Matching Tracksuits

education and teaching

Motivation

Monday 23 September 2019

Written in seventh period

What motivates me? That depends on what we’re talking about. What motivates me to go to work? Honestly, at its most basic level, it’s the desire to make sure I’m providing for my family. We have to pay for someplace to live, some food to eat, and the like.

But just about any job could provide that: there are plenty of jobs that pay as much as what I earn as a teacher that I could have selected, I guess; there are plenty of jobs that pay more–some, much more–than I what I earn as a teacher, so the next question would have to be, “What motivates me to be a teacher?” Part of it is that I just like working with kids. It keeps me in touch with new ideas. And the behavior is part of it as well: when an adult acts like a child, I find it much more infuriating and difficult to put up with than when a child acts like a child. When kids are petty, they’re just being kids–they’ll outgrow it. When adults are being petty, there’s a likely chance that that’s just how they are–they won’t outgrow it. I can’t put up with that. I would not be able to keep my mouth shut, and when someone did something foolishly immature, it would grate on my nerves.

Long Week

Thursday 19 September 2019

Written in seventh period

This has been an absolutely endless week. When Monday lasts a week in and of itself, it’s no surprise that by the time Wednesday rolls around we all feel like it must be Saturday. Add to it the simple and dumb fact that I stayed up longer than I really needed to last night means I am utterly and completely exhausted, yawning endlessly and wondering if I can make it to this evening without falling asleep.

Not having to put E to bed tonight will certainly help. I do love how he cuddles up to me when it’s bedtime, but on a night like tonight, “Snuggle Time” as he loves to call it would prove deadly: I’d fall asleep and then spend the rest of the evening in a daze.

I look at my students now and none of them seem like they could possibly be as tired as I am. A just types away, gnawing on her lanyard without a trace sleepiness in her eyes. R is so calm and simply focused — typing, typing, typing. L’s cracking a smile as she types, suggesting that she’s alert enough to write something amusing and then recognize it as such. Everyone looks like their thirteen or fourteen and filled with energy. At nearly forty-seven, I feel like my battery is always hovering at around 14% — just enough to get you through the rest of the day but nothing more.

Open House

Tuesday 17 September 2019

Written in sevneth period.

Last night we had open house here at Hughes. In some ways, I really don’t enjoy that, but that’s only because of how long it makes the day. It’s a small price for what actually occurs. I got to meet several students’ parents, and while it’s no different in some ways from Meet the Teacher night, the real difference lies in me: I know the kids now. They’re not just names on a roster. I know how they act, how they think (to a degree), what makes them laugh, how well they do with this or that skill. They’re no longer just names on a paper but people with whom I work. An odd thought: my students as my coworkers. Not an odd thought–an unconventional thought.

Open House

Monday 16 September 2019

We have Meet the Teacher night before the school year gets started, but all the students are still just unknown names on rosters. By the time tonight rolls around, when parents come to ramble through the school and follow their children’s schedules, I have faces to go with the names. And personalities. And fears. And excitements.

I got a chance to talk to C’s parents. She’s new to the school, having changed schools just at the start of the final year of middle school. A tough time to make that switch. “She’s having a tough time,” her mother confided in me. She misses her friends; she misses her teachers; she misses not having such a strict dress code — all the worries of a thirteen-year-old, I suppose.

I got a chance to talk to I’s mother and tell her what a powerful leader she can be in class. “She was making sure everyone in the class stayed on task today, really taking a strong leadership role,” I told her. Both I and her mother smiled.

I got a chance to talk to A’s parents. A is, in his mother’s words, “a diamond in the rough.” All parents see their kids like that, I know, but I think that’s really an accurate description of A. He displays flashes of brilliance in his comments and performance at times, but they’re often couched in moments of apparent apathy. Or insecurity. It’s hard to tell with eighth-graders. I think it’s hard for them to tell sometimes.

I and K with the rest of the 100%-ers

I got to meet K’s mother. K is in the same class as I. They’re real gems. K has made it to the 100% club every week (i.e., 100% positive behavior as recorded in Class Dojo). Her mom saw that and whipped out her phone. “I’m getting a picture of this!” K laughed and tugged on her arm. “No! No! This needs a picture!” If only every child could have a parent that supportive.

I didn’t get to meet other parents, parents I really wanted to talk to because of genuine concerns that are growing. Sure, I can call them, perhaps email them, but talking to them in person is always so much more productive. I try not to judge — maybe they had to work or had prior commitments — but I can’t help but see a correlation.

Montressor

Thursday 12 September 2019

We had one of my favorite lessons in English I today. I love that moment when everyone has the realization that Montressor is receiving the sacrament of Last Rites. It always kind of frustrates me that no one has ever gotten the importance of that one word, that little “You” that gets the ball rolling. I sometimes think that if I could set things up with some background knowledge, get them reading some texts that deal with the idea of confession, that they might figure that out. But still, how to do that without giving it to them immediately? As I told Emily A, the struggle is almost more important than the right answer. The struggle is where we build our mental muscles.

All classes have gone fairly well today. I’m exhausted, yawning and longing for a cup of coffee, but that is always a good sign. But still, on this end of seventh period, feeling the heaviness in my head, wishing I could just lie down and take a little nap, I wish I wasn’t quite so tired even if that means lessons didn’t go quite so well.

Band

Tuesday 10 September 2019

I stopped and listened to the band rehearse a little while after my morning duty, and I realized how much I love the fact that Hughes has a band. It teaches kids a lot of valuable lessons — above all, teamwork. It is the ultimate group project because no one can slack if it’s to sound right in the end, and unless it’s a concerto or something, there are no stars so to speak. Everyone has their little part to play, and often those things don’t even sound all that good by themselves — a bit plain, a bit boring, a bit repetitive — but in the end, it all comes together to create something greater than the sum of its parts.

Other benefits: the self-control (one cannot play what one wants as loud as one wants), the discipline (practice, practice, practice!), and the simple value of learning music, which improves cognitive abilities and creativity among many other things.

I played sax in the band in fifth and sixth grade, but once I got to junior high (we didn’t have middle school, just junior high — seventh and eighth grades), I quit. In eighth grade, I talked my folks into letting me sell my sax and use the money to be a CD player. CD players weren’t brand new then, and that’s why my father agreed to let me buy one: it was clear it wasn’t just a fad, something that would disappear in a couple of years like Beta Max tapes did. Still, thirty-some years later (I was in eighth grade in 1986, I guess), they have proven to be little more than a long-lived fad.

Fear

Thursday 5 September 2019

Dear Teresa,

There are some students that I would believe could be afraid of me. I do try to seem sterner in the opening days of the school year than I actually am — it’s not an accident. It’s an act, but not an accident.

You, though, try to come off tough as iron, as if nothing moves you, frightens you, or disturbs you. That was certainly the impression I got when I met you, and it was certainly the image previous teachers painted. Or at least, that that was the impression you wanted everyone to have of you.

So when Mr. Smith told me that you absolutely refused to come to my room during advisory period to get help with your work on account of being afraid of me, I had to smile a bit.

Don’t get me wrong: I don’t really want you to be afraid of me. But a little fear does go a long way: It has shades of humility that you try so hard not to exhibit. It has shadows of understanding one’s place and accepting it, which you try so hard to suggest you don’t do, won’t do, for anyone. Those attributes are essential for being able to accept help. And we all need a little help.

With hope for a fear-free, help-filled year,
Your Teacher

The Year So Far

Wednesday 4 September 2019

During homeroom, students had a simple task:

Go to the Hughes Website and select two teachers/administrators/counselors and send an email to them telling them how your year has been so far.

A few minutes after everyone had left for first period, I had a chance to check my email. I wasn’t really expecting anything other than the torrent of emails from parents, administrators, spammers, salespersons, teachers, students, and sundry interested parties about the usual things: Try this new product! My child is worried about your class! Here’s more paperwork for you! Instead, there was an email from a young lady in one of my classes with the subject, “Hello, Mr. Scott!”

During homeroom, I got to thinking about how my year had been going so far. I’ve one student whose behavior already worries me, and another student whose behavior today took a slight turn that was both unexpected and sadly anticipated. Other than that, no issues. Everyone has been respectful and engaged, perhaps because I try my best to model that respect and engagement. I like to think so, anyway.

I’m behind already in all my classes, but that’s just because I’ve slowed down to accomodate the needs of students. In past years, I’d be worrying about when I might make up the time; this year, I’m just thinking, “It’ll play out as student needs dictate.”

I’m lucky to have that kind of freedom. I have a district pacing guide that indicates where I should be, but it’s general enough that fudging here and there is not problematic. Plus, I work with administrators who would wholeheartedly support my decision to slow down as needed: student achievement and learning trumps all.

All in all, I’m pleased — very pleased — with how the year is turning out, all the more so because students seem to feel the same way. The letter?

[Sentence of embarrassing accolade.] Yes, your class is challenging, and yes, you hand out a lot of work. However, where would society be today if nobody worked? I enjoy your class–both of them. Your sense of humor makes me laugh everyday, and I learn something valuable and new in each of your classes. I am so excited to see where you take me, and I know that I will be prepared for high school and beyond. Thank you!

The initial accolades embarrass me a little, hence the redaction, but the rest of it confirms that everything I’ve been trying to do has, at least for one student, been working.

We should probably be sending these types of letters to students every week…

Random memory from the time machine:

First Day 2019

Tuesday 20 August 2019

The Girl started seventh grade today, the Boy began second grade. The Boy, in his multi-age classroom, is now an “older friend” as opposed to a “younger friend.” “I know my teachers,” he explained when I asked why he was so confident about going to second grade. There’s a lot to be said for the continuity of having the same teachers for a couple of years.

The Girl starts algebra this year, and she’s on the school volleyball team, and she makes her own breakfast and packs her own lunch. Our little girl is no more; she’s a young lady, looking more and more like her maternal grandmother every day.

I began, I believe, my 20th or 21st year of teaching. I could count it up, I suppose, but what’s the point? More or less is more or less enough. Taking all I’ve learned from teaching, I began all classes with very little worry, very little concern: I know what works for an opening day; I know what doesn’t work. I filled the day with the former and successfully avoided even a hint of the latter. The kids are sufficiently assured that I can be as tough as I need to be and adequately convinced that my class can even be — dare I say it — amusing and fun at times.

Reading with the Boy

Wednesday 12 June 2019

We try to get the Boy to read a little every night. Tonight we worked on L’s old book about spiders. I found the place we’d left off, but the Boy insisted that he’d finished with K last night.

“Well, it doesn’t hurt to read it again,” I said. It might have sounded like I was just being lazy, but being able to read a tricky passage fluently will build his confidence. We learn by repetition, especially recognition of new words.

“The back part of a spider’s body is called the abdomen,” he began.

“Wow — you read that tough word like a pro,” I added.

“What word?”

“Abdomen.”

He sighed. “Daddy, I recognized the word.”

“I know. And that’s a long word to know. How many letters?”

He counted: “Seven.”

“You recognized a seven letter word!”

“No, wait,” he said, counting hopefully again. “No, just seven.”

He continued, stumbling a bit: “It has the spider’s hear — hear?”

“Heart,” I helped.

“Heart and the spinnerets, which make silk,” he continued.

“Spinnerets?!” I gasped. “Are you kidding? You read that like a pro as well!”

“But daddy, I stumbled over a” and he paused to count. “A five-letter word.” He often stumbles over words, words that sometimes surprise me.  And he recognizes and reads fluently words that sometimes surprise me. It’s part of learning to read.

“That’s okay,” I reassured. “You stumbled over that word, but you nailed ‘spinnerets.'”‘

Many of my students over the years have face similar struggles, and struggling readers are not confident readers. I’ve sat with kids who were reading, asked them to read aloud, and heard difficult passages come out like this: “It has the spider’s hea hear — whatever — and the spin spin — I don’t know — which make the silk.” If that’s what’s going on in their head as they read silently, and there’s no reason to think it wouldn’t be, it’s no wonder they don’t feel confident with reading: the struggle produces nothing but a confusing text. And they’re likely to anticipate all this: before they begin reading, they’ve convinced themselves that they won’t understand it. And all of this builds and calcifies into not a mere reluctance to reading but a positive aversion to it.

Confidence eliminates those “whatevers” and “I-don’t-knows.” And so I have the Boy read books a second, third, and fourth time.

“But I already know this book,” he complains.

“I know — that’s the point,” I think.

Fifth Grade Questions

Tuesday 11 June 2019

This week’s project: clean out the basement. Again. To be fair (to us), the last time I did this was in 2015 when I was alone as everyone else cavorted in Poland. It’s a bit more time-consuming this time around because everything has a layer of concrete dust on it from having our windows replaced. Why didn’t they clean it up? Why did I raise hell about them not cleaning it up?

In today’s work, I made a few discoveries, including several pictures stuck in bins that had nothing to do with photography, memorabilia, or anything similar. One was my fifth-grade class picture.

I look at the faces of my classmates and realize I can remember more names than I would have expected. Granted, I went with most of these kids from first grade through high school graduation, but still, my last memory of them is of them seven years older.

In fifth grade I got in trouble for cheating. We traded test papers with a peer, marked it, then went back over it with our own tests to make sure there were no mistakes in the marking. Lo and behold, Brett, who’d graded mine, had made more mistakes than he’d gotten right — so naive was I that I didn’t think. So little experience did I have cheating that I didn’t even give such things as thought. How do you cheat without making it obvious? I had no idea. I still remember the conference with the teacher and both my parents. I don’t remember the punishment; I remember the tension of the meeting.

I look over the faces, remembering names of kids, then look at the teachers. There’s Dr. Hale on the far right. Beside her? I can’t remember. At the other end is Mr. Eades, the first male teacher I ever had. And beside him? My mother.

“How did Nana get in that picture?” I think she was a class mother or something like that. And then it happened — I realized that I couldn’t do what I wanted to do most: ask her about it.

How many times will this happen? Doubtlessly, countless.

Another End

Tuesday 4 June 2019

Tomorrow I will say goodbye to 110 or so eighth-graders I have been teaching, comforting, battling, frustrating, encouraging, and 147 other -ings for the last 180 days. The tears will be flowing, the end of the world approaching, and there I’ll be, smiling at their innocence.

Reread

Thursday 2 May 2019

The sign of a good book is that when you reread it, you notice something new in it — no matter how many times you reread it. My favorite book of all time passes that test easily: I’ve read Absalom, Absalom! at least six times, maybe more, and every time, I catch something new. And with language like this, who cares if you see something new:

From a little after two oclock until almost sundown of the long still hot weary dead September afternoon they sat in what Miss Coldfield still called the office because her father had called it that-a dim hot airless room with the blinds all closed and fastened for forty-three summers because when she was a girl someone had believed that light and moving air carried heat and that dark was always cooler, and which (as the sun shone fuller and fuller on that side of the house) became latticed with yellow slashes full of dust motes which Quentin thought of as being flecks of the dead old dried paint itself blown inward from the scaling blinds as wind might have blown them. There was a wistaria vine blooming for the second time that summer on a wooden trellis before one window, into which sparrows came now and then in random gusts, making a dry vivid dusty sound before going away: and opposite Quentin , Miss Coldfield in the eternal black which she had worn for forty- three years now, whether for sister, father, or nothusband none knew, sitting so bolt upright in the straight hard chair that was so tall for her that her legs hung straight and rigid as if she had iron shinbones and ankles, clear of the floor with that air of impotent and static rage like children’s feet, and talking in that grim haggard amazed voice until at last listening would renege and hearing-sense self-confound and the long-dead object of her impotent yet indomitable frustration would appear, as though by outraged recapitulation evoked, quiet inattentive and harmless, out of the biding and dreamy and victorious dust. Her voice would not cease, it would just vanish. There would be the dim coffin-smelling gloom sweet and oversweet with the twice-bloomed wistaria against the outer wall by the savage quiet September sun impacted distilled and hyperdistilled, into which came now and then the loud cloudy flutter of the sparrows like a flat limber stick whipped by an idle boy, and the rank smell of female old flesh long embattled in virginity while the wan haggard face watched him above the faint triangle of lace at wrists and throat from the too tall chair in which she resembled a crucified child; and the voice not ceasing but vanishing into and then out of the long intervals like a stream, a trickle running from patch to patch of dried sand, and the ghost mused with shadowy docility as if it were the voice which he haunted where a more fortunate one would have had a house.

What an opening to a novel!

This year I’m teaching Lord of the Flies for the first time in probably five years, and so as might be expected, I’m rereading it. Goodness, that is a great book with layer upon layer upon layer.

I was reading it today when I noticed anew the change: the boys at first change “Kill the pig! Cut it throat! Spill its blood!” but then change it to “Kill the beast! Cut his throat! Spill his blood.” That got me thinking about the nature of the beast itself.

Finally trying out the “new” (i.e., from Christmas) equipment

At first, it’s just the littleuns’ fears, but with the landing of the dead pilot still attached to his parachute, the beast becomes something they can see. The beast is unknown. There is a logical explanation, a perfectly natural explanation, but the boys turn immediately to the supernatural.

This first happens when the twins are reporting about their encounter with the beast. In reality, all they do is see the decaying body of the pilot from a distance. When the wind pulls on the parachute, the body pulls up, and the boys panic and run. They make it back to the other boys and explain:

“That was awful. It kind of sat up—”

“The fire was bright—”

“We’d just made it up—”

“—more sticks on—”

“There were eyes—”

“Teeth—”

“Claws—”

“We ran as fast as we could—”

“Bashed into things—”

“The beast followed us—”

“I saw it slinking behind the trees—”

“Nearly touched me—”

At this point, even the bigger boys become convinced. Without realizing it, they create a cult of worship around it. They make a sacrifice for the beast and create a ritualistic dance and chant.

Later, Jack uses the beast to maintain control.

“—and then, the beast might try to come in. You remember how he crawled—”

The semicircle shuddered and muttered in agreement.

“He came—disguised. He may come again even though we gave him the head of our kill to eat. So watch; and be careful.”

Stanley lifted his forearm off the rock and held up an interrogative finger.

“Well?”

“But didn’t we, didn’t we—?”

He squirmed and looked down.

“No!”

In the silence that followed, each savage flinched away from his individual memory.

“No! How could we—kill—it?”

“If I ever suggest I’m not teaching this book again,” I told a fellow English teacher this morning, “slap me.”

Beginning Lord of the Flies

Wednesday 1 May 2019

My kids are reading Lord of the Flies as their final selection in English I Honors. It’s been years since I last taught it; it’s been even longer since I actually read it.

As I reread it, passages that never stood out as significant take on new importance. For example, Ralph laments the fact that there are no adults who “could get a message to us,” expressing a fear that many of the boys have: “If only they could send us something grown-up.. . . a sign or something.” The next paragraph reads:

A thin wail out of the darkness chilled them and set them grabbing for each other. Then the wail rose, remote and unearthly, and turned to an inarticulate gibbering. Percival Wemys Madison, of the Vicarage, Harcourt St. Anthony, lying in the long grass, was living through circumstances in which the incantation of his address was powerless to help him.

Young Percival is doing exactly what his parents taught him: he’s lost, and he’s simply reciting his address.

“If you’re ever lost,” we can imagine his parents calmly telling him, “find a police officer and tell him your address.”

“The Vicar- vicar,” Percival, who is six, struggles.

“Vicarage,” his father, obviously an Anglican priest, prompts.

“The Vicarage, Hardcourt…”

“No, son. No ‘d.’ Just ‘Harcourt.”

“Harcourt…”

They practice it a while. It becomes a morning chant with breakfast, an afternoon game, an evening blessing.

When he has it, he’s got it for good. He recites it at blistering speed a few days later through smiling lips.

“That’s wonderful!” his mother applauds.

And now, trying to come to grips with the terrors that plague him endlessly, he falls back on his incantation — what a wonderful choice of words — and tries to will himself out of the place. He can’t be convinced that there is no beast lurking on the island, but he has no idea what he should really fear.

The older boys do, though. Jack and Ralph have begun their irrevocable split, with Jack resorting to his first violent act: punching Piggy in the stomach and then knocking his glasses off, simultaneously blinding Piggy and cutting all the boys off from civilization, as it was Piggy’s glasses they used to light the signal fire.

“I know there isn’t no beast—not with claws and all that, I mean—but I know there isn’t no fear, either.”

Piggy paused.

“Unless—”

Ralph moved restlessly.

“Unless what?”

“Unless we get frightened of people.”

I imagine my own six-year-old in this situation, watching the closest things to adults around him — the boys of thirteen and fourteen — descend into fighting and arguing, with chaos unimaginable just days away, and I shudder.

When we reach this part of the book, I’m going to break with tradition and help the kids see all the foreshadowing. “If you’re not terrified imagining yourself in this situation, you’re not really reading this book.”

End of April

Tuesday 30 April 2019

It’s difficult to believe that April is over, and when I look at my school calendar for May, I realize that the year is, for all intents and purposes, over. We have no single week of school remaining that is a regular, five-day, testing-free week, except for the last week, which consists of three half days.

April in a way flew by, but it also crawled. We’re still not done with the renovation: “Two more weeks” has been the eternal refrain. We’re so close now it’s ridiculous: the walls and ceilings primed, ready for painting tomorrow; tiles in the bathroom and shower installed, ready for grout; hardwood floor installed in the bedroom, read to be sanded and finished next Monday. It feels like forever and no time at the same time.

Spring Monday

Monday 29 April 2019

I was worried that this would be the first of several very difficult days. With no one here to help with the kids (read: E) in the morning, it’s difficult for me to get out of the house very early. This week, however, is my duty week: I get to spend thirty minutes before my contracted arrival time supervising kids on the eighth-grade hallway. It’s loads of fun, but the downside is that I have to leave much earlier than usual. Which created a dilemma: what to do with the Boy. Two options: ride with the neighbor or leave without breakfast and have it at school.

At around 6:15 this morning, the Boy toddled downstairs, still rubbing his eyes, and presented a third option: “I’m just going to eat breakfast now.”

“Are you sure? You could still sleep another half hour.”

“Nah, I’ll stay up.”

And so the Boy proved once again that life is like calculus: there’s often more than one (or even two) solutions to a given problem.

Once at school, the usually peaceful morning duty transformed temporarily into one of those moments when, as a teacher, I see a student’s future and think, “Wow, if this kid doesn’t make some serious changes, do some serious maturing, she’s in for a long, tough life.” And much of that, in most cases, is due to environment: they’re not choosing necessarily to be a disrespectful kid. It’s something that works on the streets and/or at home, and they just bring it into the school as well.

That particular exchange foreshadowed the discussion I was to have with my honors English kids, who read Plato’s “Allegory of the Cave” last week as their article of the week. We began with a review via video:

Then the kids went through a few discussion questions:

  1. To what extent do you find Socrates’s point about the human tendency to confuse “shadows” with “reality” relevant today?
  2. What could be the elements that prevent people from seeing the truth, or regarding “shadow” as the “truth”?
  3. In society today or in your own life, what sorts of things shackle the mind?

The common theme that came through in all of these discussions was the role social media plays in creating false realities, in preventing people from seeing truth, in shackling the mind. It’s ironic: I see so many of these kids buried in their phones before and after school, yet they’re strangely aware of the negative effects.

After school, I hopped out of the car thinking, “So far, other than the little issue in the morning during hall duty, this supposedly tough day is surprisingly enjoyable. After dinner, it was even more so: one of E’s choices in his literacy log is to find a pleasant place to sit outside and read for a while.

And after that, a little project: a bird house. Where did this idea come from? I don’t know. The Boy simply talked K into buy him a piece of pressure-treated 1 x 6, and although he originally planned on building a tree house from that single plank, he was flexible enough to realize that a bird house was probably more in the scope of that single plank. So he found instructions on YouTube, gathered tools, and together we built a little bird house.

“Once you’re done, I want to help with the painting,” the Girl declared, and so with twenty minutes to go before the start of E’s evening ritual, they began working.

“Let’s decorate it with birds,” the Girl suggested. They began drawing various silhouettes of birds while I got the dog’s dinner ready, only to discover we were out of dog food.

“Alright kids, you’ll have to do the actual painting tomorrow. E, you’ll have to go with me to the store to buy some food for Clover.” I was expecting a small fit, some protesting at the very least, and I was reluctant to stop the work in progress: it’s so rare that they find something that really engages them both.

Still, the Boy was surprisingly mature. “Okay,” was all he said, and off we went to get some kibble for the pup.

And so at the close of this surprisingly pleasant day that was supposed to be the first of several tough ones, I find myself realizing anew that “tough days” and “bad days” and “rough days” depend more on our perception than anything else, just like Plato’s shadows suggest.

Frog and Toad

Monday 8 April 2019

The Boy performed with all the other first graders this evening. They put on a small musical about Frog and Toad, about whom we’ve read in countless books.

All the parents were thrilled to watch their kids; we were thrilled to have an opportunity to watch so many parents.

Three Photos from School

Friday 22 March 2019

The Books

I am fortunate to teach three honors classes. This means I work with kids who, by and large, do everything I ask of them. So when I said, “As you read the chapter on Tom Robinson’s testimony, you need to note passages of importance,” this young lady took it seriously. Plus, she has her own personal reading she’s keeping up with.

Spring

The cherry trees outside my classroom are starting to blossom. Everyone is taking note.

Notes

Once we’re done with To Kill a Mockingbird, I have a special lesson for the kids: a local trial lawyer comes in and discusses the case from the point of view of an attorney who has himself defended individuals against rape and murder charges. How would an actual lawyer with such experience view the case? It’s always eye-opening to the kids.

To prepare for it, I have the kids make detailed notes about the case from the testimony of Heck Tate, Bob Ewell, Mayella Ewell, and Tom Robinson. “Make schematics of all the movements,” I say. “Make sketches of anything described in detail. Make sure you note what you know explicitly from the text and what is inference. Also make sure you note what things are less than clear.”

Homework

Thursday 31 January 2019

Sometimes, everyone gets a little frustrated with homework.

Wednesday Virus

Wednesday 30 January 2019

The Boy wanted to go to school today. He really wanted to go. Mainly because they weren’t going to be in school — it was field trip day to the local science center where they have a Tesla coil, explode hydrogen balloons, and generally thrill kids of all ages. But the rash he’d gone to bed with, the little splotches on his cheeks, had spread all over his body.

“E, we have to go to the doctor,” K explained.

“But it’s nothing. Look — it will go away in no time.”

She tried to explain to him the risks of passing something on to other children.

“They won’t get it! I know they won’t!”

In the end, he lost. The doctor said it was a virus going around. “He’s through the worst of it, but you should keep him home today.”

For today’s pictures — fifteen years ago in Budapest and Poland with Nana and Papa, when they came for our wedding. I was going through pictures this evening, revisited these, and did some editing.