Matching Tracksuits

Month: August 2009

Rules of the Game

Monday 31 August 2009

He walked onto the court, fully suited up, and all eyes were on him. In helmet and full pads, Ron stood in stark contrast to the other players, who wore tank tops and baggy pants. Their shoes squeaked on the hardwood floor while Ron’s cleats clipped, clopped, and slid about. He was ready for the game, though, and eagerly awaited the start.

Jump ball and the opposing team had the ball. Though his start was awkward as his metal cleats slid across the highly polished floor, Ron quickly got up to full speed and tackled the opponent who was, oddly enough, tempting fate by bouncing the ball on the ground. Full contact–the player went down, the ball shot off toward the center of the court, and Ron was just about to dive on it when he heard the whistle.

“Foul!” cried the ref, and Ron was confused. It had been a clean hit. There was no unnecessary roughness. Still, he shook it off and prepared for the next play.

The opposing team opted for a pass from the far sideline. Ron timed his hit perfectly: just as his victim’s fingers came in contact with the ball, Ron rammed him, driving his foe to the floor.

Another whistle; another foul.

Two clean hits in a row and mysterious fouls called on both. Ron was perplexed the first time; the second time, he was getting heated.

When his third tackle brought another foul and an ejection from the game, Ron was livid. He began yelling and screaming at the ref, protesting violently all three fouls and suggesting that the official was visually impaired.

Yet the spectators and players were utterly confused at Ron’s reaction. It was if he didn’t have any idea that the rules he’d brought onto the court weren’t the same rules everyone had agreed upon for the game. They weren’t even close. And yet, instead of trying to figure out why everything seemed to be going against him, instead of asking for help, Ron ranted violently. The referee tried to explain that Ron was applying the wrong set of rules to the game, but all Ron heard was gibberish. The ref might as well have been speaking Greek, and this infuriated Ron even more.

Finally, he declared that he couldn’t wait until this game was over and plopped himself down in the middle of the court, ignoring all pleas to move so the game could continue.

Harvest

Sunday 30 August 2009

Summer mellows and our garden follows suit.

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Nap

Saturday 29 August 2009

Occasionally, K and I are envious. Most often, we have too much to do at this time of day.

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Fork

Friday 28 August 2009

Image by

Image by i_yudai (Flickr)

It’s a famous riddle: You stand at a fork in the road. One road leads to happiness; the other leads to sorrow. You don’t know which is which. At the fork stand two men. One always tells the truth; the other always lies. You don’t know which is which. You’re allowed one question to determine which road to choose. What do you ask?

The intricacies of the riddle concern me less than the general theme: a life-changing moment, with two, diametrically opposite outcomes.

As a middle school teacher, I often encounter kids standing at just such an intersection. Generally, they don’t realize this, and the ones who do will probably ask the right questions in life.

Of the ones who haven’t yet realized that every moment offers decisions that can change the outcome of the rest of their lives, there are three varieties.

The first give every indication that all will be well with them. This is not to say they’re all studious and hard working. Indeed, many are not–as many of us were at thirteen. Still, there’s something about how they carry themselves that speaks to their future success.

The second group is a mystery. Truth be told, they usually turn out alright too, but they’re just not giving the clear signs yet. They’re not giving any signs yet, and that’s fine. They’re thirteen.

The third group is the group that haunts me. I see them and it’s difficult for me to imagine them making many good choices in life because it’s hard to see them making choices, period.

And not to choose in this case is a choice.

It’s not that they lack intelligence or even vigor. They simply don’t see the choice. They don’t see choice at all in their lives.

They are victims, eternally, and of everything. Adults don’t seem like them and they don’t know why–and they think there’s nothing they can do about it. They speak with loud voices that echo through the hallways and it’s just the way they are: “I’m a loud talker–it’s just the way I am.” They get referrals because teachers are picking on them and out to get them. Only with great difficulty can the make eye contact with anyone at all. They are subject to the whims and silliness of others: people are constantly “making” them do something. They react violently when they feel they’ve been disrespected, and often no disrespect was meant. They consistently show self-destructive views that make it all but certain that the cycles of dysfunction that they have obviously experienced in their lives will continue to haunt them, and their children, and their grandchildren.

Working with them is like working with a blind girl who’s always been blind and who doesn’t even realize she’s blind. Talking to them, trying to present any view that differs from the calcified reality of their first thirteen years is like speaking Finish to an Egyptian.

There are those that wake up and make the changes they have to, that realize they’re actually in control of a great deal of their lives. I know several such people. But the odds are against them, and the fact that I can do very little to change those odds is sometimes the most depressing aspect of teaching.

Birthdays

Wednesday 26 August 2009

Nana’s birthday was Sunday. K prepared the requisite ritual (the cake); L helped decorate it.

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We took a novel approach to the birthday wishes. Or perhaps that should have been “took we an approach novel.” It’s a cake designed to be read while approaching it at very high speed in an appropriately-scaled vehicle.

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Nana made a wish,

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and Papa got his own wish fulfilled.

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Reading The Sleepy Puppy to his granddaughter thirty-five years after he first read it to me, he didn’t laugh as hard but I’m certain the joy was as intense.

Learning

Tuesday 25 August 2009

He came up to me in the hallway between classes, somewhat visibly upset. We’d just had a meeting with the principal in which he explained his very high expectations for everyone, especially including dress code. This young man was soon thereafter working on tucking his shirt in when the charge of “sagging pants” was made.

“I got a referral for that,” he said. “Can you believe that?”

It was one of those moments that I hide my true opinion.

“Bad luck, I guess.” Probably not terribly fair, I thought. He seemed to handle it like an adult, though. He was irritated, but not furious, and his demeanor told me that he’d managed to keep his cool during the encounter.

“So what did you learn from that?” I asked.

“Nothin’. There’s nothing I can learn.”

It’s the challenge I face with so many of my students. See the world around you as the Ubiquitous Classroom. Understand that the mindful person can learn something — about herself, about the world, about her influence on others — from just about every action and interaction.

I really shouldn’t be surprised if they haven’t learned this: they’re thirteen and I, almost three times their age, still forget to be on the lookout for the hidden lesson.

Finding Our Space

Monday 24 August 2009

“I don’t know what to write about” is a common complaint among eighth graders, often regardless of whether or not a topic has been provided. To alleviate that, we began an extended lesson: “How do I find topics for my writing?”

It seems abundantly clear to me: just look around and there are things to write about everywhere: the jostling silliness and/or frustration of a class change; the way five minutes can just drag by even in the best classes; the dress code to which students are required to adhere; the difficulty of coming up with a topic for writing–topics are simply everywhere.

To give students a starting place, we worked on creating Expert Inventories today. “Imagine a teacher told you to write a paper on the topic of ‘blank.’ What topic would make you make you think, “Oh, that’s easy. I can do that I no time!” All the kids dutifully began creating the same lists. The boys wrote “basketball, football, Madden 09.” Many of the girls included shopping, texting, boys.

There were some surprises. One girl enjoys making bricks with her dad. “We like to experiment with how things used to be done,” she explains. Another is good at making mortar. “Mortar?” I asked, wondering if I heard her correctly.

Next step: branching out some of the general terms to more specific ideas. “What do you mean when you say you’re an expert at basketball?” I asked. “Playing it? Watching it? Commentating on it?”

“Shopping–shopping for what? Shoes? Music? Clothes?”

The kids expanded their list, some of them writing endlessly. “Can we use the back of the page?” one girl asked. A good sign.

What I’m trying to do is fairly simple, not to mention fairly obvious: before kids can get serious about improving their writing, they have to enjoy it, or at least tolerate it. Having them to “analyze the author’s craft” (as one of the required “artifacts” is to do) in a short story will not bring “Ooohs!” and “Ahhs!” of excitement. For it to be enjoyable, it has to be meaningful; for it to be meaningful for many eighth graders, it needs to have a personal connection. And so I’m taking the whole idea of required this and required that and tossing it in the recycling bin for a moment. We’ll return to these ideas soon enough.

Jarring Reminder

Saturday 22 August 2009

Checking a post’s formatting, I noticed a picture in the Flickr bar at right.

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“Has she changed so much?” I gasped as I clicked on through. No teeth; short hair; such a very young face — she looks like a different child.

I click through the set — “LMS (First Year)” — and I see a terrifying picture.

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I would never put L in a setting like that now: she’s entirely too mobile and to hard-headed. She’d be tumbling down the rocks within moments.

Or would she? She’s a big girl; she has a fairly developed sense of balance. She might not. The old protectiveness clashes with the new, maturing reality.

Focus

Friday 21 August 2009

Some teachers, it seems, want peace, quiet, and calm in the classroom for their own sakes. I’ve tried something new, something that seems to legitimize my authority as well as the unfortunate, occasional necessity of “cracking down.” During the first class period, I simply told them — and tried to show them — that I’m there to help them, to educate them, to increase their chances for success later in life. “And if one of you tries to take that opportunity from another member of this class by being disruptive in any way and refuses to work with me as I try to bring things back in line, I will make sure that disruption stops. It’s not for me: I will simply not allow you,” and here I point randomly at a student, “interfere with your,” and here I point randomly at another student, “education.” Pause for dramatic effect, then I add, “And vice versa.”

This year, I am trying desperately to show that everything that happens in that classroom has only one intention: helping.

So far, they seem to be buying it.

Magnetism

Thursday 20 August 2009

To love one’s job truly and deeply, so much so that one can hardly wait to return as one is walking out the door at the end of the day, is a great and wondrous gift.

I sat in my room, doing paperwork during a planning period, and I was excited by the fact that class began in ten minutes; I walked out of school this afternoon eager to return the next day.

Only two days have passed and I know I have the kids. I see in their eyes, “This year is going to be different.” One hundred minutes with students (two fifty-minute classes) and I already have a better relationship with them than I’ve probably ever had with students, definitely the best relationship with students in America. I have their complete attention, and they enjoy being there. There’s eye contact; there’s smiling; there’s thoughtfulness — and we’ve just been talking as a class about how this year will be.

In short, I finally have the classroom I always knew I could: mutual respect with a common sense of purpose and an excitement about the year.

What’s different this year? It seems so obvious now, but I’ve simply rejected the common “wisdom” about creating a first impression in the classroom. That so-called wisdom is based on a Hobbesian view that humans are inherently bad and respond only to coercion. “Scare them.” “Make them know who’s boss.” “Don’t smile before Christmas.” That’s fine if you want a seemingly well-behaved class that jumps when you require it. It doesn’t do much for relationships, though. Students tend to think the teacher is simply flexing his district-given power. No one responds well when being “put in their place.” No one works well in an environment based ultimately on fear.

Instead, I’ve taken Rousseauian approach. I don’t believe everyone is inherently good — I believe we’re inherently rather neutral — but I do believe that people treat us the way we treat them: if we treat people well, they will respond well. If we establish from the beginning, unquestionably, that we respect people, they will return that respect.

This is critical when working with middle schools, and even more important with working with middle schools who might have grown up in an environment almost completely lacking in adults who behave in a way that inspires respect.

The upshot of all of this is that I simply can’t wait to get into the classroom tomorrow, which makes it infinitely easier to plan lessons tonight.

Putting the “Scat” back into “Eschatology”

Tuesday 18 August 2009

There are movies out there that are so awful that you just have to recommend them to your friends. Like the old Saturday Night Live sketch in which Chris Farley has everyone trying the rancid milk and rubbing his clammy belly, there are some evils that we simply must share to appreciate.

The Omega Code is one of them. Without a doubt, it is the worst movie I’ve ever seen, yet one film everyone should endure just to see how bad a movie can be.

There is nothing redeeming about this film, and that’s its perverse charm. The acting is awful, sometimes too hot, sometimes too cold, most times just not there; the script is pathetic, ranging from faux Elizabethan nonsense to middle school scribblings; the special effects are neither special nor effective; the cinematography is along the lines of “put the camcorder there and hit the red button”; the soundtrack has all the subtlety of a mix prepared by an eight grader who’s just discovered Carl Orff; the direction lacks any whatsoever; the costumes are late-eighties high school drama club quality.

If someone sat down to plan a worse movie, it would be tough to top this one.

A look at the production credits brings everything into focus, though. TBN Films, as in “Trinity Broadcast Network”–Paul Crouch’s network. Writing credits include Hal Lindsey as a consultant for biblical prophecy.

A-ha! It’s not the film itself that’s important, but the ideology behind it. In short, it’s propaganda portraying the soon-coming end of the world according to a certain fundamentalist Christian interpretation of the Bible.As a bizarre aside, there is a bizarre theological menage a trios involved in this film that is about as dumbfounding as the film itself. Both Casper Van Dien and Michael Ironside play in The Omega Code and Starship Troopers. Troopers, in turn, was directed by Paul Verhoeven, who was a fellow of the notorious Jesus Seminar, the ultimate liberal theologians club, hated and scorned by Crouch’s TBN. Talk about working with directors of diverging views!

Michael York plays Stone Alexander, “beloved media mogul turned political dynamo,” whose rise to power is never explained. Within a few minutes of the film, however, he’s “named chairman of the European Union,” developed “an inexpensive, high-nutrient wafer that can sustain an active person for more than a day and a revolutionary form of ocean desalination that will bring life-giving water to the driest of deserts,” and won the “United Nations Humanitarian award.”

And there you have it, folks: if you haven’t figured it out already, Alexander is going to set himself up as the miracle working Beast prophesied in the Book of Revelation.

Initially, “motivational guru Gillen Lane,” played (or rather, played at) by Casper Van Dien, joins forces with Alexander in an effort to make a cliche difference in the world. He soon realizes the evil of Alexander’s true aims and becomes determined to stop him.

Lane's talk show entrance
Lane’s talk show entrance

In the meantime, though, he has some of the choicest moments of the film, often serving up the lines that other characters hang themselves with. For example, Lane suggests that, in order to motivate people, Alexander needs to be someone “to rally behind,” an “archetypal figure to embody the message.” His ultimate suggestion, after mention Martin Luther King and Gandhi, is “a new Caesar,” to which Alexander memorably replies,

Oh, no, no! No, not Caesar! Why man, he’d have to stride the narrow world like a colossus, and we petty men walk beneath his huge legs and peep about to find ourselves dishonorable graves. Oh, no! No, I’m not that ambitious.

Yes, your sophomore English serves you well–Julius Caesar, Act I, Scene ii.

"Why man, he’d have to stride the narrow world like a colossus, and we petty men walk beneath his huge legs and peep about to find ourselves dishonorable graves"
“Why man, he’d have to stride the narrow world like a colossus, and we petty men walk beneath his huge legs and peep about to find ourselves dishonorable graves”

Is this an attempt at high-brow script writing, or is it York improvising, flexing his theatrical muscle, so to speak? I’m not sure which alternative is more frightening.

Yet as the film progresses through the second half, it gets worse. Or better. Or both, if you’re a masochist.

Some examples: Alexander develops technology that “neutralizes” nuclear weapons, unites the world into a single government, with a single-currency, rebuilds Solomon’s Temple, and literally comes back from the dead.

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“Gentlemen, we all know the rules to Risk.”

Gillen Lane’s close friend Sen. Jack Thompson, played by George Coe (The Mighty Ducks, Bustin’ Loose), laments,

I don’t know anything about visions. I never had one. But I know about marriage. And I know about family. And I know the worth of a real man will show in the countenance of his wife’s face.

" I know the worth of a real man will show in the countenance of his wife’s face"
” I know the worth of a real man will show in the countenance of his wife’s face”

The director, Robert Marcarelli, introduces bizarre attempts at plot twisting which, to anyone really thinking during the film, are inexplicable plot complications. Characters faced with immanent danger react with increasingly baffling shortsightedness. And most puzzling, the relationship between the purported Bible code (the crisscross, three-dimensional code supposedly hidden in the Torah, a la Jewish Kabbalah) and Biblical prophecy is never explained, though it seems clear to everyone in the film.

This is perhaps the film’s most confusing point. The waters get muddied right at the film’s opening, when Lane, who also has “a doctorate in both world religion and mythology from Cambridge,” is interviewed on a talk show by Cassandra Barashe, played by Catherine Oxenberg.

Barashe: In addition to your many other accomplishments, you seem to be an expert on the Bible code. […] Explain to our audience what this Bible code is, and how it works.
Lane: Well, crisscrossing the Torah is a code of hidden words and phrases that not only reveals our past and present, but foretells our future. […] Most amazingly, in the Book of Daniel, an angel tells him to seal up the book until the end of days. But Rostenburg[, an expert on the Bible code,] may have found the key to unlock it. See, he believed that the Bible was actually a holographic computer program and that instead of two dimensions, it should be studied in three. If this could be achieved, the code would actually feed us prophecies of our coming future. Anyway, the reason I discuss this in my book is because what we want to believe as religion really traces back to myths born out of our collective consciousness.
Barashe: Has anyone raised the question of how people like yourself can believe in these hidden codes within the Bible, and yet not in the Bible itself?
Lane: You mean like, “Jesus loves me, this I know [Looks at the audience with skeptically raised eyebrows], for the Bible [Air quotes, returning his gaze to Barashe] tells me so?” [Looks at the audience as they laugh at his wittiness]
Barashe: Yes, exactly.
Lane: My mother used to sing me that song. But you know what? She died in a tragic car accident when I was ten years old, and I finally realized that her faith in this loving God, her truth, was just a myth. Therefore, myth must be truth.

"We are the higher power!" to applause in middle America
“We are the higher power!” Lane proclaims, to applause in middle America. Highly realistic.

This kind of twisted logic is the basis for the film and snakes its way throughout the whole script. The Beast rises to power by following the secret codes of the Bible, yet we’ve all been warned of it in the books of Daniel, Ezekiel, and Revelation, as other characters make clear. We’re left wondering, “If it was supposed to be so clear to us mere mortals, why did Satan–and that’s really who Michael York’s Stone Alexander is, a possessed megalomaniac–need the secret Bible code to figure out how to bring it all to fruition?”

That’s a question that not only does the film not answer, but it doesn’t even realize it raises it. I suspect this confusion between code and prophecy arises from TBN’s effort to get “real prophecy” into a mass marketed, main-steam film. The popularity of Michael Dorsnin’s The Bible Code and similar books seems to have gotten the writers at TBN to thinking, “Hey, we can use this as a springboard into the Bible’s real code: prophecy!” As a result, it’s a mess.

As a whole, the biggest flaw of The Omega Code is its earnestness. Films usually don’t take themselves as seriously as The Omega Code does, for it not only depicts but is a battle against the wiles of the devil. Yet what the cast and crew end up making, instead of the Biblically-based, thought-provoking thriller they think they’re working on, is a B-movie, and the absolute worst kind: an accidental B-movie. Its “B” status slipped up unawares, probably just a few moments behind the initial idea was taken seriously by all involved.

Even if the film were made in earnest but intelligently, it wouldn’t be so bad. But not only are we dealing with an awfully written script, but we’re also enduring characters who are simply stupid. They scribble “bug” on a legal pad to let one another know a room is wired, then proceed to talk in hushed stage whispers that no known listening device can detect. They run for their lives, literally the most wanted individual on the planet, then start ranting about visions they’re having when they finally find someone who’ll help them.

What kind?
What kind?

God bless them all, but they’re freaking idiots, each and every one!

The clear stupidity of the characters lets us sigh in relief, though. In the end, their idiocy transforms the film into a hopeful vision for the future, because if Revelation’s Beast turns out to be half as dimwitted as any one of the characters in this film, there’s hope for humanity.

Unless he starts producing films.

Casual Sunday

Monday 17 August 2009

A new class with a new teacher and a new building — recipe for stress for a 2.6 year old. All that in mind, we decided a lazy day at home was in order. Morning was for painting.

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L is very interested in abstract design, and she has a strong sense of color, particularly blue. A successful painting has a significant amount of blue. And pink.

All great artists teach as well, directly or indirectly. L is no exception, offering advice to neighboring painters.

“But, but, you use blue paint, Mama, and I use blue paint. Okay?”

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And a productive painting session requires the artist remain focused on her work, heedless of where else her paint might be landing.

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Backyard Setup

Sunday 16 August 2009

We’re going on our first family camping trip over the Labor Day weekend. First, we have to check out the tent.

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Of course, the Girl has to help. She loves helping, though until the last few months, her help has not been terribly helpful.

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But she’s getting good at holding things for us.

“I can hold it?” she asks. She keeps a tight grip for a few moments, then asks, “You need this, Mama?” If Mama doesn’t need it, L quickly loses interest.

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Once set up, the tent is a hit. It’s a palatial space for the Girl, and she makes good use of it, running about, jumping, being generally toddler-ish.

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Back to the Dream

Tuesday 11 August 2009

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I end the year dusting and I start it with a rag in my hand as well. Before we can check out for the summer, we teachers have a myriad of duties and responsibilities, not the least of which is preparing our room for the summer cleaning. This involves taking everything not attached to the floor out into the hall way, refinishing the floor, then putting everything back. At both ends of the summer, then, there is a thin layer of dust on many things.

There is usually something similar clouding students’ minds in the early weeks. They act as if we’ve awakened them from a deep sleep and not given them the time to clear the haze from their thinking. In short, they forget some of what they learned the year before.

It’s to be expected. After all, who wants to rehearse subject/verb agreement and the quadratic equation when everyone else is at the pool or on a trip?

So I spent the day dusting and arranging, preparing to dust and arrange.

Books in the Basement

Sunday 9 August 2009

petuniaIn the process of reorganizing the basement storage/work room, K and I have been tearing open boxes that have sat virtually untouched for years. Most of it consists of my own belongings, packed up while I lived in Poland in the late 1990s (eventually repacked into sturdy Rubber Maid storage bins). My parents moved, and instead of making the decisions for me, they left it to me, ten years later, to go through the stuff and toss out that which was once treasure but now trash. Granted, I could have done it earlier, but I lacked the serious motivation. Who wants to root around through old boxes of memories?

I had cracked the box that I knew contained my photographs. Eventually, when I moved back to Poland in the early 2000s and dumped on them all my earthly possessions collected in Boston and Polska, the box grew to contain pictures from close to thirty years of my life. It was a strong incentive, and I’d gone through that box several times.

The rest of the boxes remained packed, essentially for close to fifteen years. This was the week that I opened them.

The vast majority were books and toys from my own childhood that my mother had saved. Most of them were in remarkably good shape, especially the books. Not a spot of mold; not a hint of mildewy age.most-bradfield-lion

I found a Harriet the Spy tour location tour on Flickr while writing this — well worth the time of any fans.

And so I took some time to go through books from my childhood, most of which I hadn’t held in my hands for at least twenty-five years. A look at the title and I remember almost everything: plot, illustration style with specific illustrations, and even my favorite parts. Petunia, the Sweet Pickles series, Benjamin Dilley’s Lavender Lion, stacks of Tell-A-Tale books–and so many other books I didn’t even remember having until I pulled them from the box. Near the bottom, late-childhood favorites hid: Harriet the Spy, a book on real, scary sea monsters, a book on tornadoes.

There were few specific memories about the books. Instead, it was general feelings, peaceful feelings. Calm.

I pulled several out to give to L.

harrietHer collection grows, and her eyes always light up when she gets a new book.

She takes books everywhere: she wants them by her as she plays; she wants them in the car with her; she wants one when on the potty. All of these are negotiable. The non-negotiable is the bedtime book. Usually her pick. That night, though, I chose: Petunia.

“Poor Petunia. Poor animals.” L mutters sympathetically when the firecrackers go off, scattering and injuring the animals.

I’m doing more than passing down books; I’m sharing memories in the most direct way, by recreating them.

Lie

Saturday 8 August 2009

faceThe evidence was everywhere: an empty wrapper; brown stains around the mouth; dark smears down the front of the dress; cocoa breath; the knick-knack box that stored chocolates sent from Babcia in Poland on the floor open.

“L, did you eat chocolate?” I ask.

She put her head down in shame — a new trick — and the looked up and said calmly, “No.”

I look at her quizzically and ask again. I get the same answers.

And suddenly, everything I’d learned about parenting during the last thirty-one months goes out the window. “How do you deal with someone lying who isn’t old enough to know what truth is?”

Some quick research shows that my assumption was right:

Your toddler lies because at this age he’s not yet able to differentiate between reality and fantasy. Until he’s 3 or 4, your toddler won’t fully grasp the concept of lying, because he doesn’t yet understand the idea of an objective truth based in fact. (S.Denham)

And yet, it didn’t seem like the the best idea simply to ignore it. Denham goes on to provide suggestions in her article, but standing there, looking at a chocolate smeared little girl who’d just told me ever so sweetly, “No, I didn’t eat chocolate,” I experienced something I hadn’t experienced at home for quite some time. At school, this happens quite frequently, but at home — not so much. In short, I stood there dumbfounded, wondering what in the world is the “right” way to handle the situation.

I told her that she’d lied, and I explained what that mean in concrete terms: “You told me you didn’t eat the chocolate, but you did eat it.”

And from there? Everything that came to mind just seemed so pedantic and ineffectual.

“Teach about the truth” is now on the parenting to-do-when-she’s-old-enough list.

Image: morguefile.com

On Fire, In More Ways Than Intended

Wednesday 5 August 2009

I’ve been buying and reading books on pedagogy this summer, and one I bought was Rafe Esquith’s Teach Like Your Hair’s on Fire: The Methods and Madness Inside Room 56. Esquith is all the rage: after all, how many fifth grade teachers do Shakespeare with students after class?

There are some good ideas in there, and initially I was hopeful that it would be a useful book. His discussion of the importance of trust in the classroom and some ideas of how to integrate that into a classroom management plan excited me, as this was something I was hoping to focus on this year.

Soon, though, some things started to feel off. Discussing the fact that educators are role models, Esquith writes,

Some of my students laugh bitterly at a teacher they once had. They discuss her in the most unflattering of terms. She often comes to school late. [… She] talks on her cell phone constantly. Even when the kids are being taken somewhere, their fearless leader walks in front of them gabbing on the phone. […] The same teacher thinks she is “secretly” shopping online while the kids do their science assignments. She believes the kids do not know what she is doing. She is very much mistaken. (10)

My initial reaction: what an awful teacher. My second, more thoughtful reaction: how in the world does Esquith know this? Certainly, a teacher can overhear students talking in class about a teacher they had, but if the conversation continues long enough for the teacher to garner this much information, one of two things is happening:

  1. These kids aren’t working but sitting in class having free time, which they’re using to gossip about another teacher; or,
  2. Esquith discusses other teachers with his classes.

Neither one of these is terribly flattering. The passage in the book is terribly unprofessional.

One passages deserves to be quoted at length:

You see, the children at our school do not read well. They do not like to read. As of this writing, 78 percent of the Latino children on our campus are not proficient in reading, according to our state’s standardized tests. This means one of two things: Either we have the stupidest kids on the planet , or we are failing these children. Please believe me when I tell you that the vast majority of our students are perfectly capable of learning to read. No one wants to admit it, but a systemic conspiracy of mediocrity keeps these children on the treadmill of illiteracy.

To fight the problem, we now have “literacy coaches” at schools. Most of these “experts” are former classroom teachers who never accomplished much with their own students. […]

Teaching our children to read well and helping them develop a love of reading should be our top priorities. People seem to understand this. Millions are spent on books and other reading material, celebrities make public service announcements, and thousands of hours are spent training teachers. The spin doctors at various publish companies tell us that our students are doing better, but honest people know this is simply not the case. Concerned teachers have learned not to bother raising their voices, because powerful textbook companies have carefully prepared answers to anyone who points out that the emperor has no clothes. Young teachers are afraid of being crushed by bureaucrats whose only real mission is to keep selling their product. As testing services compete to rake in millions of dollars, nervous school districts anxiously await the latest test results. And year after year, most children do not become passionate lifelong readers.

It’s complicated. There is a lot of finger-pointing. But to borrow a phrase from another big, fat book that won a Pulitzer Prize, our children are victims of a sort of “confederacy of dunces.” Powerful forces of mediocrity have combined to prevent perfectly competent children from learning to love reading. These forces include television, video games, poor teaching, poverty, the breakup of the family, and a general lack of adult guidance. (29-31)

There is a lot of truth in the statement, Testing services do make a lot of money from the increasing number of standardized tests students have to take. There can be pressure to use state-funded textbooks regardless of a teacher’s preference. But the bottom line is this passage is highly insulting by presumptively marginalizing literacy coaches.

This book has some good ideas, but most of the time, I found myself thinking, “I’m glad I’m not this guy’s colleague!”

Still, listening to him on NPR, I sense a humility that just doesn’t come across in his writing, which is too bad.