12/5/08
Dear A.,
Let's keep a journal together! Every night, I will read what you write and write you back. During the day, the journal can stay in your desk. Anytime you want to write and tell me something, you can! You are the only one who is going to have a journal with me so try to keep it private. Try writing about how you are feeling--things that are bothering you or things you are excited about. How are you feeling today?
-Ms. Powell
12/5/08
Ms powell today i feeling very very happy. Ms powell you are the best you are nice ms powell. We all love you ms powell. me and Jennifer c and anahi love you ms powell.
love ms powell
and love a.
12/5/08
Dear A.,
I am so glad that you are feeling happy today. Why are you so very very happy? What are you going to do this weekend? I am going to school on Saturday to learn to be a better teacher. Then I am going ice skating and after that I'm going to a party. I am so excited! I hope you have a great weekend.
-Ms. Powell
Dear Ms. powell,
We so happy. Ms powell you are nice. Ms Powell read us a book. It was very very nice. Ms powell is beautiful she is going in a party she will be happy. In the party she will be nice and beautiful she is so so nice. Me and ms powell we was very very happy. Ms powell is very nice.
Dear Ms Powell,
I feeling very very excited ms powell. You feeling very very happy ms powell. Ms powell you are nice ms powell. A. you are good in school.
by: A.
Dear Ms Powell
Ms powell i feeling very very excited in the school. Ms powell said to me that she feeling very very happy. Tomorrow i will be happy.
12/8/08
Dear A.,
Why are you so excited for school? What are you excited to do? Did you have a good weekend? What did you do. I sang in a concert. I saw a movie. I planned lessons for the week. Write back!
-Ms. Powell
Dear ms powell
We had so much fun in the park Ms powell have your weeked was good ms powell. Ms powell said to me that her weeked was good.
12/9/08
Dear A.,
My weekend was good! I'm glad you had fun in the park. Did you go on the swings? How are you feeling today--happy? Sad? Angry? Excited? Did you like anything that we learned about today? I am going shopping tonight, so I feel happy and excited, but also tired.
-Ms. Powell
Dear Ms Powell
I have a phone ms powell it is in my best. I have 2 phone. The phone is so good. Ms powell.
Love a.
2/20/09
Dear ms. powell
ms. Powell you are so Nice with me. I Love the way you teach me in school I learn more to do math and writing. my mom said that she like the way she hav contc with you about my behavioR. ms Powell you are so nice with us Im sorry when I din't lisen to you my mom said that i have to lisen to you and do what you said because yo are like my second mom. I Love you ms Powell.
Monday, February 23, 2009
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Feelings
I spend every day pulling teeth. Sure, there are successes here and there. But I'm a perfectionist and the imperfections weigh on me. And since it's that weight on my shoulders that drives me to improve, and since that drive is the only reason I'm anything, I don't hate myself too much for the perfectionism and the drive. But my point is, I focus on the imperfections, the failures.
The kids who don't want to learn. And so, it seems to me, I spend every day pulling teeth. A., M., L., B....they'd rather be anywhere else, doing anything else, than be in school learning. Instead of learning to read beyond a Kindergarten level, A. spent the day throwing his table's crayons out the window whenever I turned my back. NOW HIS TABLE HAS NO CRAYONS. Did he not consider this? I am baffled.
M. pulled a girl to him and kissed her while she screamed and 2 teachers watched in horror. He stomped on another girl's foot and called a boy "motherfucker." I met with his father, who had no idea what to do to control his son. M. doesn't seem to care about anything and doesn't seem to be scared of anything... the best I can come up with is counseling the more malleable students to "ignore, ignore, ignore."
And then there's the fact that I KEEP GETTING MORE KIDS. I FINALLY move almost all my kids up past the D reading level and then, whaddaya know, 3 new kids move to the neighborhood, speak no English, can't count past 10, and don't know any of the letter's sounds. I know, I know, I should see this as an OPPORTUNITY... but all I can think is, HOW can the DOE require absolutely nothing except that a child be 7 years old in order to place them in 2nd grade. These children are at Pre-K level. What are they doing in my class of students who are (I hope) rapidly approaching 3rd grade level.
My predominant feeling at the moment is anger and I don't like it. I'm angry at my kids and at their parents and at the school and at the DOE. I'm angry at the people who throw their trash out of the bus at every stop instead of putting it in a trashcan like any decent person would. I'm angry at L.'s 21 year old brother, who had a baby with his girlfriend, then dumped her and moved back home. I'm angry at Y.'s father, who told her he didn't love her and then left her and her mom.
The problems with these people and this place run so deep. Am I really doing anything to fix them, or just getting myself caught up in the inevitable misery?
I feel tired of asking myself this question every single day.
The kids who don't want to learn. And so, it seems to me, I spend every day pulling teeth. A., M., L., B....they'd rather be anywhere else, doing anything else, than be in school learning. Instead of learning to read beyond a Kindergarten level, A. spent the day throwing his table's crayons out the window whenever I turned my back. NOW HIS TABLE HAS NO CRAYONS. Did he not consider this? I am baffled.
M. pulled a girl to him and kissed her while she screamed and 2 teachers watched in horror. He stomped on another girl's foot and called a boy "motherfucker." I met with his father, who had no idea what to do to control his son. M. doesn't seem to care about anything and doesn't seem to be scared of anything... the best I can come up with is counseling the more malleable students to "ignore, ignore, ignore."
And then there's the fact that I KEEP GETTING MORE KIDS. I FINALLY move almost all my kids up past the D reading level and then, whaddaya know, 3 new kids move to the neighborhood, speak no English, can't count past 10, and don't know any of the letter's sounds. I know, I know, I should see this as an OPPORTUNITY... but all I can think is, HOW can the DOE require absolutely nothing except that a child be 7 years old in order to place them in 2nd grade. These children are at Pre-K level. What are they doing in my class of students who are (I hope) rapidly approaching 3rd grade level.
My predominant feeling at the moment is anger and I don't like it. I'm angry at my kids and at their parents and at the school and at the DOE. I'm angry at the people who throw their trash out of the bus at every stop instead of putting it in a trashcan like any decent person would. I'm angry at L.'s 21 year old brother, who had a baby with his girlfriend, then dumped her and moved back home. I'm angry at Y.'s father, who told her he didn't love her and then left her and her mom.
The problems with these people and this place run so deep. Am I really doing anything to fix them, or just getting myself caught up in the inevitable misery?
I feel tired of asking myself this question every single day.
Monday, February 2, 2009
New kid
There is a new kid in my class. He is crazy. The other day, he raised his hand while all the students were on the mat to ask me, "Ms. Powell, do you love me?" Then, last week, he raised his hand while all the students were on the mat to ask me, "Ms. Powell, do you and your boyfriend sleep together?"
Jeesh.
Jeesh.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Complaint
From Y.
Ms. Powell, E. told me that if I don't give him 10 table points, I'll have to eat R.'s doodoo.
Ms. Powell, E. told me that if I don't give him 10 table points, I'll have to eat R.'s doodoo.
Saturday, January 3, 2009
The Saga of D.
D. is seven years old. He comes from China. He arrived in the United States in early September of this year. The first time I laid eyes on him, he was screaming, crying and punching everything around him. It was his first morning in an American school. Several teachers were wrestling him, trying to get him to leave his mother’s side and line up with Ms. B.’s second grade class in the gym. The rest of the faculty and students looked on in shock.
The teachers failed to get D. into the gym that morning, and every morning for the next week. It wasn’t until the following week, when four more teachers joined forces against him, his mom ran away down the stairs, and the principal locked the door to the gym after her, that he was forced into Ms. B.’s line, still screaming and crying. And the rest of the faculty and students still looked on in shock.
Mr. J., my school’s ESL specialist knocked politely on my door on the afternoon of the third Friday in September. He’d brought me a whole stack of ESL books and hand-outs. I should have recognized that he was trying to soften me up. “So…” he began. “You’re going to be getting a new student.” I was confused. Hardly a day had passed that I hadn’t gotten a new student, and Mr. J. had never personally prepared me for any of them before. “He’s a little different. He comes from China.”
I still didn’t put two and two together, although I was slightly terrified at the prospect of a Chinese student. Most of the students in my class speak Spanish better than English, but, after taking Spanish in high school and college, I can communicate with them pretty well. I had friends who took Chinese in college and I was already wondering if maybe one or two of them would be willing to move to the Bronx and translate for me and my new student. “Anyway,” Mr. J. continued, “he should be moving to your class sometime next week. If we can get him through the door.” And the truth finally dawned on me…
The transition to a new classroom was almost as painful as the transition into the school in the first place. There were a few failed attempts. Finally, on Wednesday, his mother succeeded in beating him with an umbrella to get him into the gym, and then she ran away while another teacher and I wrestled D. into my line. I should have warned my students. Their response, as the teachers held the kicking and screaming child at the back of my boys’ line, echoed my own: “Oh. My. God.”
The most astonishing part of the day came right after lunch: math. I was giving a test on number order, with some addition and subtraction problems thrown in at the end. I didn’t have a lot of hope that my students would do well, since the diagnostic I’d administered at the beginning of the year showed me that most of them couldn’t put the numbers 1-10 in order. The majority of my student’s performance surprised me pleasantly. But D.’s performance (I’d handed him a test, just so he wouldn’t feel excluded or set apart from the rest of the class) blew me away. It was perfect. Even the tricky addition and subtraction problems on the last page. Perfect. I couldn’t believe it.
From then on, I had my entry point. Every morning, D.’s mother would beat him with her umbrella until he got through the gym doors. I would meet him there, put an arm around his shoulder, and hand him a sheet of math problems and a pencil. As he looked them over, I would guide him slowly into line and wave goodbye to his mother. And he would stand peacefully in line, answering every problem, from 2-digit addition and subtraction to multiplication and division. My other students were as amazed as I was. “D. is a math genius!” we decided together. He still didn’t understand anything I said, he still wouldn’t make a noise in English or in Chinese, he still wouldn’t come to sit on the mat when the rest of the students did, and he still ran to his mother’s arms at the end of the day. But finally, D. was starting to feel like part of my class.
Every morning, I greet the children at the door and shake each one of their hands. They are to say, “Good morning, Ms. Powell,” while giving me a firm handshake and looking right in my eyes. Since the second or third week of having D. in my class, I have tried desperately to get him to take part of this ritual, but to no avail. He shakes my hand and looks at me with big, puppy-dog eyes. And his mouth stays closed.
Finally, one morning a few weeks ago, I wouldn’t let him in the room. I stood outside with him for a good five minutes. I broke up the words, speaking each one of them slowly while pointing to my mouth, and then pointing at his mouth. Finally, I heard him say it. “Good morning, Ms. Powell.” I was ecstatic and ran into the classroom, shouting. “D. said ‘Good morning!’ D. said ‘Good morning!’” The class went crazy. D. SAID GOOD MORNING. Every one of the students was running around with giant smiles on their faces, coming up to D. and giving him hugs and shaking his hand and patting him on the back. They were as overjoyed as I was.
My students struggle with number grids. To be honest, I struggle with them too. Until you really internalize the fact that to the right means plus one, to the left means minus one, up means minus ten and down means plus ten, they just look like a lot of meaningless boxes. D., however, does not struggle with number grids. The other day, after a number grid lesson, it was time for independent practice. Most of my kids weren’t getting it. Before I knew what was happening, D. was out of his seat. He’d go up to E., point at an empty box on the number grid, and then make the two or three digits of the numbers on his fingers as E. scribbled them down furiously. I was not, of course, happy about the fact that E. wasn’t doing his own work. But I was happy when, during the “I’m grateful for ___” portion of our community meeting that afternoon, nearly every child in the class said they were grateful for D. because he helped them with math.
We had another exciting math moment right before Winter Vacation. The lesson was on breaking up a 3-digit number into 3 pieces (e.g. 258=200+50+8), and it was the guided practice portion of the lesson, so students were coming up to a white board to solve problems and explain how they found the solutions. I was shocked when, after writing a problem on the board and turning back to face the class, D.’s hand was waving around in the air. “Call on D., call on D.!” the rest of the class chorused. So I did and he, of course, came up and solved the problem perfectly. We clapped for him as he went back to his seat. “Well done, D.!” I told him. “Move up to Perfect Pink” (the reward for excellent behavior or performance). Without hesitation, and with a big smile on his face, he found his clothespin and moved it up before sitting back in his seat.
The teachers failed to get D. into the gym that morning, and every morning for the next week. It wasn’t until the following week, when four more teachers joined forces against him, his mom ran away down the stairs, and the principal locked the door to the gym after her, that he was forced into Ms. B.’s line, still screaming and crying. And the rest of the faculty and students still looked on in shock.
Mr. J., my school’s ESL specialist knocked politely on my door on the afternoon of the third Friday in September. He’d brought me a whole stack of ESL books and hand-outs. I should have recognized that he was trying to soften me up. “So…” he began. “You’re going to be getting a new student.” I was confused. Hardly a day had passed that I hadn’t gotten a new student, and Mr. J. had never personally prepared me for any of them before. “He’s a little different. He comes from China.”
I still didn’t put two and two together, although I was slightly terrified at the prospect of a Chinese student. Most of the students in my class speak Spanish better than English, but, after taking Spanish in high school and college, I can communicate with them pretty well. I had friends who took Chinese in college and I was already wondering if maybe one or two of them would be willing to move to the Bronx and translate for me and my new student. “Anyway,” Mr. J. continued, “he should be moving to your class sometime next week. If we can get him through the door.” And the truth finally dawned on me…
The transition to a new classroom was almost as painful as the transition into the school in the first place. There were a few failed attempts. Finally, on Wednesday, his mother succeeded in beating him with an umbrella to get him into the gym, and then she ran away while another teacher and I wrestled D. into my line. I should have warned my students. Their response, as the teachers held the kicking and screaming child at the back of my boys’ line, echoed my own: “Oh. My. God.”
The most astonishing part of the day came right after lunch: math. I was giving a test on number order, with some addition and subtraction problems thrown in at the end. I didn’t have a lot of hope that my students would do well, since the diagnostic I’d administered at the beginning of the year showed me that most of them couldn’t put the numbers 1-10 in order. The majority of my student’s performance surprised me pleasantly. But D.’s performance (I’d handed him a test, just so he wouldn’t feel excluded or set apart from the rest of the class) blew me away. It was perfect. Even the tricky addition and subtraction problems on the last page. Perfect. I couldn’t believe it.
From then on, I had my entry point. Every morning, D.’s mother would beat him with her umbrella until he got through the gym doors. I would meet him there, put an arm around his shoulder, and hand him a sheet of math problems and a pencil. As he looked them over, I would guide him slowly into line and wave goodbye to his mother. And he would stand peacefully in line, answering every problem, from 2-digit addition and subtraction to multiplication and division. My other students were as amazed as I was. “D. is a math genius!” we decided together. He still didn’t understand anything I said, he still wouldn’t make a noise in English or in Chinese, he still wouldn’t come to sit on the mat when the rest of the students did, and he still ran to his mother’s arms at the end of the day. But finally, D. was starting to feel like part of my class.
Every morning, I greet the children at the door and shake each one of their hands. They are to say, “Good morning, Ms. Powell,” while giving me a firm handshake and looking right in my eyes. Since the second or third week of having D. in my class, I have tried desperately to get him to take part of this ritual, but to no avail. He shakes my hand and looks at me with big, puppy-dog eyes. And his mouth stays closed.
Finally, one morning a few weeks ago, I wouldn’t let him in the room. I stood outside with him for a good five minutes. I broke up the words, speaking each one of them slowly while pointing to my mouth, and then pointing at his mouth. Finally, I heard him say it. “Good morning, Ms. Powell.” I was ecstatic and ran into the classroom, shouting. “D. said ‘Good morning!’ D. said ‘Good morning!’” The class went crazy. D. SAID GOOD MORNING. Every one of the students was running around with giant smiles on their faces, coming up to D. and giving him hugs and shaking his hand and patting him on the back. They were as overjoyed as I was.
My students struggle with number grids. To be honest, I struggle with them too. Until you really internalize the fact that to the right means plus one, to the left means minus one, up means minus ten and down means plus ten, they just look like a lot of meaningless boxes. D., however, does not struggle with number grids. The other day, after a number grid lesson, it was time for independent practice. Most of my kids weren’t getting it. Before I knew what was happening, D. was out of his seat. He’d go up to E., point at an empty box on the number grid, and then make the two or three digits of the numbers on his fingers as E. scribbled them down furiously. I was not, of course, happy about the fact that E. wasn’t doing his own work. But I was happy when, during the “I’m grateful for ___” portion of our community meeting that afternoon, nearly every child in the class said they were grateful for D. because he helped them with math.
We had another exciting math moment right before Winter Vacation. The lesson was on breaking up a 3-digit number into 3 pieces (e.g. 258=200+50+8), and it was the guided practice portion of the lesson, so students were coming up to a white board to solve problems and explain how they found the solutions. I was shocked when, after writing a problem on the board and turning back to face the class, D.’s hand was waving around in the air. “Call on D., call on D.!” the rest of the class chorused. So I did and he, of course, came up and solved the problem perfectly. We clapped for him as he went back to his seat. “Well done, D.!” I told him. “Move up to Perfect Pink” (the reward for excellent behavior or performance). Without hesitation, and with a big smile on his face, he found his clothespin and moved it up before sitting back in his seat.
Monday, December 8, 2008
Jennifer is a strange and wonderful little girl. She came into my class a few weeks into the schoolyear so she wasn't on my original roster...all her information was scrawled messily on a yellow slip. Whoever wrote her name made the J look a whole lot like a Y. And at that point I was much more motivated and energetic than I am these days, so soon all her books, all the classwide tracking systems, her desk and her mat spot...they all bore the label, "Yennifer." She didn't show up on my attendance sheets until several days later, and somehow, in that interval, the girl became convinced that her name was actually Yennifer. It's at the top of all her classwork, it's at the top of all her homework, it's how she signs out to go to the bathroom, the other kids in the class refer to her as "Yennifer with a Y"... Poor J/Yennifer! I don't know if clearing up the mistake would be more confusing now or not.
Jennifer's job is the Teacher's Assistant. I am now seriously regretting ever coming up with such an ambiguous and potentially-high-responsibility job and almost get rid of it every day. But, as of today, Jennifer is still the Teacher's Assistant. She is always hustling and bustling around the room, straightening tables and organizing books. To my dismay, she has also decided that she is allowed to give Table Points and move people up to Perfect Pink. I gave her a serious talking-to when I realized at lunch that, right before the kids had gone down to the cafeteria, she had gone around the room with a sharpie and labeled things from my sticker container to my easel to every single slate (there are 24) to the pens themselves with "Ms. Powell." I knew she was taking the job of Teacher's Assistant too far, though, when I found, on her desk, on some of the books in the library, in the closet, labeled "Ms. Yennifer."
But she means well. Which is why I find the following stories endearing instead of irritating. Last Thursday, I found a note in the complaint box (see previous entry) from J/Yennifer. It read: "Ms. Powell, my sweater is tickling me." ??? What did she want me to do about it?! Especially since she knew that I don't check the complaint box until after the kids go home for the day! And last Friday, we were working on writing "Small Moment" stories (you look back on your recent life, choose a little episode, zoom in on it and play it like a movie in your mind so you can capture all the details). She got up from her seat (BAD) and came up to me (BAD) to tell me that she couldn't think of anything to write about. "Ms. Powell," she said, "when I close my eyes, all I see are flowers. Everywhere...flowers." I guess there are worse things to see when you close your eyes.
Last couple anecdotes. A. (oh A.) left a note in the complaint box that read: "Ms. Powell, D. stuck her tongue [probably not spelled that way] out at me. She was very very very very very very very very very very bad." A. and I have started a dialogue journal because she is extremely emotional in a distracting way but doens't open up in face-to-face conversations. I hoped that the journal would give her an outlet where she could write about her feelings and really explore them. So far, though, every entry (there have been about 5) has sounded like this: "Ms. Powell, I am so happy. I love you, Ms. Powell. You are nice and beautiful. Ms. Powell, you are so nice. You are so so nice, Ms. Powell. I am very very very very very very happy today, Ms. Powell." And then she refuses to go back to her desk, refuses to get in line, and bursts into tears.
Jennifer's job is the Teacher's Assistant. I am now seriously regretting ever coming up with such an ambiguous and potentially-high-responsibility job and almost get rid of it every day. But, as of today, Jennifer is still the Teacher's Assistant. She is always hustling and bustling around the room, straightening tables and organizing books. To my dismay, she has also decided that she is allowed to give Table Points and move people up to Perfect Pink. I gave her a serious talking-to when I realized at lunch that, right before the kids had gone down to the cafeteria, she had gone around the room with a sharpie and labeled things from my sticker container to my easel to every single slate (there are 24) to the pens themselves with "Ms. Powell." I knew she was taking the job of Teacher's Assistant too far, though, when I found, on her desk, on some of the books in the library, in the closet, labeled "Ms. Yennifer."
But she means well. Which is why I find the following stories endearing instead of irritating. Last Thursday, I found a note in the complaint box (see previous entry) from J/Yennifer. It read: "Ms. Powell, my sweater is tickling me." ??? What did she want me to do about it?! Especially since she knew that I don't check the complaint box until after the kids go home for the day! And last Friday, we were working on writing "Small Moment" stories (you look back on your recent life, choose a little episode, zoom in on it and play it like a movie in your mind so you can capture all the details). She got up from her seat (BAD) and came up to me (BAD) to tell me that she couldn't think of anything to write about. "Ms. Powell," she said, "when I close my eyes, all I see are flowers. Everywhere...flowers." I guess there are worse things to see when you close your eyes.
Last couple anecdotes. A. (oh A.) left a note in the complaint box that read: "Ms. Powell, D. stuck her tongue [probably not spelled that way] out at me. She was very very very very very very very very very very bad." A. and I have started a dialogue journal because she is extremely emotional in a distracting way but doens't open up in face-to-face conversations. I hoped that the journal would give her an outlet where she could write about her feelings and really explore them. So far, though, every entry (there have been about 5) has sounded like this: "Ms. Powell, I am so happy. I love you, Ms. Powell. You are nice and beautiful. Ms. Powell, you are so nice. You are so so nice, Ms. Powell. I am very very very very very very happy today, Ms. Powell." And then she refuses to go back to her desk, refuses to get in line, and bursts into tears.
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
I guess I vastly overestimated how much time/energy/desire I would have for writing about teaching, after spending every waking hour of every day teaching or thinking about teaching. I turn to this Blog in desperation now. I want to quit. Sometimes I want to die because it seems like the only way to quit, guilt-free. But I don't want to write about all that depressing stuff.
In an effort to think positive, I offer up two adorable anecdotes from the past few days.
1) Ten of my students, along with the rest of the second graders from my school, are in a bus. We are on a field trip, headed back from a musical version of The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe put on at Lehman College. My students ask me how old I am and I make a math problem out of it..."I was in college for 4 years, I just graduated from college, and I was 18 when I started college." Then we start talking about growing up. They're saying they don't want to grow up...that it doesn't sound like very much fun. "But," I say, "There are lots of cool things about growing up. You get to live on your own and decide what to do with your time. And you get to have your own cat." Y., a bubbly little girl with about 7 pigtails popping out of her head (each held in place by a different color ribbon), decides she agrees. "And you get to be less annoying!" she exclaims.
2) I have started a complaint box in the classroom because, as I tell my students, "I can't deal with the one million little dramas that are happening every second. Don't interrupt me to tell me that he is kicking you under the desk and she is chewing gum and they are calling each other mean names." If the kids are seriously hurt, seriously scared, or seriously unable to learn because of whatever is going on...then they should tell me. Otherwise, they need to decide it's important enough to get up out of their seats and write a formal complaint for the box. This didn't work out exactly as planned...in just one afternoon there were literally around 30 complaints crammed into the box. A lot of them centered around M., a new kid that the others are ganging up on. He is fighting back, apparently, by telling them to shut up a lot and calling them stupid a lot and sometimes kicking them under the table. My personal favorite M. complain, however, came from A.: "Ms. Powell, I have to tell you. M. licked his shoe."
In an effort to think positive, I offer up two adorable anecdotes from the past few days.
1) Ten of my students, along with the rest of the second graders from my school, are in a bus. We are on a field trip, headed back from a musical version of The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe put on at Lehman College. My students ask me how old I am and I make a math problem out of it..."I was in college for 4 years, I just graduated from college, and I was 18 when I started college." Then we start talking about growing up. They're saying they don't want to grow up...that it doesn't sound like very much fun. "But," I say, "There are lots of cool things about growing up. You get to live on your own and decide what to do with your time. And you get to have your own cat." Y., a bubbly little girl with about 7 pigtails popping out of her head (each held in place by a different color ribbon), decides she agrees. "And you get to be less annoying!" she exclaims.
2) I have started a complaint box in the classroom because, as I tell my students, "I can't deal with the one million little dramas that are happening every second. Don't interrupt me to tell me that he is kicking you under the desk and she is chewing gum and they are calling each other mean names." If the kids are seriously hurt, seriously scared, or seriously unable to learn because of whatever is going on...then they should tell me. Otherwise, they need to decide it's important enough to get up out of their seats and write a formal complaint for the box. This didn't work out exactly as planned...in just one afternoon there were literally around 30 complaints crammed into the box. A lot of them centered around M., a new kid that the others are ganging up on. He is fighting back, apparently, by telling them to shut up a lot and calling them stupid a lot and sometimes kicking them under the table. My personal favorite M. complain, however, came from A.: "Ms. Powell, I have to tell you. M. licked his shoe."
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
