g | matching tracksuits

Turn Around

Friday 07 April 2017 | 0 Comments

Dear Terrence,

What a turnaround you've had these last two weeks. If I hadn't seen it, I wouldn't have believed it. (That's not quite true: I would have believed it because I've seen it happen before, but not often. Not often enough, for certain: such kids are certainly outliers.) For the year to date, your Class Dojo positive behavior percentage has been right around 45%, which means you're a negative influence on the class the majority of the time.

I'm not quite sure you realize the extent of your behavior. You couldn't go more than a minute or two without talking to someone -- and that's not hyperbole but probably an understatement if anything. You turned in absolutely nothing for most of the year. When I ran a missing assignment report for the year to date a few weeks ago, you were missing 45 assignments, to go along with your 45% percent, I guess. At that point, I couldn't have possibly given you more than 50 or 55 assignments, so that means you hadn't turned in 85-90% of your work. Your grade was abysmal as well.

Then two or three weeks ago, something happened. What exactly, I really don't know. Perhaps your mentor finally said something that really made an impact. Perhaps our counselor, who's been pushing you all year, finally said something that made an impact. I'm afraid it wasn't I who said something that made an impact because, I'm a little ashamed to admit, I had all but given up on you. You have to understand: I have 120 students. I can't expend all my energy on one at-risk kid, and there comes a time when I have to say to myself, "I can keep going after this kid, which hasn't worked for three-quarters of the year, or I can take that energy and apply it to that kid, who really has shown some growth." Finite resources and all. So it wasn't I, I'm afraid, but someone said or did something, and you've been a different person since then.

Last week, you turned in your article of the week and worked as hard as I'd ever seen you work. Sure, you didn't turn in one assignment, but you did turn in two. That's a vast improvement right there. Then there was that surprising Dojo percentage: 79%. I was shocked. You probably were, too.

Last weekend, I was wondering: "Will Terrence make it two weeks in a row or will things go back to normal?" Tuesday you approached me and said, "Mr. S, I left my article of the week at home, so I won't be able to work on it as my bell ringer." Wednesday, when you walked in the building and passed where I had hall duty, you waved your article at me: "Got it today!" You did your work; you set a good example. And that Dojo percentage? 90%. I like to frame things in reference to things you guys get, so I made the obvious parallel to basketball: "Think of that, Terrence: if you're shooting 90% from the field and I'm your coach, I'm going to make sure you get paid whatever you have to get paid to stay on our team, and I'm going to tell the rest of the players, 'Just carve out a little space for him and give him the ball. He'll do the rest.'" That smile was unforgettable: "I know, right!?"

The truth is, Terrence, it's not just in basketball that that 90% will get you whatever you dream of. Just about anywhere will work.

This week, it was an honor to have you in class. I can't say I've always felt that way, though. Here's hoping we both keep bring our A-game for the rest of the school year.

Impressed and still smiling,
Your Teacher

Optional

Thursday 06 April 2017 | 0 Comments

Dear Terrence,

When did a response to "Good morning" become optional? When did manners become a matter of personal preference?

For you, considering all that has passed between us, my behavior likely seems two-faced. You think, "Here he is trying to be all nice to me, and when I get to class, he's going to be on my back about everything." That's not an accurate interpretation of my behavior, though. You see, I won't deny a simple fact: despite the fact that your behavior often is the most irritating aspect of my entire day, despite the fact that your behavior disrupts the whole class, despite the fact that your behavior often descends into outright disrespect (never mind the fact that disruptive behavior is itself disrespectful) regardless of how politely I redirect you, and despite the fact that some of your behavior seems downright spiteful, I try to approach each day as if it were the first day you and I ever encountered each other. I try to give you the benefit of the doubt each and every day. In short, I try to start fresh daily.

It seems only fair. You are, after all, only a kid. Your personality and behaviors have not completely congealed, and there's always hope that you will mature during the school year and come out the other side a different kid. It does happen. And so I want to foster that possibility, however remote, in your behavior by starting anew every morning, and the simplest way I can do that is simply saying as cheerfully as I can muster without sounding false, "Good morning."

Ironically, this type of behavior extends even into the adult world. There have been plenty of times, in both my teaching career and in other jobs I've held, that I've come to work with a sore spot for some colleague or other. It's hard to leave it all behind, and sometimes that sore spot gets irritated just by seeing that person, and the last thing in the world I want to do is to be cheerful and polite. But that's part of the game. It's not being false or two-faced to hide those true feelings; it's called being professional. It's called being an adult, realizing that these little rituals like "Good morning" are just that, rituals that really mean nothing more than "I acknowledge your existence this morning." True, it is a shortened form of an older greeting, "I wish you a good morning." But even my worst enemies I wish a good morning: if things are going well for them, they're not likely to take anything out on me.

So let's try this again. I'll say "Good morning, Terrence," and you say, "Good morning, Mr. Scott." And we both know we've started our day off with each other on a positive note.

First practice is tomorrow morning.

Kindest regards,
Your Teacher

Rain Day

Wednesday 05 April 2017 | 0 Comments

Snow days — those make sense here in South Carolina. Most municipalities don’t have the equipment to clear snow properly and effectively. Add to it the lack of general experience drivers here have with snow and it’s fairly obvious why everything shuts down. The snow starts falling in the morning on a school day, and everyone realizes it’s likely only a matter of time before the announcement. At our school, it’s usually something like this: “Teachers, please check your email.” And there we find the procedures we will follow for early dismissal.

Rain, though? I remember there was a kid in the apartment complex we lived in when I was in kindergarten whose mother would keep him home if it rained, but I thought that was a one-time thing, an exception.

Today, I found otherwise.

By the end of fifth period today, probably a third of the school had already gone home. Early dismissal. To be fair to parents, there was supposed to be a horrible storm passing through: flash flooding, potential tornadoes. Nothing to take lightly. But what ended up happening was so much less dramatic: a few parents began taking their kids out of school, and every other kid, realizing the possibility, texted home. Probably something like this: “Everyone else is going home. Come get me — please!” And soon, there were so many parents waiting to pick up their kids that instead of calling individual classrooms as with the standard procedure, general announcements echoed through the school.

“Will the following students please come to the office for early dismissal,” and then ten, twelve, fifteen names. Five minutes later, “Will the following students please come to the office for early dismissal,” and then ten, twelve, fifteen more names.

Later in the afternoon, an apologetic email from the principal: “I understand that very little teaching can take place due to the announcements,” it began. But what was to be done?

I sent a text to K during lunch: “L is going to be sad because she didn’t get early dismissal. Kids are leaving here in swarms.” Something along those lines. K texted back: “I’m at home with the Boy. He had early dismissal, too. We’re going for L soon.”

And so what do you do with an unexpectedly free afternoon, that rarest of all gifts?

There was a movie, of course. The latest from Netflix, another Studio Ghibli film, Pom Poko. (We as a family have grown to love those films. Not a bad one in the bunch.)

There was a bit of playing, of course. The Boy can find entertainment anywhere. Just add some cars and he’s set.

And K finally got some time to work on a project that’s been haunting us for years: pictures for our living room and kitchen. What to include? How to arrange them? What, sadly, to leave out?

Tomorrow, everything goes back to normal, but only for two days as we near Easter and spring break.

Early April Sunday

Sunday 02 April 2017 | 0 Comments

Spring Saturday

Saturday 01 April 2017 | 0 Comments

Spring Saturdays have their own rhythm for years now. Almost all Saturdays begin with an eight o’clock Skype chat with Babcia. They talk about family, friends, recent events, changes in our life, changes in her life — the little changes that can accumulate in a week or that pile up unmentioned for weeks. The only thing that’s changed is the instrument. At first, it was downstairs on the main computer. After a few years of that, it shifted upstairs to the laptop in the kitchen. These days it’s via K’s cell phone.

The Boy and I head out after breakfast. We’re building a small fence to hide a now-visible, now-empty area that was once held our buggy gas pack air system hidden by Leyland cypresses. Like always, the Boy wants to help, and like always, it’s less help than one might really want in order to call it help. Instead, I think of it as helping him — helping him grow, helping him learn the value of work, helping he learn how to use tools properly. I show him how to use the square and he’s off, scoring lines all over the four-by-four that will eventually be the final two posts of our fence.

Next, it’s time to dig the holes for the posts. Here, patience is the key. I take a shovelful of dirt out, and he follows suit with his little blue shovel. But here’s the thing: he has to have a shovelful that suits him. A dab of dirt at the tip is not acceptable, so he tries again and again, frustrated as the dirt slides off the end as he tries to pull the shovel out of the growing hole. Or later, he starts kicking dirt back into the hole.

But shortly after, he’s genuinely helpful: he holds the post for me to get some measurements and check alignment. He helps shovel the concrete around the posts and smooths it once it’s in. Of course, in between, there’s time to play.

And once it’s done and the other chores are behind us, we head down to the swing and hammock for some early-evening silliness.

It’s like so many other spring Saturdays. And ritual is always comforting.

Spring Saturday

Saturday Ritual

Friday Afternoon

Friday 31 March 2017 | 0 Comments

"Daddy, you be Clemson. I'll be the Cubs." We're not much of a sports family, but in the Greenville area, it's impossible to escape Clemson. We get hand-me-downs in bright orange with a white paw print, and the Boy hears about the school's athletic exploits at school, so he's aware of Clemson as something that always seems to be on the periphery. The Cubs are even simpler: I'm not much of a baseball fan, but I watch a bit during the World Series, and with 2016's being so historic, I couldn't miss it. And of course, I cheered for the Cubs. And so the Boy did likewise.

Turnabout

Sunday 26 March 2017 | 0 Comments

One of the Boy's favorite books for a while was My Cold Went on Vacation, which tells the story of a little boy who catches a cold and recovers, only to wonder where the cold has gone. He loved it because in each picture, the cold -- a green-faced, long-nosed, always smiling circle -- was visible somewhere; I loved it because of the style of the illustrations. It was an educational book for the Boy as well: we got to talk about how colds are spread, and he told me about kids in his pre-school class who had gotten ill throughout the year. He reminisced about his own colds and giggled each time he saw that the cold eventually returned home to visit with his sister a while.

So went our week as a family. The Boy started us off with a stomach virus on Monday that kept him home Tuesday as well. He let it take a leisurely stroll around the neighborhood before letting it back in Thursday to lay me out all day Friday. And then last night, K was complaining about being more tired than she should have been, and I knew where our family virus had gone after it left me.

As a result, most of this week has been kind of start-and-stop. The Boy got sick and everything slowed down; he got better and everything returned to normal. And so went the cycle.

It's something of a short metaphor for this time of year: the end of the school year is within sight, but it's still off in the distance a bit, just a little way down the line. We can see it, and we're all ready for it. We're ready to close the year out, pack our bags, and fly to Poland for a few weeks. But it just keeps chugging.