by Jo Noelle
Grabbing a large stack of papers from my mailbox in the office, I peek in Beth’s door to say hello before I head to my room. Mr. Sam has placed another desk in my room with a note from the secretary, saying I should expect a new student this morning. His name is Archer. I move his desk alongside Melissa, who is such a little teacher that she will enjoy having him copy everything she does.
Today, I only pull out worksheets once. After school, Beth comes by to see if I need help (yes), but I decline, not wanting to burden her. She’s only been back a week and I can get through this, but not tonight. Tonight we have a new roommate, and I have to be home for dinner together and some bonding time.
I’m grateful for Wednesdays. Our class has library before lunch and computers after lunch, giving me an hour and a half, if I work straight through, to finish any prep I need for the afternoon. But today at lunch, I decide to eat in the faculty room for adult conversation. I sit across the table from Beth and Mrs. Hays and next to Jan. Mrs. Hays looks up from her nearly full salad and mumbles something about losing her appetite. Gee, passive aggressive much? I’m trying not to take her snide remarks personally, but they are.
Mrs. Lowe, who is sitting on my other side, leans over and says in a conspiratorial tone, “We have something in common.” I smile and look directly at her, and she continues. “Chad. I was his teacher in kindergarten. What. A. Kid.”
I smile, thinking about Chad. I like him too.
“I thought he’d cause my death last year.”
What? My Chad?
“He could cause more trouble than any child I’ve had in twenty-seven years of teaching.” Mrs. Lowe continues, ranting about something Chad did with brown clay in their little kindergarten bathroom.
I give Beth a wide-eyed look, conveying “what nerve”. How dare she talk about one of my children that way! Beth slowly moves her head right and then left. More teacher code for “don’t fight that battle,” and I concentrate on eating while she talks as if I’m listening.
The kindergarten teacher rambles on about recesses, field trips, perfectly good lessons, and after-school activities all completely ruined by one little boy. Finally, she looks at up at the clock. “Oh, my next class is coming. Remember, if you need someone to talk to or a shoulder to cry on, just come on over. I certainly understand how he can get on your nerves, your very last nerve, and then he bites it.” Mrs. Lowe leaves, along with most of the other teachers.
When the room is clear, Beth fills me in on the self-assigned duty Mrs. Lowe feels she has to warn every teacher about the students coming to their classes, along with a laundry list of kindergarten misdeeds.
After school on Thursday, I look over the assessments I’ve been doing with Archer this week, then walk across the hall to get Beth’s opinion. The good news is that I was scoring them correctly. The bad news is that Archer is very, very behind. He might even be very behind if he were in kindergarten. I really don’t know what to do for him. This is exactly the kind of thing that terrified me out of being a teacher in the first place—I would fail a child. Well, he’s here, and I’m here, and I’ve got to figure something out.
I’m determined to end the week strong as I arrive at work on Friday. However, my day is botched just five minutes into the morning. An announcement reminds teachers to send all final orders for the school fund-raiser to the office before the end of lunch today, and I realize I forgot again.
Today is not one of Jacquie’s best days, either. In fact, I’ve said her name no less frequently than every two to three minutes. During writing time, Jacquie finished her story early, and I let her go into the classroom library to look at books until we started our next lesson. I look over one minute and she’s reading, then a couple of minutes later, she’s asleep on the couch. This is heaven sent—I let her sleep.
October 6, 2007
Newbie Blog:
Fundraisers Are Not Fun
Here’s a debate question for you: Should schools conduct fundraisers or not? I’ll give you some pros and cons and let you be the judge.
Pro:
• Yes, school fund-raisers provide many positive benefits to the school and the students.
• They introduce students to the basic precepts of salesmanship.
Schools benefit from extra discretionary funds to provide more varied experiences than they could provide without the extra money.
• They provide a safe venue for competition.
Con:
I think NOT!
• Most of the stuff school fundraisers sell is stuff you don’t really need. If you needed it, you would have bought it already, instead of waiting for a ten-year-old sales force to canvass your neighborhood.
• Teachers have enough on their plates without adding extra responsibilities not related to the educational process.
• It’s expensive. Hypothetically, when you forget to send home the sales packets with students and you end up spending $60 unnecessarily just so your class will not register $0 on the big thermometer standing in the school’s lobby. Then instead of wrapping presents with paper, you will be giving wrapping paper away as presents.
You would think that after doing a job for a couple of months, you’d be good at it—I’m actually getting worse.
Parent/teacher conferences start tonight, and I’ve used every spare minute I can trump up to prepare. Which means a steady diet of worksheets for my poor class. As soon as my students step out the door at the end of the day, I gulp down a sandwich and a Diet Coke, and the first appointment is waiting by my classroom. We talk, time flies. “Next.”
Ms. Proste is next. She greets me with a smile. “I’m Chad’s mom. Honestly, I’m more than a little shocked we haven’t met until tonight.”
We shake hands and enter my room. “I saw you once last month as you were coming out of Mr. Chavez’s office.”
“Well, that’s just it. I haven’t heard from you about anything Chad’s done,” she says, sitting down across from me at my little table.
“I’m sorry. Let’s take a look at his work.” I pull out samples of math and writing assignments and his reading graphs. “I really think he’s coming along as a reader and a writer, but math seems to be his favorite subject. His reading levels. . .”
Mrs. Proste’s hand drops on top of the samples I’m showing her. “Excuse me. I really can’t stay long. Can we just skip to the behavior part? I would like to support you in any way I can, but I have to know what he’s done first.”
“Sure. Chad is liked by his classmates. When he isn’t practicing with the soccer team, he actually plays with many groups, not very cliquish. . .”
“Stop,” she interrupts and leans closer to me. “Let me try again. When does he cause trouble and how?”
I lean back in my chair—not that I feel relaxed, but she is a little intense. “He doesn’t cause trouble. I’ve had no problems with him at all.”
“Oh.” A little furrow deepens between her eyebrows. “None?”
I shake my head. She pauses, looking at me, then asks, “So, he likes math?” We talk about his schoolwork, and she leaves.
Mrs. Milton is next. “Thanks for coming.” We sit down, and I pull out Hunter’s work samples. I’m impressed by how knowledgeable she is about the time she confesses, “I was an elementary teacher before my children were born. It’s important to me to stay involved. I wondered if you would be open to me volunteering some time in your classroom each week.” We arrange for her to come in to reading time on Mondays and Wednesdays. Yay, I have a volunteer.
The appointments continue, and every scheduled family came. It was a long night and I can at last clean up and make a quick raid of the lost and found again for balls before I go home.
The challenge is teaching the day following parent/teacher conferences. Of course, it doesn’t go well. Worksheet, worksheet, lesson, repeat.
Just before starting my appointments, I see Mrs. Gregg in the hall, waiting for her appointment with her younger son’s kindergarten teache
r. That’s going to be a trickier conference, but surely she isn’t still mad about the problems her son had in PE.
JP’s parents are my first appointment. I’m a little worried about this one because I don’t have any good work samples. The three best I could find are all unfinished. He daydreams—a lot. I remind him to get back to work, but when I’m working with other students you can bet he’s daydreaming again. His parents notice right away that the samples are incomplete, and I discuss with them what I’ve noticed about his inattention.
“The thing is, he’s very capable, but it doesn’t really show up in his work. Are there any tricks you use at home to motivate him?”
His parents look at each other with grins, and then his father speaks up. “Ketchup.”
I incline my head to the right. What does he mean?
He continues. “He likes ketchup, obsessed really. So we bribe him with those little packets of ketchup.”
“Seriously?” I look at the dad’s face then at the mom’s face. Straight faced—they must be serious. “I would never have come up with that one. Can I use it?”
After we outline a plan, they leave. I wait and wait, but Mrs. Gregg misses her appointment. I can’t help thinking that she’s avoiding me on purpose since I spoke with her about Sean’s behavior. I step into the hall to make sure Mrs. Gregg isn’t there and thinks I’ve overlooked her.
Mrs. Hays walks by at that moment. “Mrs. Gregg told me to tell you there isn’t any way she will be meeting with you tonight. Let’s see. How did she put it? Oh, yes. ‘With that shrew of a glorified babysitter.’” Mrs. Hays smirks and walks toward her room with extra swing in her walk.
Why did she look like she enjoyed that so much? Yeah, real professional, gossiping with a parent about another teacher. Shake it off. I knew it might be rough. I’ll just have to work harder with Sean to show I care about him. I have no idea why Mrs. Hays takes so much joy in torturing me. My mom’s advice to ignore bullies flashes through my mind. I’m trying, Mom.
All evening, I’ve been a little intimidated, watching the appointment for Ellie’s parents get closer and closer. And after the run-in with Mrs. Hays, I’m feeling less than confident. They’re my last appointment. Thankfully Terese comes without Mr. Chavez (nope, can’t call him Jonathan). He’s probably somewhere keeping the peace or being official. Since my appointment with Mrs. Gregg didn’t happen, we have some extra time to catch up a little. After looking at the work samples I’m giving all the parents, we read through Ellie’s writing folder for fun. I knew Terese would appreciate that the vocabulary in Ellie’s stories is not standard seven-year-old issue. Instead she uses “patiently,” “scrumptious,” “actually,” “inappropriate,” “precious,” “outrageous,” “drama,” and “fidget.”
When tonight’s meetings are over, I notice two of my appointments don’t show up (for Sean and Megan) and two didn’t make appointments (for Archer and Jade). I’ll make phone calls tomorrow to see if we can meet in the next week or so.
Through a lot of effort Friday morning, I open my eyes, thinking I should just call in sick and stay home. I’ve been putting in a lot of extra hours and even more with the conferences this week. I’m burned out. My conscience wakes up about then and replies, “But you’re not sick.” I am sick and tired—that’s kind of sick. My conscience butts in. “You can’t ditch your class with the lesson plans you have (or don’t have) for today. What would they do? You made this mess—you go to work and trudge through it.” With that, I’m up and getting ready.
My conscience is right—I’m not prepared for today, and it shows. Of course Melissa notices the change in schedule, and Ellie notices more worksheets. The day drags on and on, and I’m counting down the time to get out of here…two hours and fifteen minutes to go…how can I do this for seven more months. . .one hour to go…the lessons are getting worse…fifty-five minutes…I’m too exhausted to think…fifty minutes…Hang on for…ten minutes. Finally, everyone goes home.
The quiet of my room almost closes in on me. What am I doing here? I mean, really. I can’t shake the thought as I sit at my desk to plan for an hour. Most of the time is spent with my elbows on my desk and my head in my hands. I don’t get anything finished, then I just go home too.
October 13, 2007
Newbie Blog:
I’m in the Wrong Profession
Maybe I should quit now. When I took the job, I thought I could stay until Christmas break. But I’m not so sure I should now. My reasons at the time were
•I needed a paycheck.
•I could suffer through anything.
•I could get more real estate business by Christmas.
None of the “me reasons” really mattered to the parents I spoke with at parent/teacher conferences.
If I get out now, a real teacher would be able to come in and have two-thirds of the year to work with. This is a decision I shouldn’t put off much longer; it means too much to my students.
I was less than motivated to come to work this morning. Lately, each week seems to be harder than the last, and I am progressively less prepared. This week is right on target with the downward trend. Before the bell rings, Beth pops in my door. “Could we start working together on lesson planning again? I’ve got a lot of catching up to do since I’ve been out so long.”
Yay! Of course if it will help her. “Sure. After school?”
“Great, thanks. Your place or mine?”
“Mine. I’ll give you a tour of my cupboards.”
“The first year is horrific, isn’t it?” Beth says, sitting at my small table. “Mine was four years ago, and I can barely think about it without my right eye twitching. How are you holding up?”
A full confession pours out—working late hours and weekends for planning, lessons missed completely, worksheets—lots of worksheets and coloring pages—the whole ugly truth of the current state of this career-job thing. She listens and nods with a smile on her face.
“Wow, you’re doing great.”
My brain feels a little fuzzy, trying to understand what she means. “Beth, were you listening?”
She continues, “You’ve been able to keep your schedule mostly intact. When I started, it was months before I even had a schedule. Most new teachers can’t do what you’re doing. You’re kind of a natural.” She leans over and gives me a hug. “I’m glad you’re here, Sophie. Let’s see those cupboards.”
My arms tighten around her once more, then give her the tour, doing Vanna on each cupboard door. After the last door, we buckle down, creating nine lessons in two hours. That’s definitely a record for me. I wish I had a to-do List to check off, but settle for writing it at the bottom of my plan book, surrounded by little stars and smiley faces.
Mrs. Milton volunteers on both Monday and Wednesday, staying for an hour each time. She works with Archer for half an hour on some simple alphabet games I’ve borrowed from the kindergarten teachers. (For which I paid dearly by listening to another devil-spawn Chad story from Mrs. Lowe.) Then Mrs. Milton reads for ten minutes with three students who never complete their home reading.
Archer’s mother has agreed to meet with me after school on Thursday, so before I leave, I copy some of his more recent work to share with her. Jade’s mom hasn’t returned my calls yet.
On Thursday morning (Why is it always at two a.m.?), I wake up terrified as something in my sleep registers that grades are due next week. I was supposed to be grading these kids all along? What the crap? I write “grades” in the notebook on my bedside table, then turn off the light, and close my eyes.
I flick the light back on and write, “What am I grading?” There. I turn the light out and lay back on my pillow. Click. I grab the notebook again. “How many grades? What kind of grades? Which subjects?” Better. I turn off the light and try to relax. Click. I have to grade Archer? How can I do that? He doesn’t know anything. He can’t do any of the work. I can’t give him a grade saying he’s a failure. I write “Archer”. I don’t even bother turn
ing off the light this time—I fall back on my pillow, using my arm to shade the light from my eyes. The same questions roll around in my brain, getting more and more tangled.
Finally, I know what to do. I write “Beth” on the paper and turn out the lamp. Does every new teacher have a Beth? I really hope so.
Sleep evades me, and my brain takes off on another tangent. Liam. Our only date was weeks ago. Sure, we see each other at work or talk for a few minutes at lunch or recesses. They are the best ten minutes of my days. But, no more dates. He’s busy coaching a soccer team for the high school. I’m trying to survive.
When would we date? I’ve had lessons to prepare, wood floors to fix, roommates to meet, more, always more, lessons. I go to work early and stay late. Maybe he doesn’t think we clicked. None of these thoughts make me want to sleep.
On Monday morning, I pop a bottle of Sprite into Liam’s mailbox in the office with a note. “Your Sprite’s on me today. See you later, Sophie.”
At recess, I get the next lesson ready, then stand at the windows and look at the mountains beyond the parking lot. The mix of clouds in the sky…What the…A large truck pulls up behind my car and hooks a cable to the back, then hauls it onto a platform in seconds and pulls away. What do I do? The side door says “Bucky’s Towing,” but I didn’t catch the whole phone number, 3-0-3 something. It’s too late to call my bank—the kids will be coming back in…well, now.
