Paper Clips on My Pillow

Your Brain on Exercise

2010-09-15T14:08:00.008-05:00

This New York Times article about the effect of aerobic exercise on kids' brains backs up what I read this summer in an interesting book called Brain Rules: that a little bit of aerobic exercise each day increases blood flow to the brain and actually changes its structure, making parts of it larger, and making its owner smarter. It works for adults, too, by the way. Time to get moving!

Photo by: hoyasmeg

Free summer reading helps kids

2010-08-03T08:59:00.000-05:00

This NYT article about a three-year study by the University of Tennessee has my mind spinning with the possibility of charities aimed at getting books into the hands of low-income kids over summer. The study showed that low-income children who were allowed to choose 12 free books (reading, not activity books) to take home over the summer avoided the typical summer decline in reading skills that happens to most low-income students. The books the students chose were generally not academic or classic -- more like biographies of Brittany Spears, or whatever appealed to them.

It reminds me (and my husband -- he remembers it too!) of the RIF (Reading is Fundamental) program that used to come through our hometown schools. Each year (or maybe twice a year?), the school stage was filled with tables piled high with books. We kids got to come through and shop for a free book of our choosing, to keep. I remember trading my RIF book, after reading, with my best friend; it was like getting two free books.

RIF was a big deal because the town where I grew up only had one big, downtown library with no neighborhood branches (which is still the case). My parents worked during the day, and I never got to visit that library until I was old enough to drive there on my own to do research for a high school class. This was in the day before school book fairs and big chain bookstores, too.

So what we need now is RIF times 12, every year in late May, targeted to our low-income kids.

Photo: by me, copyright 2006

The Kindergarten Advantage

2010-08-02T11:36:00.000-05:00

This New York Times article, The Case for the $320,000 Kindergarten Teachers, came out last week. New research shows that students who have highly effective kindergarten teachers (and in most cases, smaller class size) earn more money over a lifetime than other students, even though those same students do not really show any difference in test scores and performance during school years. Fascinating!

So Much Depends Upon a Poem

2010-07-26T17:44:00.000-05:00

If school were still in session, I'd share this photo with my students. Shiny red wheelbarrows caught my eye outside Lowe's the other day.

In October, my students and I wrote poems inspired by William Carlos Williams' "The Red Wheelbarrow." We listened to a recording of Williams reading the poem aloud. We talked about word pictures. Some students memorized the poem for reward tickets. We wrote a "so much depends upon" poem as a class. And then students wrote their own Williams-inspired poems (some worked with a friend).

Here are a few of the teacher-guided class poems.

THE OAK TREE
by the students of Mr. H's homeroom

so much depends
upon

a tall oak
tree

swaying in the
wind

beside the old
school

THE BLACK SPIDER MONKEY
by the students of Mrs. S's homeroom

so much depends
upon

a black
spider monkey

jumping tree
to tree

in the damp
rainforest

THE RED-EYED SPIDER
by the students of Mrs. P's homeroom

so much depends
upon

a red-eyed
spider

fat and
furry

beside the cracked
window

THE RAINBOW PENCIL
by the students of my homeroom

so much depends
upon

a rainbow
pencil

smudged with
crayons

beside the ripped
paper

Finishing the Story

2010-07-19T14:44:00.002-05:00

After the writing TAKS, I lost steam (actually got a little depressed for a while -- a topic for another post) and quit posting to my blog. But that doesn't mean nothing was happening in Room 214. No sirree! So over the next month, I'll post some updates here, if only for my own ability to come back to Paperclips and read the whole story.

Today, the TAKS story. Toward Christmas break, I started to worry that I'd spent too much time working with the kids on just writing something, on feeling like real writers, and on being creative and letting themselves have some fun with writing. I was still seeing quite a few sentence fragments and blank stares when I asked, "Where's the ending? ... Where's your introduction? ... Can you think of more details?"

I had no guidance from my school district, and I mean none, no visit from a curriculum director, and a classroom set of terribly boring, outdated textbooks from the era of TAAS (the TAKS predecessor) testing. In short, I felt sick and panicked in January and February. But my students and I worked hard.

Also, we had a great writing tutor (a seasoned, retired teacher), Mrs. C, several days a week who helped and encouraged my most struggling students. She really connected with a few of them. For one boy I'll call John, this meant a complete turn-around in his grades and behavior by TAKS time. John had spent most of October in our district's prison-like disciplinary school for punching another student. He had failed a grade in the past, when he lived in another state, and was an English language learner. But John worked hard for Mrs. C, who was so impressed with one of his essays she typed it up to give to the principal as a way to brag on him.

That's all it took. He passed all of his fourth-grade TAKS tests. I was pleased to write on neon-orange paper in the front of his file for his next year's teachers a note about John that ended with, "This boy is NOT dumb!"

I am proud to say that John and 93 percent of my students (even more, if you subtract the ones who failed but "don't count") passed the writing TAKS. These kids worked hard. And at least one student who failed (an English-language learner, like John) also worked hard -- he just misread the topic and wrote a lovely essay about the wrong thing.

When the scores came in a week before school was out, I was proud and thankful -- for my students, for Mrs. C, for my co-teachers, friends and family who helped and encouraged me along the way, and for myself.

Photo by: woodleywonderworks

The Boys are (in the) Back

2010-03-28T16:50:00.006-05:00

It's not just my imagination. The boys are behind. Check out Nicholas D. Kristof's latest New York Times column about the widening educational gender gap as it relates to boys in the U.S. and other countries. What's missing from the column -- because, I'm guessing, we have no answers yet -- is how to remedy the situation.

In a sad way, I'm temporarily relieved by this information; I thought only I was losing the boys. I see less academic confidence in my boys, which I believe leads to their acting out as way to detract attention from the frustrating tasks at hand. Out of all my students I worried about potentially failing the writing TAKS, 85 percent were boys. Of the four students I've referred to the office this year, three have been boys. All three fourth graders sent to our district's disciplinary school this year (for 20 school days of doing book work in an isolated cubicle) have been boys. Two-thirds of our fourth-grade dyslexic students are boys. And the list goes on. Maybe public school as it is today just doesn't work for boys.

The question is: What works? Something will work. I hope researchers are studying this right now: What works for boys? Why is the current educational system failing them? These would make great thesis topics for someone in graduate school.

Photo: http://www.flickr.com/photos/leitakma3y/ / CC BY 2.0

Be Better

2010-02-27T19:26:00.009-06:00

Today on the English Companion Ning, I read this post: To Be or To Be Better, an inspiring reminder by Tgraff11 of Maine. Her reminder to

be better

for our students

and to never, ever

take

their actions

(or lack of action)

personally

made me contemplate my attitude toward one student in particular -- and think about how "better" might look coming from me. The entire post, linked above, is worth reading for anyone who works with students of any age. (Formatted text and coloring above added by me.)
Photo: http://www.flickr.com/photos/robbn1/ / CC BY 2.0

Today's Tooth Tally: Two

2010-02-26T23:28:00.000-06:00

Two of my students lost a tooth today.

Losing a tooth at school means you get to write out a yellow nurse pass. If you are bleeding and have to hold a Kleenex in the tooth hole, you may have a friend write your nurse pass. On your way out the door, you drop your tissue on top of the trash, with the blood displayed like some kind of announcement.

In the nurse’s office, you swish with warm salt water from a white paper cup. The nurse gives you a purple plastic tooth box, and you place your tooth securely in it, but on your way back up to class, you can’t help opening it twice, just to look. It’s a molar.

You shove the tiny box into your jeans pocket, where it forms a bump that you can’t stop touching, just like the tooth hole your tongue keeps finding, smooth, like a pecan from the playground. Later, at the window, you open the box again, hold your tooth up to the light, and show your friend.

Photo: http://www.flickr.com/photos/bradleyallen/ / CC BY-NC-SA 2.0

New Research Proves Very Touching

2010-02-23T20:17:00.000-06:00

Being a mom, I have a hard time not scruffing students fondly on the head. But I restrain myself, not wanting to mess up hair, cross an invisible boundary, or make anyone feel like a baby. (Not to mention: I wouldn't want anyone touching my hair at school -- it's such a germy place.) I was pleased to see this story in yesterday's New York Times spotlighting research findings that "students who received a supportive touch on the back or arm from a teacher were nearly twice as likely to volunteer in class as those who did not." Little arm pats are O.K.!

Photo:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/jarora81/ / CC BY-NC-SA 2.0

Do these test scores make my butt look big?

2010-02-15T18:33:00.001-06:00

You know that something is not right with your mind when the smell of the school cafeteria nachos convinces you that processed corn topped with liquid cheese would be a better choice than the apple, cheese stick and homemade veggie soup you have waiting in the teachers'-lounge refrigerator. You go, zombie-like, to the chow line, pick up your carton of milk and your pack of little plasticware, order your nachos to go, add on a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos, a chocolate chip cookie, and a styrofoam cup of iced tea, then take it back to your classroom and consume it in a trance.

This, my friend, is February. We are over halfway through the school year, and some students have not made it to the halfway point in terms of learning or behavior. The writing TAKS is two weeks away. The sky is perpetually gray. The school hallways are 45 degrees. The Coke machine eats 75 cents for every $2 you feed it, but by gosh, that Diet Coke might just get you

through the afternoon.

I am not the only one whose pants are getting tight. Last Monday, my mentor teacher, a 35-year veteran of public schools, said she could not button her khakis that morning. She was wearing a cute sweater and jacket, so the pants problem was not noticeable. Nor did it seem to bother her. She shrugged as she slid a bag of cookies onto the table where we were meeting. "TAKS season," she said, the same as one might say, "the holidays," or "freshman fifteen," or "steroids."

And so, I eat my way through February -- trying to get some fruits and veggies, stay away from the Coke machine, and pack lunches that, at 11 a.m., will outshine the cafeteria nachos in my skewed mind. (How can they get away with serving nachos, anyway?)

Dog photo:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/21206761@N00/ / CC BY-NC-ND 2.0

Cupcake photo:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/rakka/ / CC BY-NC-ND 2.0

A Valentine for Leafy, Jr.

2010-02-13T08:19:00.000-06:00

My in-laws sent me a large peace lily in October, after my grandmother died. (Let it be known that I have only two living plants in my home, and they are virtually un-killable ivies.) Hoping to save Mr. Peace Lily from the cruel fate of my past houseplants, I took it straight to my classroom, and my students were thrilled.

What would we name it? Students wrote down their ideas, and I listed the best three at the bottom of one of our spelling tests. Our green guy was soon christened Leafy, Jr.

But you can't hide a brown thumb from a bunch of nine year olds. My students became notably worried on Monday mornings, when Leafy, Jr. drooped like wilted spinach. "Leafy died!" they would say as I poured water into his pot. Then after lunch, they would rejoice at his sudden turn around, though there were casualties -- leaves that sporadically sagged and turned brown, then crisp.

Within six weeks, Leafy, Jr. had started looking a little thin. I knew the routine: he would be a scraggled mess by the school year's end.

Then a sweet, sweet boy I'll call the Plant Whisperer came to the rescue. PW makes terrible grades, and not for lack of appearing to try. However, he cannot seem to focus. He does not listen (even though he looks like he is listening). For example, he often inserts random periods into his final drafts of essays. This is after I've asked him whether all his sentences are capitalized and have proper punctuation. He takes his paper back to his desk, appears to read it and work diligently, then brings it back up to me with these fat, bold periods placed incorrectly throughout the work. (We are working on this together, but he also gets very embarrassed and shuts down when I am trying to help him.)

But about a month ago, he adopted Leafy, Jr. without being asked. He trims dead leaves and dusts the healthy ones. He makes sure the soil is moist enough. Other students have tried to join PW in caring for Leafy, but I have shooed them away. PW needs something of his own to be proud of.

Last week, PW made Leafy a valentine sack. And a hat. He wrote him a sweet note, and other students added valentines to Leafy's sack yesterday. The plant even scored a pencil -- but no candy.

Now, thanks to the Plant Whisperer's green thumb, Leafy, Jr. looks almost as healthy as when he arrived.

Our Tree in Winter

2010-02-12T07:22:00.000-06:00

She's still holding onto those leaves, but little knots have appeared on her limbs in promise of spring. Yesterday, we watched her transform throughout the day. Snow collected on her branches and leaves, piling and piling, until swoosh, a heavy clump would fall to the ground.

And here she was two months ago.

Best Student Book Review Ever

2010-02-06T07:10:00.001-06:00

This book, a gift from my friend and the author Nancy Bo Flood, arrived in the mail last week. It's a signed advanced release copy of her new middle-grade (and up) novel, Warriors in the Crossfire, about two friends -- one native, the other Japanese -- on Saipan during the final days of World War II. I had read the novel in draft form and was proud to have the ARC in my hands.

I dove right into Warriors that night, then took it to school with me the next day to show my students and to continue reading after lunch during our daily silent-reading time. Toward the end of the school day, a serious boy quietly asked me if I had any extra homework for him that night.

No student has ever asked me that. I was not prepared. I hated to give him a TAKS editing practice sheet. He makes perfect scores on those, and they're boring. Then I had an idea. This boy devours books and goes to the library at least three mornings a week for new ones. He recently had written a chilling, somewhat disturbing (but riveting and fairly well-written) essay about a haunted house he had lived in. He could handle the reading level and subject matter of Warriors. I picked up my prized ARC and said, "I have a book for you to read. My friend wrote it, and I am enjoying it, but I'd really like to see what a 10-year-old boy thinks of it."

He nodded. "I can do that."

I handed him the book. "Maybe you could write me a note about what you think about the book, kind of a little book review -- whether you like it or not."

"I have paper at home," he said. (He seemed proud of this. Not all my students have school supplies at home.) He took it right back to his seat and started reading. Five minutes later, we made eye contact and he gave me a thumbs-up. "I like it so far," he said.

He apparently did like it, because he finished the whole thing that night. The next morning, he pulled it out of his backpack as he walked through my door. The book of course had some wear and tear from from being handled and read by a 10 year old. I was fine with that (though I would not lend an ARC to just any student).

"It was really good," he said, eyes shining. "It took me longer to read than most of my books."

He opened the book. "Here. I wrote about it in the front."

Oh, dear, I thought. Maybe he just inserted the his piece of paper into the front.

But no. He proudly showed me his review, inscribed boldly on the title page:

I exclaimed my appreciation and said I would let the author know how much he liked it. So, Nancy, here's your first in-book student review!

This only makes my ARC of Warriors more valuable. To me.

All about fourth graders ...

2010-01-30T18:41:00.000-06:00

They turn 10 during the year. Double digits: It's a big deal!

Bullies bother them. Meanness often manifests itself in sneaky jabs in the hallway, or when a teacher has turned away, or at recess. Ah, recess. Recess is a huge breeding ground for fourth-grade drama and discontent. One mean kid can really make a fourth grader's life miserable.

Some kids have some very annoying habits. One boy growls regularly. A certain girl eats paper, including Kleenex. (Wouldn't that stick to your tongue in an uncomfortable way?) A few in each class constantly kick their feet on the metal basket beneath the desk chairs, creating a sound that is far from relaxing. Others have no personal space boundaries.

They want everything to be fair and even. They are good at sharing.

Some get stressed over standardized testing and regular school work: Fourth grade can be a huge step up in expectations placed on them. At my school, fourth grade means moving to an "upstairs" classroom (fourth through sixth grades are upstairs), which is a BIG deal, because the younger grades have no reason to ever come upstairs before that. It also means generally harder, and more independent, work. While they may have slid by and gotten A's in third grade, they have to learn a lot more in fourth grade, sometimes resulting in a dreaded first B on the report card.

The girls start writing notes back and forth around November. Boys are sometimes involved in the note writing too. Some of them say they are "going out." They don't actually go anywhere, and I don't know that it involves anything except saying you are going out with so-and-so, and then breaking up. One good thing: this process does not bring about any crying yet.

Fourth grade is the year of THE Movie. You know, the one about puberty.

They are still young enough to cry on Halloween if someone accidentally (or accidentally-on-purpose) knocks off their fairy wing or whatever.

Many of the girls and boys have body odor by this time of year. Afternoons can be stinky in the classroom.

Some of them have no pencil. Every day.

A lot of the boys (mine, at least) are hyper and lose things.

The boys still come to school with bed head. The girls do not.

They are, of course, deeply saddened if a hamster dies. One child may announce in class, My hamster died last night. And then another may say, My mom died last year. This happened in our science teacher's class.

I find them to be quite lovable. They are still young enough that they are just not cool. At all! They are cute, annoying, heart-breaking and hilarious.

Photo:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/jantik/ / CC BY 2.0

Diaper Baby

2010-01-16T09:28:00.001-06:00

I wasn't joking when I said that my most challenging students are boys. One in particular has been driving me crazy. Most days, he comes walking into my class a minute shy of late. And "walking" is not the adequate word for his form of movement. It's a sort of hyper walk-dance -- a side-to-side swagger, arms swinging out -- mouth moving, words flying.

He is as tall as I am, big-boned but not fat, and uncoordinated. He lives with his mother and talks often about his daddy, who lives in another city. Recently, he said, with a kind of pride, "My daddy spent all my college money on getting me these clothes."

This boy talks baby talk to teachers, but not to his classmates. He won't look adults in the eye unless asked to do so, and then, it only lasts a moment. When he hasn't studied for a test, or when he gets sent to sit in the hall (when his antics have neared taking over my classroom, usually at the very end of the day), or when he doesn't get what he wants, he sticks out his bottom lip and pouts, grunts, crosses his arms. Then he works it into a loud, fake pre-cry. It's the kind of noise a toddler makes in an attempt to call up a fit. (By the way, he never acts this way during math, which is taught by a man.)

One thing I love about him is that he is so NOT sneaky. He tries to be -- for example, taking a bag of chips (in a sweatshirt pocket) to math class and then asking repeatedly to go to the bathroom, where he snacks on the chips (and gets caught). This incident happened on the day he came back pouting after lunch because he was HUNGRY.

"Didn't you just eat lunch?" I said.

"No," he said. "I didn't eat my lunch 'cause my momma didn't pack me enough."

"Then did you go through the cafeteria line?" I said.

"Hhhn," he grunted, crossing his arms. "I don't eat the cafeteria food."

This boy says he has never been absent from school since pre-K, and I can vouch for the fact that he's not missed a day this year. Not even a class period. This is amazing, since he is often caught sucking on some germy object: a tube of Carmex, a pencil eraser, a piece of broken plastic.

I redirect him so often that I recently called my dog by his name on accident. (I know, that's bad.) Though I have strategies for dealing with my most frustrating students, I haven't figured this one out. Just when I think he's turned a corner, and I write out a gushing note to send home to his mom, he reverts to his old antics, and by the end of the day, I've ripped up the note and thrown it away -- a sad (somewhat inappropriate) salve to my annoyance.

Maybe I need to add one or two pacifiers to next year's school supply list.

Baby photo:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/lambchops/ / CC BY-NC 2.0

Pacifier photo:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/thesoftlanding/ / CC BY 2.0

Southern Schools Must Meet New Needs

2010-01-07T06:39:00.000-06:00

When I attended my elementary school (the school where I now teach), it was made up of mostly middle-class, white kids. Now, the white kids are much poorer, and the racial mix of students (though not teachers, interestingly) is more diverse. A recent study from the Southern Education Foundation -- written about in this New York Times article -- reveals that this situation is not unique to my school.

My favorite quote from the article: "School districts in the South are already struggling to adapt, but it is not clear which methods are most effective." I think this means: No one yet knows how to best teach lower-income and non-white students. We'd better learn -- soon.

I like them!

2010-01-06T07:12:00.000-06:00

As Mr. Slinger, a teacher, writes in a note to Lily in Lily's Purple Plastic Purse, "Tomorrow will be a better day." And so it was. Tuesday morning, I stood at the door and greeted my students as they came in, and I noticed something: I was sort of happy to see them.

Huge Holiday Hangover

2010-01-04T20:59:00.000-06:00

I've spent the past two glorious weeks with my family: first, in my home getting ready for Christmas, then on a snowy, treacherous highway for seven hours Christmas Eve (which somehow has turned into a special memory, though one I don't want to repeat), then at my mom's cozy house for a few days of Christmas, and finally on a Florida beach last week.

Aside from one bad dream involving my being late for work and not having anything appropriate to wear, I didn't think much about my job, and I tried really hard not to talk about my students (my husband needed a break, too!). All the while, in the back of my head, a little voice kept saying, "You'll pay."

With school starting back tomorrow, I wonder if that little voice was right. If I had spent one day planning, and another day figuring out how to better help some of my kids, would I feel more comfortable right now? Because I feel sick. Really.

Pretty much all of my worry stems from the writing TAKS, coming to a Texas public fourth-grade classroom near you in eight short weeks. After the scores come in, I'll be judged by a number -- how many of my students pass, how many of them get "commended," and how many of them fail. (More on this in another post ...)

I need a pep talk to go with my Pepto. I have to face a bunch of kids tomorrow and put a big smile on. So maybe instead of thinking I'm "paying" for these two weeks off, I should recognize an important fact: if I hadn't had those two weeks -- if I hadn't been able to get out of teacher mode and be a wife, mom, sister, daughter, friend, normal person and shark's-tooth-beach-comber extraordinaire -- I would have paid a bigger price: I would have missed things. A lot of really lovely, important things!

AND, I would still be stressed and crazy and biting my nails over the stupid TAKS.

About a Boy

2009-12-22T18:46:00.000-06:00

My most worrisome students are boys: boys affected by poverty, boys with dyslexia, boys with poor social skills, boys in danger of failing -- angry boys, hungry boys, fatherless boys.

Here is another story about a boy. He moved here after the school year had started. His father had been without a job for more than a year, and they’d ended up in Texas. He was hungry and completely untrusting of everyone. He once cracked open a pecan in my classroom after recess -- pecans are a playground treasure for some of my students (the hungry ones?) -- and proclaimed, "Pecans are the only thing I like about Texas." I don't blame him for feeling that way. One Monday, he shared that someone had beaten up his dad the previous Friday, landing his dad in jail for a few hours. A few weeks later, he said someone had shot at his dog. I believe both stories. This boy has fear in his eyes.

When we wrote and illustrated poems to be displayed in the hall, he created a folding cover for his poem and wrote on it: DO NOT OPEN. I displayed it this way (he still wanted it displayed!), taped shut, until he took it down because kids were opening it. Nothing makes a fourth grader want to open something like a sign that says not to open it.

Last Friday, the last day of school before the holidays, the boy had a blow up. He spent the last half of the day in the principal’s and counselor’s offices and didn't get to finish his craft projects we were making in class. I promised to glue them and bring them by his house in a few days. So today, I visited, carrying his artwork, plus a few small gifts.

His street and neighborhood were not as bad as I had envisioned, from hearing his stories. The front porch was shielded by a sheet of plywood. A lanky puppy greeted me at the front door. I rang the doorbell, and the boy's mom invited me in. I followed the puppy. The house was warm enough, and a big Christmas tree took up one-sixth the living room. My boy was curled under a blanket on the couch. His mom said they'd just gotten their heat turned on (we've had some REALLY cold days recently, and I cannot imagine being without heat), and they'd all taken turns being sick. The puppy nosed him, and the boy sat up, his eyes glassy. He looked sad.

I admired their tree. It was covered in handmade ornaments from the boy and his siblings -- along with some more intricate ones I learned were made by the boy and his mom. My crummy photo above doesn't do them justice. They're made from Christmas cards the family has received, though the mom mentioned that they'd hardly received any this year, because of their moving around.

"Which one did you make for your teacher?" the mom asked her son, though I suspect that the boy didn’t want to part with one of his ornaments. His mom scanned the tree. "Was it the snowman?" she asked, then answered herself, "Yes, I think it was." She took the snowman ornament off the tree and gave it to me. I cradled it gently, oohed and ahed, and got instructions on making my own. (Each ornament takes 12 two-inch circles cut from the cards. The edges are folded so that each circle becomes a pentagon, and the folded edges are glued together to form a round-ish ornament.)

I am thankful that this boy has a puppy. And heat. I am thankful he makes things with his mom. And now, their snowman brightens my tree. I will think of my boy and his family this Christmas. I will hope for him, and all my boys, that 2010 will be a good year.

Kids Can Learn More, Earlier, Than We Knew

2009-12-21T09:20:00.000-06:00

Promising research on brain development affects preschool education. "And schools in about a dozen states have begun to use a program intended to accelerate the development of young students’ frontal lobes, improving self-control in class," according to this NYT article.

Apparently, I haven't taught this student much.

2009-12-19T11:55:00.000-06:00

I don't know whether to laugh or to cry.

Mean Boy Update

2009-12-17T05:47:00.000-06:00

Even after his poetry memorization success, the mean boy is still mean. He takes regular verbal swipes at other students, often at after-lunch recess. (So much of the drama happens at after-lunch recess, because the kids are completely out of teacher ear-shot.) It has come out that many students are afraid of him. Yesterday, in the boys' bathroom, the mean boy allegedly threatened to beat up another student because the that student had told the truth (along with about 10 other kids) about the mean boy throwing a piece of food at a girl at lunch.

I am resisting the temptation to write about him as Mean Boy, with capital letters, like that's his name. Why? I still have hope for him, hope I can't explain. This boy has potential. He's bright and sensitive -- and miserable, I think, which is why he's so mean. I don't know all the reasons for his misery. I can guess that it has something to do with not having a father involved in his life, and with the mean older sister he mentions regularly.

So for now he's just the mean boy, a common noun. I hope he will become Kind Boy, Changed Boy, Caring Boy, Friend Boy. Anything is possible.

Window-Watching Weather

2009-12-12T07:28:00.000-06:00

Tuesday, the big oak tree outside my classroom wore a brilliant rust hairdo. Smooth, heavy clouds blew far past in the distance, like a long blanket being dragged across the horizon. Wind brushed hard against the windows, and leaves shimmied, clinging to the oak. Now and then, we had to stop our lesson and watch. But just as we would go back to work, the wind would whip up again, and the stubborn leaves would tremble.

No kid can ignore exciting weather out a classroom window -- the shouts and oohs during a windstorm, or after thunder, or as fat rain drops slap the glass, or heaven forbid, when snow starts to fall, bring me back to my own elementary school years, when weather out the window brought a glorious distraction from a long, monotonous day. My teachers always said something like, “You’ve seen snow before. Let’s get back to work.”

But you should have seen the brilliant leaves shimmy on Tuesday! You should have heard the wind! It was impossible to ignore. So finally, I said, “Let’s just sit here and watch for a minute.” The classroom was the stillest it's ever been, as we took in our wild-haired tree.

We did that on Tuesday. We observed.

Stuck

2009-12-09T19:46:00.000-06:00

One of my special-needs students, a tiny girl, got her head stuck in a chair today. We have those plastic chairs with the little square hole in the lower part of the back. Well, I was reading to the class, and the girl was angry with me for taking away her paper hat (she had hit someone with it in the hall), and she was wiggling around in a chair while not really bothering anyone. I ignored her and kept reading, because she was calming herself down, and everything seemed fine -- until I heard: “I’m stuck.”

I had to push the black button on the wall to call the office. (It was my first time for pushing The Button.) Soon, my students were lined up in the hall while four teachers considered the options in my room. There aren’t a lot of options when a child’s head is stuck in a chair. Just as the principal was about to call the fire department, a very calm P.E. coach slicked the girl’s forehead with hand sanitizer and gently popped her back through. I clapped, inappropriately, and I could tell the principal did not approve. But I was really, really relieved! My girl was fine -- though her forehead and ears were a little red.

After a serious sit-down scolding, the principal asked the girl, "Why’d you do that?"

"I used to could do it," the girl answered. "I used to could fit."

It all made sense to me.

Sick Day

2009-12-08T06:10:00.000-06:00

Never have I been so happy for my daughter to be stricken with illness as I was Monday morning, when she woke up with a sore throat. As I examined her awful tonsils, I had to keep from jumping up and down with excitement. I rushed to school to prepare for a substitute teacher, and soon I was back home on a freezing cold morning, in jeans and sock feet, wrapped in a blanket at my computer -- working on school work, but home. It was a much-needed sick day, with no excuses. And no guilt (well, maybe just a little bit, for being so darned happy).

Happy Monday to me. Happy Monday to me. My daughter's home si-ick. Happy Monday to meeeeeeeee.

The Imagination Nazi Strikes

2009-12-05T08:24:00.001-06:00

Many fourth graders are not so creative. I can think of several reasons for this: their developmental stage, concrete operational, which makes them more logical than abstract; laziness or learned helplessness (some want to be told what to do and how to do it); too much time spent filling in TAKS-practice multiple-choice bubbles; and fear of doing it "wrong," when the only real wrong is refusal to try.

Open-ended assignments, in which students have free choice of topic or format, are often met with worried looks or blank stares from several students, followed by a request to go to the bathroom, or questions that begin, "Is it O.K. if we ...?" -- to which I respond, sometimes crossly:

"Quit asking questions! Just use your brain to figure it out! That's why it's called a free write -- you are FREE to choose! ... What? NO, you may not go get a drink. And don't look so miserable! No one ever died from writing. ... Didn't you just go to the bathroom after lunch? No. Sit down."

My barking out corrections or commands probably whooshes any remaining creativity out of the room. It's like unleashing a fire extinguisher on a Christmas candle. I felt this happen in my classroom last Friday:

Determined that my students would stretch their creative muscles, I walked them through a guided imagery exercise in which they took a trip in their minds. A lot of students loved it and were sparked to create long stories or essays, or detailed pictures. Some students, however, could not handle the freedom of even the first step: "Find a place in the room where you will be comfortable sitting or lying with your eyes closed for about 10 minutes." Really. Some took five minutes finding the right spot. One boy, trying to be funny, even put his head in the trash can and, when questioned, told me that was where he was most comfortable. I became annoyed, then angry, with the few students who wouldn't take the assignment seriously. No doubt, my irritation affected the tone of the class -- and thus the effectiveness of this exercise -- for at least one group of students.

Still, I will continue to plan regular creativity stretches. I think it was good for my students. But next time, they will stay in their seats. And no matter how annoyed I become, I will not let myself sound like a Rottweiler.

Every Day is New

2009-12-02T20:08:00.000-06:00

It was hard to go back to work Monday morning after being off for Thanksgiving. I wanted to hide under the covers and stay home. I cried. It was a small pity party, in secret, with no cake. (Cake might have made things better.) Of course, the day was awful. The kids didn't want to be there either.

Never fear. I saved the day by teaching an exciting lesson apostrophes! Need a cure for those post-Thanksgiving I-don't-wannas? Apostrophes! Students dull-eyed from too much turkey and pie, followed by three days of video games? Apostrophes! My poor, precious students.

When I went home, I was still depressed -- and still feeling very sorry for myself. (Self-pity is one of my weaknesses.) I even made my daughter cry a little. Bad moods are catching. But then my husband came home. He was so grateful for dinner. He was so happy. Happiness is catching, too. Thank God.

Tuesday was much better.

Growing Stuff

2009-11-27T07:57:00.000-06:00

In science Tuesday, my fourth graders planted beans in little milk cartons they'd decorated to look like turkeys -- typically a kindergarten project, but still enjoyed by the older crowd, judging from their enthusiasm as they left school with their little charges.

What if they had a real garden to work in? How much plant science would they learn by actually digging in soil, burying seeds, weeding, harvesting, and finally preparing and eating their own school-grown food? What if every public school in America had an edible schoolyard?

Since no TAKS objective deals with real-life vegetable gardening, the pessimist in me says such pleasures will be experienced by only the most privileged Texas children, those with a gardener in the family.

Taking a Cue From the Dog Whisperer (Really)

2009-11-22T21:17:00.000-06:00

Continuing the theme of dog training as it applies to children, from Friday's New York Times: Becoming the Alpha Dog in Your Own Home. I wonder how Casar Millan's shhht corrective noise would work in the classroom.

Find Out How You Can Quickly and Easily Become a Professional Dog Trainer!

2009-11-20T19:44:00.000-06:00

I wrote an office referral today for a student who refused to work (not anything new for him, but it's getting old, and my attempts at hand holding haven't worked). First, he sat for half of the class period with a blank page in front of him instead of trying to write even one word of the poem we were doing in class. Then, after I gave him an alternative worksheet, he practiced his zombie stare on that for the last half of class.

This is the boy I had put on a "sticker" reward system for writing. He's definitely a reluctant writer, but in a weird way. He sits with his blank page, and when I ask him questions to try to help him along along, he stares straight ahead instead of looking at me or answering. Zombie Boy recently earned a fabulous treasure-box prize for getting his first five writing stickers, but the new has apparently worn off for him. Time to think of something else.

I feel like a dog trainer with some of these kids. Hold out a bone to get them to sit, shake, walk on a leash, or poop outdoors. If they perform, give them a treat and pat them on the head like a proud granny. Some aren't motivated by work done well, a poem written on their own, a story clearly told. Some don't seem to care if they fail. But they are motivated (for a while, at least) by a plastic Dollar Store pencil sharpener, or by a $1 reusable shopping bag to carry their books in from class to class.

Wild Geese and Other Animals

2009-11-19T20:47:00.000-06:00

My meanest boy recited a poem for me today. Sure, it was for the 10 reward tickets I'd offered for memorization of "Something Told the Wild Geese," by Rachel Field. But I couldn't help but be hopeful for him, this boy who has earned my distrust with his sneaky snipes and jabs at other students. I couldn't help but to see more potential for good in him today, his voice so soft and tentative, then stronger at the end, and proud.

I made him promise -- promise -- he'd recite it for his mom when he got home. And that he'd keep it memorized, so that a long time from now, on some crisp fall day, those words will find him, and he'll remember.

Unexcused Absence: Art Education

2009-11-18T06:59:00.001-06:00

Help! My fourth-graders only get 40 minutes of art "instruction" (usually a craft project) every four weeks. No wonder I catch many of them drawing and paper-folding during my language-arts classes: they are art-deprived.

Research shows that doing art makes people smarter. No surprise there. The good news is, I have my homeroom class at the end of the every day for 25 minutes. This would be the perfect time for a mini art lesson, and I am sensing that they really need this. If you have any resources or ideas for very brief art lessons and projects (though they can certainly stretch over multiple days), please share.

Counting Beans

2009-11-16T19:02:00.000-06:00

I am, by nature, a negative person. Parenting has taught me to be more positive: I've seen how a strong negative reaction from me can turn a mother-daughter discussion into shouting match that ends with my daughter squeezed under her bed, simultaneously crying and saying mean things about me to herself (loudly enough for me to hear).

There's no room for negativity in the classroom. My worst days this year have been the ones when I've found it nearly impossible to notice anything that's going well.

My remedy: beans in my pocket. Every morning now I put 10
beans in my left pocket. Each time I give a student a compliment, I move a bean to my right pocket. I've been doing this for two days. I hope to get better at it. Today at lunchtime, I still had nine beans in my left pocket. By the end of the day, three beans remained. Sad, sad, sad.

I have many beans to go before I become the kind of teacher I want to be, the kind who can look away from one seriously annoying student's antics and find those students who are doing things right, or who are doing better than they did yesterday -- or whose new bangs look really nice.

2009-11-14T17:03:00.000-06:00

so much depends

upon

the bent

paper clip

veiled in white

sheets

beneath the grade

book