I made it to Winter Break: A Retrospective on the First Half of the Year

I have many fond memories of the last day of school before the winter break. It seems that in elementary school, we nearly always had a holiday party that day. In middle and high school years, while parties were officially frowned upon, teachers always seemed to find a way to bend that rule and allow some holiday cheer on the last day. I remember having "Secret Santa" gift exchanges with other students in band, and always having candy canes or some other Christmas sweet to share with friends.

Always, the last day of school before Christmas was a time of celebration and cheerfulness. Now, mingled with the cheerfulness, I feel a tremendous sense of relief--I made it! While not exactly the half-way point, strictly speaking, I am essentially half way there. The end of August seems a life time ago; I am ready for a moment to pause, catch my breath, and reflect.

In many ways, my introduction to full time teaching has reminded me of an incident on a river-rafting trip I took with some friends last spring. We were on the Upper Tuolumne River, outside of Yosemite--a challenging river with a number of class V rapids for which I was grossly under-prepared. It turned out to be the sort of trip that changes your perspective on life, helps you to focus on the things that really matter, and simply makes you thankful to still be alive. That story, however, is for another occasion. The incident to which I refer occured on the first day of the trip, late in the afternoon, just as the sun was approaching the canyon wall. We had just navigated a particularly treacherous rapid--my companions skillfully paddline around rocks and boulders while I held on for dear life--when our raft ran up vertically against a particularly large rock jutting up out of the river. Instinct and the meager whitewater training I had recieved both drove me to the high side of the boat, hoping to help push it into the water. As the boat rose higher, however, I felt myself tilting backwards. I still remember distinctly that moment of no return, in which I simply had no choice but to let go of the strap to which I held, fall backwards into the seething water, and watch the boat slide down off the rock and over my head. I certainly didn't feel prepared to be out of the boat and in the water--but then I don't think any amount of training would have helped me to really feel prepared. At that point, though, as the turbulent currents pulled me beneath the water's surface, only one thing mattered--somehow getting my nose above the surface of the water so that I could fill my lungs with air. For the moment, I couldn't even think about getting back in the boat. I just needed to breathe.

The first four months of my first year of teaching have felt something like that moment in which I hit the water. If I could just fill my lungs with air one more time, I would be okay. I have wondered, at times, if I would make it back to the surface again, as I have felt the strong currents of student apathy and underachievement, bureaucratic inefficiencies, and my own self-doubt pull me further down. In brief moments, though, I have seen rays of sunlight piercing the troubled waters, and I have a humble resurgence of hope. Perhaps I can do it, after all. Perhaps I can be the sort of teacher I once thought I would be. Now, for a moment, as I rest in a calmer part of the river, perhaps it would be helpful to reflect on those rays of sunlight--those small moments of success that give me hope for my students, and for my own future as the sort of teacher I aspire to be.

My Moments of Success This Year:

• My third period class. This is the one class in which, when they start to get out of hand, all I have to do is stand quietly with arms folded and say quietly "class, I'm disappointed in this behavior; this isn't how my third period class behaves," and I watch them shape up immediately. It's a miracle, and sometimes third period is the only reason I feel motivated to go to work.

• Students who let down their "tough kid" masks in front of me. I have a few kids, mostly boys, who really think they are tough, and who are definitely too cool for school. And yet, there have been moments, usually when I'm keeping them in at lunch or after school, in which they let down their masks, and let me see their real, vulnerable, frightened selves. Then, I can see them as real, fragile human beings just like me, and I feel like maybe there is still something I can do to help them.
  

• Students who learn, in spite of me. My classroom can be a pretty chaotic place sometimes; I still have a lot of kinks to work out in both classroom management and pedagogy. And yet, some of my students still produce stellar work, day after day, and really seem to be learning. Now, perhaps I can't take credit for their success, but at least I'm not getting in the way.

• Students who are like puppies. In so many ways. But what I had in mind was the fact that so many of them, even when I've had to reprimand them the day before, still greet me with a bouncy smile and love to follow me around telling me about their day or asking about the homework when they see me on campus. Fortunately, no puddles on the carpet, yet.
  

• Beauty in imperfection. This comes from advice given by a dear friend who was herself a first year teacher last year. Life, especially in the classroom, is filled with mess, disorder, chaos, and imperfection. But these messes and imperfections leave me room to hope for something better, give me something to strive for as I seek growth an improvement for myself and for my students.
  

Arts, Crafts, and Historical Pedagogy

About the time I was beginning to interview with various school districts last year, the school at which I would eventually teach was in the process of becoming a "Visual and Performing Arts Anchor School." What this means, in short, is that I am expected to incorporate visual and performing arts content standards into my curriculum. For me, as a social science teacher, this means both teaching about the art of the cultures we study, and engaging the students in art projects themselves. The first element of the newly-instituted program I was immediately on board with; looking at a society's art is an excellent way to gain greater insight into the context of the times, and pieces of art can serve as great primary sources.

As far as the second element of the program, I had my reservations. If approached properly, art in the history classroom could be useful. But it seemed all to likely that incorporating art into my curriculum would turn into simply doing "fun" art projects, and sacrificing academic rigor and intellectual challenge for student engagement and entertainment. I knew it wouldn't have to be this way; indeed, this was certainly not the intent of the new program. However, I knew that one of my greates challenges would be to keep this from happening.

During the opening weeks of the school year, I did a few things here and there; we drew some pictures, analyzed some Mesopotamian bas-relief sculptures, but the heavy-duty art began as our unit on Ancient Egypt came to a close. You can see some of the sculpted sarcophagi above. They may look simple enough, but you should have seen the disaster that was my classroom at the end of the day. The custodian walked into my room and just about turned around and walked back out.

Later, we painted them:



















And we made and decorated pyramids to house them. (Thanks, by the way, to those loyal friends who spent a Saturday afternoon helping me cut the pyramids from giant sheets of core board.)





We sponge-painted the outsides with mixtures of brown and yellow paint (historical pedagogy momentarily aside, the mixing of paint was a great art lesson in itself for the students), and decorated the insides with designs inspired by art and hieroglyphs we had seen inside Egyptian tombs.

Now, the critically important question: What was the value, really, of this activity? Is there a chance my students' understanding of Egyptian art, religion, or culture was enhanced by what we did? Certainly they enjoyed it. Students usually apathetic were engaged, and those who are usually my most disruptive were my most helpful, generally speaking. But did they learn anything about historical thinking? Were they really growing and developing their minds in the way they ought to be doing in my classroom, or was this little more than a fun arts and crafts day, a publicly funded summer camp?

Now, don't get me wrong, artistic expression is a valuable part of a student's development as a person. I just hope that the way that I use art in my history classroom is not at odds with what I am trying to teach my students about history.

Confessions of a First Year Teacher in Mid-November

I wish my students knew, when I lose my temper and raise my voice, how disappointed I am in myself. I wish my students knew, when I act like I am fed up with them, how much I long to be that teacher who is always there for them. I wish my students could understand how I want to be patient, meek--how I want to take them by the hand and gently lead them, only I don't always know quite where we are going myself. I hope that, every once in a while, amidst the assignments, the grades, the tried patience, and the lunchtime detentions, that my students catch at least a glimpse of how much I love them and want them to succeed. And I hope they forgive me.

Last year, about this time, Rachel Lotan, the director of STEP, warned me and the other teacher-candidates in the program about the "November Slump," that time just before the holidays in which new teachers start to wonder why they didn't just go to law school instead. She assured us that the discouragement and questioning of one's career path were normal, and that they would indeed pass. I remember thinking the message had come a bit late for me, as I experienced my November Slump in October.

Oddly enough, the same thing happened to me this year. About the middle of last month, I was beginning to wonder if the sixth grade classroom really was the place for me. It wasn't just that the hours were long, the pay seemingly meager, and the work often thankless; my patience was wearing thinner and thinner, and the ability to apply all the great principles of pedagogy I learned at Stanford was eluding me. My heterogeneous groups were in a sorry state, formative assessments were rare and formative feedback rarer, and I had yet to teach my students how to source a historical document. It seemed my job had become 10% history teacher and 90% classroom manager, and I wasn't nearly as meek or patient a classroom manager as I would like to have been. Too many times, I would lose my patience in the classroom, only to reflect during my commute home on how really it was my fault in that I hadn't made my expectations clear, or hadn't structured the classroom environment in a way that would really facilitate student success. For the first time in years, I allowed myself to question whether teaching was really right for me.

Fortunately, the fit of madness passed, and things started looking up. I began to realize that I needed to forgive myself for being human, and that as I did, so would my students. I revisited some of the classroom management strategies I learned last year, and added a few new ones to my arsenal. A friend and veteran teacher pointed out that spending time teaching sixth graders how good students behave really is just as valuable as (perhaps more valuable than) teaching them about the rise and fall of ancient empires. As I took on this point of view, I found that I resented less the time spent teaching appropriate behavior rather than content, I started to enjoy myself more, and, incidentally, behavior problems decreased.

So, when my sixth period class spiraled out of control today, and I lost my temper with them yet again, it was that much more discouraging. I know better, I know my students know better, and they deserve a teacher who can keep his cool while reminding them that they know better. Later in the day, when I found myself on Stanford campus, I began again to entertain the idea of returning to Stanford for a Ph.D. Of course I couldn't return to graduate school as an escape from the classroom, and I certainly need to spend more time in the classroom before I would have credibility as a Ph.D candidate anyway, but it is a tempting thought. Until that time, I'm fortunate that I have friends who have been teaching a few years longer than I have who remind me that I don't have to be perfect in my first year, or even in my second, third, or fourth years.

A Few Scattered Thoughts

Me: Class, can anyone tell me whose faces we see here on Mt. Rushmore?

Student: Oooo, Oooo, I know Mr. Douglas--George Washington, Abraham Lincoln, and...George Clooney!



I've been remiss in writing recently, but I've had several thoughts in the last few weeks that I want to capture. Here are three reflections on my classroom experiences over the last month or so:

Leaving the Kids with a Sitter

Several weeks ago, I left my students with a substitute teacher for the first time. Now, I don't have any children myself, but I imagine that what I felt upon leaving my students with a sub might not be to dissimilar from what a parent feels upon leaving his child with a baby sitter for the first time. I spent a significant amount of time the day before instructing my students on how to treat the substitute with the proper respect--remembering, of course, what we did to substitute teachers when I was in sixth grade. The day I was out, I spent most of the day worrying about how my students were treating the substitute, but also worrying about how my students might be faring with the substitute: would she follow the instructions I had left? Would she be sensitive to the needs of my English language learners, or to my students with special needs? Would she be mindful of the emotionally sensitive child who is all to often picked on by her classmates? As pleasant as it was to take a brief break, I've decided that I much prefer to be with my students, even when they are difficult and when they try my patience. I also learned that, when I must be out, it's in my interest to find a rather unpleasant substitute--it helps my kids to appreciate me that much more.

Playing "The Game"

In my credentialing program, we often spoke of students learning to play "the game of school"--the set of unwritten, unarticulated rules for success in the public school system. The idea was that knowledge of this "game," with rules written and enforced by the culture of power, could facilitate academic success independent of understanding of content or intellectual ability.

I think I've discovered another game that is played in the classroom. I've noticed an interesting pattern among students I keep after class for disruption. The conversation during class might go something like this:

Me: Travis, we do not throw paper/shoot spitwads/chew gum/listen to ipods in this classroom.
Student: What? Me? But I didn't do anything, I was just sitting here..
Me: No need to be dishonest, I saw what happened, it just needs to stop now.
Student: No, Mr. Douglas, I swear, it wasn't me...

This could go on for several minutes. Some students, I think, would like for it to go on for longer. I stop it by telling them we'll discuss it after class, and this is how the conversation picks up:

Me: Now Travis, tell me honestly, were you throwing paper/shooting spitwads/chewing gum/listening to your ipod during class?
Student [with surprising meekness]: Yes, Mr. Douglas. I'm sorry.

The change in attitude, in demeanor, is surprising, but perhaps even more surprising is the ease with which they admit to wrongdoing when their classmates aren't watching. Now, their classmates all know what they were doing, to be sure, but they won't admit it, won't "lose face" in front of the class. It's almost as if the bell signals a "time out" in the classroom game, when the rules change, and it is somehow less threatening to admit to the teacher that it was, in fact, you who just threw that paper airplane. Or, perhaps its simply that, once the bell has rung, they know the easiest way to get me to release them is to admit guilt, actual or imagined.

If only teachers really did have eyes on the backs of their heads.

Columns and Rows

Last fall, as an assignment for a course in classroom management, I had to sketch my ideal classroom layout, paying attention to such things as where students attention would be focused, how easily all student could see the board, how easily students might transition from whole-class discussion to small groups, and in general what kinds of messages the layout would send about the desired culture of the classroom. It didn't seem like a terribly significant assignment at the time; at any rate, I had minimal control over the physical layout of my classroom as a student teacher because it was not, in fact, my classroom. Now, however, I am awed at just how much time and thought I have put into the physical layout of my classroom. Even before school started, I went through at least three or for iterations of my original "ideal" desk configuration. The one I finally settled on looked something like this:
I hoped it would provide a good compromise between rows and a circle-- a setup that would facilitate class discussion, but would also establish the front of the room as the primary focal point. It only took me a couple of weeks to decide that I really disliked this setup, however. Whichever half of the class I faced, I always had my back to the other half. I've discovered that, with sixth graders, it's best if I can see them all at once, all the time. Now, I have them in groups of four that easily transition into rows if necessary (pictures of this setup are on their way), but I'm beginning to discover some drawbacks to this setup as well. Part of the problem, I think, is that the students simply get to comfortable, so I have to change things up every once in a while to keep them on their toes. So, now, it's back to the drawing board for my classroom layout.

Listening

To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose....a time to keep silence, and a time to speak.
-Ecclesiastes 3:1,7



I had an experience this week that took me back to a the first quarter of my credentialing program, to a reading and subsequent class discussion on teaching through listening, and assuming a "listening stance" in the classroom.

For several works, I had been trying to work out ways to keep Travis* engaged and learning in my classroom--or, at very least, to keep him from pestering, annoying, and offending the students around him. When I would correct him, or keep him after class to remind him of our "Classroom Community Expectations," he would look up at me with a smug little smirk that bore the faint odor of defiance--the kind of expression that seems to say "you can talk all you want to, teacher, I'll just be drawing horns and a tail on you in my imagination."

The more I corrected and reminded, the more disruptive he became. Other students started complaining to me about his behavior; I knew I had to do something different, but what to do? Finally, the other day, Travis disrupted the class one too many times. My patience hanging by a few tenuous fibers, I informed him that he would be spending his entire lunch period with me that day. Remembering that only a day or two before he had failed to show up what I euphemistically call a "lunch conference," I added that if he did not come to my classroom at the beginning of lunch, I would come out into the school yard and find him, and when I found him, he could believe me that he would wish I hadn't. I got the same smirk, and couldn't help but wonder what kind of pictures he was drawing in me in his head.

To my surprise, he did show up that day at lunch. After finishing with a couple of students who had come in with questions about their scores on a recent test, I sat Travis down and warmed myself up for another lecture. I opened my mouth to explain what I was seeing in his behavior, why it was a problem, and why it needed to change--for his own sake, and for the sake of the whole class. However, before I had articulated a complete thought, I had an subtle but distinct impression: Stop. Be quiet. Close your mouth, and listen to what he has to say.

So I stopped.

"Travis," I suggested, "why don't you tell me how you feel about what's going on in this class?"
"Well, Mr. Douglas, I'm kind of bored." Boredom. Excellent. This was at least something I could work with. We discussed why people feel boredom, and the everybody gets bored sometimes. We talked about being bored because class is to hard, because class is too easy, or just because it's hard to stay focused. He observed that he was usually bored because he was lost, and that perhaps if he sat closer to the front of the classroom, where he could see better, he wouldn't get lost so easily, and thus wouldn't be so bored. Moving him close to the front seemed almost to simple a solution. I had to do a bit of juggling so as to keep him away from other students he'd had problems with in the past, but I moved him to the front today. It may not solve all his problems, but it's a start; Travis' behavior, while not yet perfect, has markedly improved. Perhaps it was just the simple act of listening, of acknowledging his voice, that changed the dynamic of our relationship so that he didn't feel such a need to resist me, nor I him.

I look back now on our class discussions at Stanford on assuming a "listening stance," striving to be open and responsive to student voices. That was a discussion that moved me, that inspired me, while sitting in CERAS 300 as a prospective teacher. Going back to the same article now, as a six week old teacher, helps me realize not only how essential listening is, but how difficult it is. The odd thing is, that isn't the case with all students. With some, it comes so naturally to rememeber to stop and to earnestly listen to the student's voice, as well as to listen for the things I am not hearing. With others, however, it is not so easy.

Some students, while disruptive or easily distracted, seem naturally responsive, and so it is easy to respond to them. Others, though, like Travis, seem to enter the classroom even as a young sixth-grader with a conception of teacher-as-adversary. Once a resistant relationship is formed, it is an incredible challenge to infuse it with openness and responsiveness. That, I suppose, is one of the fundamental challenges I face in becoming the sort of teacher (and for that matter son, brother, and eventually husband and father) that I want to be--one who is always responsive, compassionate, and meek, even in the face of resistance and defiance. I have begun to learn that teaching is at once rewarding and painful in part because it uncovers and illuminates all my character flaws, bringing them out in stark relief as I work to craft myself into the teacher I would be.



*Not his real name, for obvious reasons.

Back to School Night

In many ways, Back to School night is like flipping on a light after using one's sense of touch to discern, in the dark, the shape of an object. I looked forward to meeting my students' parents as a means of learning more about my students, not only because I believe parents are nearly always the best experts on their children, but also because the apple seldom seems to fall far from the tree. Tonight I was not disappointed.

I decided to take advantage of the opportunity to learn a bit more about my students by employing a Back to School Night strategy I learned from my cooperating teacher while student teaching last year. As parents entered the room, I gave them an index card and asked them to write for me one thing about their child that I ought to know--a special need, a particular difficulty, a hobby or interest--anything that would help me serve that child better. I remember getting a wide variety of great responses to that prompt last year. This year, there were fewer responses, but all were helpful, and several of them entertaining. Perhaps my favorite was the card that, after stating the child's name, simply said "He is a difficult boy. But you can handle him." A close second was the mother who asked for a card for herself and one for her husband, and then proceeded to fill both cards herself. Perhaps I shouldn't make light of parents' efforts to communicate with teachers, and I certainly appreciate their earnestness, but it did make me smile to myself.

A card that provoked a bit more thought came from the mother of one of my more troublesome boys. The boy she described on the card was an angel, "siempre amable y inteligente," and bore only a marginal resemblance to the young man I see in sixth period every day. My first reaction was an inward groan--oh dear, I thought, here is a mother in whose eyes the boy can do no wrong. So much for getting support from home when discipline is needed. Then I thought of another student I once knew--a fifth grade boy I tutored while in college. He was the sweetest, kindest, most sensitive eleven-year-old you could ever hope to meet, but for some reason none of his other teachers could see that in him. I often felt frustrated that they would cut him so little slack, and that authority figures were so often coming down so hard on him. Then, one day I observed him in a different context--among his peers--and saw what all the other teachers had seen. Fortunately, I also understood how this boy could behave in other contexts, as I usually worked with him individually. I knew which one was the real him; no matter how many times he lost his temper or his homework, I couldn't stop seeing him as the sweet and loving boy who wanted to badly to be good, even when it was hard. Perhaps this is why this mother sees her son so differently than I do.

That is why I need nights like Back to School night. Amidst all the parents with their questions about binders and homework and projects and grades, there will be one or two parents who will give me a vision of their child different from what I have been able to see, and then it becomes my task to see in that child what the parent sees.

Credit Where it's Due

Allow me to make it abundantly clear that I would no sooner speak ill of STEP (my credentialing program) than would I insult my own mother. A good friend pointed out that my inaugural post could be construed as less than complimentary of the preparation for the classroom I recieved at Stanford. Nothing could be further from my true feelings. It was at Stanford that the embryonic teacher within me was poked and prodded, shaped and formed, and given the nourishment it needed to begin this upward journey through the classroom. Thus, it is fitting, early in this chronicle, to note the important role STEP has played in this story.

I remember entering the Stanford Teacher Education Program with a strange mingling of nervous anticipation, exhilirating apprehension, and hopeful awe. On the first or second day of STEP Orientation, Jeannie Lythcott asked as to draw a picture entitled "The Quintessence of Teaching." I found it interesting that my picture, which started out a picture of my 10th grade European History teacher, slowly morphed into a picture of me, several years down the road. I have thought a lot about that picture in the months that followed. Perhaps that is a metaphor for how I see myself in the classroom: as I stand before my students, I do not stand alone; my own teachers stand with me--teachers from elementary school, middle and high school, and most certainly the members of the STEP faculty who so inspired and encouraged me in the year leading up to this moment. The list of areas in which I noted previously that I felt equipped is no trivial list: If I can truly create a classroom that is safe and equitable, in which students support one another and engage in true historical thinking, I will have become all I ever dreamed of becoming. Without my year in STEP, I would never have been able to articulate that dream, let alone begin striving to shape it into a reality in my classroom.

In the end, it's okay that I didn't learn how to staple butcher paper to the wall while I was at Stanford. It's probably better that way.

Lessons Unreflected Upon

Finally, a Moment to Catch my Breath
If there is anything I learned in my teacher credentialing program, it was that "the only failed lesson is the lesson that goes unreflected on." I created this blog several weeks before the school year started, anticipating that others might enjoy, benefit from, or at least be entertained by, the reflections of a first-year teacher. What I did not count on was that it would take me two weeks from the first day of school before I would have a moment in which to catch my breath and begin creating some sort of a chronicle of my life as a teacher.

So now I sit on the futon in my living room, knowing a stack of papers awaits me in the other room, and steal a few minutes to reflect on these last two weeks. They have passed by with the grace and gentleness of a whirlwind, yet something about embarking on this new life also seems remarkably natural. Perhaps a witness to the strength of preparation, witness to my belief that I was intended from my beginning to teach, witness to Divine intervention, or perhaps all three, but I feel uncannily at home in my classroom. Already. Not that the feeling came without some effort, but after only a few late nights and several yards of butcher paper, I was amazed at how remarkably unremarkable it seemed to be stepping into a teaching space I could call my own classroom.

The Things They Didn't Teach Me at Stanford
I left my credentialing program at Stanford University feeling well-equipped to talk about developing students' ability to think historically and to write effectively, about supporting English language learners and students with special needs, about creating a classroom community that promotes equity, about providing safe spaces for all students, and let me tell you, I could have gone on and on about designing effective group tasks. I carried all of this knowledge, all of these ideas, into my empty, bare-walled classroom with five straight rows of small student desks, two days before school began. As I began to turn the room from a warehouse with desks into an inviting 6th grade social studies classroom, I suddenly realized that in my year at Stanford, no one had ever taught me how to put butcher paper and shiny borders on the wall without making it crooked. Now, you may chuckle to yourself and say, "a Stanford degree, and he can't even staple paper to a wall?" but I assure you it was no easy task. After several attempts, I finally produced a classroom wall that I think would have made my own elementary school teachers proud: Maps, colorful butcher paper, inspirational posters, and a few knick-knacks on the teacher's desk carry the space a long way from looking like a warehouse. I felt good about welcoming students into such a classroom.

Becoming Mr. Douglas
It almost seems odd to think of becoming Mr. Douglas only now. After all, I have been "Mr. Douglas" for over four years now--since I began work at a local elementary school my sophomore year in college. Perhaps that is one reason embarking on this new life did not seem so dramatically novel as I might have expected. Still, there is something markedly different about being Mr. Douglas this time. You only have one 6th grade social studies teacher in your life, and for 110 kids just entering the 6th grade, that teacher is Mr. Douglas. I am not just a tutor, classroom aid, or student-teacher, I am their teacher--the one of the ones whose face will come to mind whenever someone mentions history teachers, the one who will do much to shape the attitudes these students carry into their future history classes, the one they will tell stories about, for better or for worse, when they learn that their college roommate is majoring in history and wants to be a teacher. That' s a pretty heavy burden to carry, and I have learned in the last two weeks that I have not yet become that Mr. Douglas--not the one I intend to be, anyway.

That's okay, though. For many years, as I looked forward with anticipation, with eagerness, sometimes with a little too much confidence, to the moment in which I would step over the threshold into a classroom I could call my own: I thought of that classroom as a destination. I knew the classroom was where I belonged, and so I believed that when I found myself there, I would have arrived. I see now that all this time I have not been striving for a destination; I have been striving for the next trailhead.