Month: October 2019
Big Brother
We got access today to some new software intended to help us rein in students’ abuse of Chromebooks. Basically, it enables all teachers to become Big Brother to students: we can see every single thing they do, block sites, shut down tabs, lock computers — the whole deal short of turning off the computer remotely. Since it’s based on time of day and rosters, I see the activity of students in, say, my fifth-period class whether or not they’re in the room: if they’re on the computer, I see it.
So when I saw one of my students who was serving in-school suspension on YouTube, I closed the tab. When he started searching for Louis Vuitton shoes, I closed that down.
When he started searching for it again, I locked his computer with the message, “You won’t be able to afford those shoes if you don’t have a good job. You’ll have difficulty getting a good job if you don’t get a good education.” After a few minutes, I unlocked his computer, and he went back to luxury shoe searches. I locked it again, leaving it locked until the end of the session.
Another student who was in the room with him was talking about how this kid’s computer kept getting locked up. “He was so mad,” this kid told his friend.
If this were a kid who normally did his work, I probably would have just ignored it. If I hadn’t just gotten access to the software (and the class hadn’t been taking a test), I probably wouldn’t have noticed it as I wouldn’t have been on the computer and wouldn’t have had the program open. Then again, if he hadn’t been in ISS, he would have been in my room, taking the test.
If, if, if…
Braces
The Girl got braces today. She wasn't happy. Neither was our bank account. But such is life for us all...
Family Sunday
It was a dreary, rainy day today, but none of the adults were complaining. Far from it: it’s been so long since we’ve had any rain that I wouldn’t have minded if it rained all day long. But E was sad: we’d planned on going to the zoo since the morning because, according to the forecast, the rain was supposed to stop after lunch. It didn’t, so we didn’t.
Instead, we stayed inside and played Peanut Butter and X — can’t remember the other half. Maybe cabbage? It’s basically the card game BS. It’s a silly game that a seven-year-old can understand, though he doesn’t understand the nuance.
“Now I have to lie!” he proclaimed at one point.
“Now we know that you don’t have what you’re going to say you have,” L laughed.
“Now don’t give him a hard time,” I chided.
“Now I don’t want to play!” E fussed.
We talked him down from his frustration and continued, even managing to make it fun again.
Afterward, I decided it was about time to teach L how to play hearts. We played an open hand with three people so I could show them how to play, but I was doubtful from the outset that the Boy would be able to keep up.
In the evening, we expanded our circle, playing a full game (i.e., four people) by adding K and Papa to the mix. After four hands, we were all virtually tied. Probably the perfect way to end.
Loss
The Boy was the goalie when it happened — the break, through the pack that always orbits the ball, past the last defenders who have spent most of the year looking on, that left the Boy basically one-on-one with the attacker.
From the moment the break started, I fear for the worst. And a few short seconds later, there it was. The first goal of the game. The only goal of the game. The team’s first loss. With E manning the goal.
I knew he would be distraught about it. “I’m no good at defense,” he declared.
The question is, will this affect his love for the game? Can we help him move past it? How long will this bother him? These were the thoughts I rehearsed on the way back to the house.
By the time we got home, there was no real mention of it. No mention of it for the rest of the day. But what about Tuesday, when it’s time to go to soccer practice?
Bethal Bash 2019
Perfection
Lena’s team went undefeated this year, including winning the championship tournament tonight.
So Mean
Conversation One
"He knocked me down, and I stayed calm. I didn't even say, 'Why do you have to be so mean?'"
The Boy and I were on our way back home, and he was explaining some adventure or other that he'd had during recess. He's taken to playing soccer then, and he's often telling me about what happened during the game.
"Why would you have said, 'Why do you have to be so mean?'" I asked.
"Well, I didn't say it."
"But why would you have said it? Why are you specifically pointing out to me why you didn't say it?" I suspected it was because someone had said that to him at some point.
"Well, I was playing soccer the other day with X" (I can't remember the name) "and I tried to sweep the ball away from him. I didn't mean to, but I knocked him down. He just jumped up and screamed, 'Why do you have to be so mean!?'"
It's usually the Boy on the receiving end of such things, and I'm always trying to help him see the other point of view: perhaps it was an accident. "Oh, no, Daddy, it wasn't an accident," he usually insists. So I asked him, "Did you tell him you didn't mean to?"
"I tried to," he explained with a frustrated edge in his voice. "I said, 'I'm sorry. I didn't mean to knock you down,' but he just walked away from me and ignored me."
Sometimes, I feel like the Boy can't win: even when he's the (accidental) aggressor, it somehow ends with him feeling like a victim.
Conversation Two
On the way to soccer practice the evening, the Boy brought up Frida Kahlo. One of his multi-age class groups (they're called "houses") is named after her. "Do you know who she was?" he asked.
"Was she the Mexican painter?" I asked, thinking of the uni-brow painter who did so many self-portraits.
"Mexican? I thought she was German," he replied quizzically.
I'm not up on painters, so I just suggested that perhaps I was thinking of someone else. "Was she friends with Trotsky?" I asked, knowing the response.
"Who was Trotsky?"
Who indeed.
"A generally bad man," I said.
"Why?"
"Because he was responsible for the deaths of many thousands of people."
He thought about it for a moment then asked, "Were they innocent or did they deserve to be shot?" He paused, thought some more, then corrected himself. "Well, I don't mean deserved to be shot. They were just bad. Were they bad?"
From there, the conversation devolved: "Oh like Hitler?" "Who killed more?" "Who's Stalin?" "Did anyone kill more than him?" "Mao what?"
Then I got to wondering: on the playground were these men the aggressors or the aggrieved? And how in the hell did that conversation end up there?
Sunday Downtown
I stayed home to get caught up and prepared for tomorrow. The rest of the folks went downtown. Then gave the girls the Fuji x100...
October Saturday
It was finally fall today: temperatures never rose into the sixties, which meant that today was literally thirty degrees — thirty degrees — cooler than yesterday. This made the soccer game much more manageable, for players and spectators alike.
He had a couple of breaks, and one looked like it would have been a sure goal: the only defender was in front of him, running, not watching E at all.
“And then my foot touched the top of the ball instead of dribbling,” he explained later, “and I just fell.”
Later, he made it through three defenders and slipped the ball just past the goalie. He fell on the easy shot, made a goal on the tough one. Sounds like something I would do.
