as well: strangers in a land that sounds strangely familiar.

For me, it brought a smile. The first time I ever attended a Catholic Mass was in Poland, and Polish is, for me, the language of liturgy. From hearing alone, I know the prayers and formulations in Polish better than English.

Aside from the language, there are subtle and not-so-subtle differences. Poles still do the mea culpa in the Confiteor. “Moja moja, wina, moja wina, moja bardzo wielka wina,” all chant in the church, jabbing their thumb into their chest with each “moja wina.”

At the end of the Mass, he asked for a show of hands for a commitment to a monthly Polish Mass. Every hand in the church went up, including mine (after some prodding from K — I was simply absent-mindedly daydreaming about the oddity of hearing a Polish Mass after so many years).  Critical mass achieved, the priest then announced that there would, henceforth, be a monthly Polish Mass. Applause broke out, and it was then that the significance of the moment was clear. A bit of their heritage, their youth in Poland, their past given place right here in Greenville, home of Bob Jones University, one of the most virulently anti-Catholic institutions in America.

While I was living in Poland, the closest I ever got to getting a taste of my own culture was to drop into McDonald’s or watch the latest American blockbuster.

10,000 Holes

Though not in in Blackburn, Lancashire. Rather, they’re in our yard, now.

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Weeding, aeration, leveling, seeding, fertilizing — it’s been a long day.

Rise to the Top

For many years of my youth, my mother and I went on Wednesday afternoons to a nearby farm to get fresh milk. The cream would sit on top, a visible band of white that dared you to disturb it.

Eventually, the couple stopped producing milk for sale and we went back to store-bought milk. It was a let-down.

Through a friend, though, K and I have found another farm.

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Now if K’s mother were only here for a visit so she could make her amazing doughnuts…

Propriety

Pre-teaching
Kupa is Polish for “poo-poo”, and it’s pronounced, “koo-pa.” Siusiu is Polish for “wee-wee”, and it’s pronounced “shoo-shoo.”

When you’re nearly three years old, everything has a proper method. There is no gray area; there are no acts or activities that don’t have strict rules, regulations, and expectations.

Rituals abound, and often, the adults don’t even realize there is a ritual for this or that, let alone what the various elements of a given ritual are.

L’s morning rituals are set. We wake Her Highness up, and the first stop is the kitchen bar. We get out the milk; she opens it. We bring her the cocoa mix; she opens it. We pour the milk; she adds the cocoa. She stirs and tastes; we stir and taste. She closes the sippy cup; we check that it’s tightly screwed on.

Any violation of these sacrosanct rituals is troubling. Try to open the milk and L cries, “I do it! I do it!” Try to screw on the sippy cup lid before she has a chance and she cries, “I do it! I do it!” It has become so problematic that we introduced a ritual of our own: “L’s Magnificent Mornings.” It’s a sticker-bribery system, basically. It works, but it has only added one more ritual to our ritualistic lives.

Most of the rituals appear without warning. A new ceremony concerns entering the bathtub. It is not to be done at one end or the other, but precisely in the middle. Galaxies collide and gravity dissipates otherwise.

Occasionally, we get to watch a ritual being born. Slowly, it develops and moves from the status of “occasional addition to an existing activity” to full-blown sacrament.

This afternoon, I might have witnessed it.

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20 sec, f/8.0, 55 mm

L came to me asking for help in the bathroom. This can only mean that baby wipes will be necessary. After L created her “awful smell” (as she once referred to it), I suggested that we flush it down.

“No, I need to siusiu,” she replied solemnly.

“Well, we can flush and then you can siusiu,” I suggested.

She shook her head. “No, no! Kupa needs to swim!”

I suggested that kupa might have more room in the big potty and she reluctantly agreed. If I were to place a wager on it, though, I suspect it won’t be the last time L tries to protect kupa‘s right to exercise.

Artist

Occasionally, a picture can capture someone’s personality perfectly.

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Manners

The room was dark; L and I were in the rocking chair, just moments before she went to bed. A time to calm down, this time of day often brings out stories about how L’s school day went.

L began telling me about the order they sit in during circle time.  She’s in a new group, and most of the children in there are new friends, so there were lots of new names floating about. She hardly finished one name when she started another. Then a pause.

“And beside Alex…” her voice tapered off.

“Who’s beside Alex?”

“I don’t know.” We rocked for a few moments, then she amended it. “I don’t know her name.”

“Why don’t you ask her.”

“No,” said L in a quick, clipped voice: it’s how she’s shortened “I don’t know” for many months.

“You just have to introduce yourself. Walk up to her and say, ‘Hi. My name’s L. What’s your name?'” A few more rocks, then I suggested we practice.

Within a few moments, she began improvising — “What’s your name? My name’s L.” — and adding a handshake with, “Nice to meet you.”

The following night, I asked her how it went. “Did you meet that girl from your circle time?”

“No,” she replied, and then gave a meandering explanation that only a toddler could come up with. Still, we practiced again.

Malden Center

Funny how an odd thought can lead to nostalgia. Thinking about Boston before going to bed, I did a quick search on YouTube. I found a video of the MBTA (Massachusetts Bay Transportation Authority) stop at Maulden Center, Orange Line.


Like Poland, I don’t miss it and I do.

Two things I miss: first, Boston is a big city packed in a small town. The area the Greater Boston area covers is really small, and the are Boston proper covers is minuscule. The rest is Cambridge, Allston, Brighton, and a handful of others. And Malden, where I lived. Yet it has a lot of the advantages of a larger city: vivid downtown, arts, music, etc.

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Second, I miss public transportation.

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I miss being able to travel from here to there to way over there and back again without a car. A monthly T-pass, a bicycle, and the occasional taxi were all I ever really needed.

Teaching Writing

Teaching writing means reading things like this

  • The crowd looks like a box of crayons with their colorful shirts on to support their favorite school.
  • The most magnificent and wonderful part of day is the night that takes us within. It gives you your dreams and time to think about the day that trailed behind you.
  • I ask my mom. “I’m too busy at the moment. How about later?” Knowing that later will be near 7 PM, I slither back to my room.

How can you not smile when gems like this are scattered through student writing? Evaluating each assignment becomes a treasure hunt.