Fat isn't the only reason

I'm sitting here, writing, feeling the pains in my knees. I have no cartilage in my knees. Zero. It's all worn away. I've seen several orthopedic surgeons who have identified my condition as osteoarthritis. One even said my knees are genetically deformed, which caused my cartilage to wear away. So why am I sitting in pain?

Because I'm fat. See, I belong to one of those group-practice insurance plans through my employer, and the orthopedic surgeons feel that my pain would subside if I lost some weight. They have a point. I am fat. But I'm not usually sitting around and doing nothing. I have one of those body types, thanks to my Italian ancestry, that should be hauling goats up and down a hillside. I'm built low to the ground, and my body holds onto food in case of deprivation. How do I combat that?

My frustration is with doctors who think fat is the only reason for a medical condition. My fat didn't cause my cartilage to wear out. My fat didn't cause my high blood pressure condition. Being fat is a health issue, I fully believe this. But I exercise 5-6 days a week. I drink water. I've eliminated gluten and dairy from my diet. I don't eat dessert every night. 

Apparently though, I do the wrong exercise. I need to drink more water. Honestly, I should just eliminate food. Without food, I should be able to lose weight, right?

I've been working on the same 20 pounds for 20 years. They don't melt away. I've spent thousands at Weight Watchers. I spent thousands with a nutritionist. I refuse fad diets and processed foods. I have weighed and measured my food. I've tried different plate sizes. I've slowed my eating down. I've tried eliminating calories and nearly starving myself. 

And so, I'm fat. But my fat should not get in the way of proper medical care. I have a right to be well-cared for, just like skinny people. Frankly, I'm tired of doctors looking at me and seeing only the number on a scale. I am so much more than that. 

Cancer survivor? Cancer warrior?

I was putting away my "survivor" Race for the Cure shirt, and it's the one where I crossed out survivor and wrote "warrior." Five years later, I look at it and wonder if I'm a warrior or a survivor.

Overall, a lumpectomy isn't that bad. Sure, there's discomfort and drains. But within a week of my lumpectomy, I was hiking with my family. Granted, I was a lot slower than before surgery, but I was proud I could hike. I didn't want pity then, nor do I want it now. I just wanted everything to be over so I could resume my life.

But that was arrogant thinking. There is no "resuming of life." Life is completely different after cancer. The uncertainty, the tests, and more tests. It's port placement. It's chemotherapy: taxotere and cytoxan. Those drugs rapidly strip one's identity, one's hair. It's loss of taste, strength, eyebrows, and appetite. 24 hours after chemo, it's a white blood cell booster, that, 24 hours after it goes into the blood stream causes horrific bone and joint  plus a fever. It's days and weeks of smiling through pain so others don't feel pity. The doctor who removed my port was unhappy about doing it; he wanted a better surgery to complete. He made me wait for three hours for a 15 minute procedure. He didn't allow the lidocaine to take affect before he cut into me. He jerked and pulled the port until I thought I was going to roll off the table. He didn't even stitch me up; he left it to someone else who didn't do a good job. The scar is traumatizing.

I had only four treatments over the course of four months, but they were difficult. Hanging around a chemo room all day by myself was depressing. There were people suffering much more than I was, which made me feel guilty for feeling so bad.

Then came radiation. No big deal, right? Wrong. There were radiation tattoos; no numbing for me. In the beginning of treatment, it wasn't so bad. By the end, I had a terrible burn under my arm and that area was in constant pain. At least during radiation, my hair started growing back.

I applaud my arrogance at calling myself a "warrior" five years ago, but I'm really a survivor. Cancer is the disease that continues giving, long after it's gone. It's taken me five years to be able to walk more than a couple of miles. It's taken me five years to have energy. It's caused me to forgo dairy and gluten because I can no longer digest them properly. My hair is thinner than before. My eyelashes are not as full or thick as they once were. I am allergic to the sun so I have to wear SPF 50 sunscreen and a hat.

And then there's current treatment: every six months Zometa infusions and Tamoxifen. Of course, Arimidex was worse, causing terrible joint pain and me to walk like a very old woman. Every six months I see my oncologist who changes her mind frequently about my treatment.

Life after cancer is survivable; I have traveled more in the last few years than I had in my life. I'm trying new hobbies, planning for my future. Most importantly, I'm a survivor.

I'm a teacher, and I'm struggling

I know most teachers, particularly those with young children at home, are struggling to find a work/life balance in this brave new world of remote teaching. But I'm really struggling and my child is a young adult.

So why am I struggling? Screen time, for one reason. I'm in front of a computer from 8-3 each day. I take a short lunch break, and then I'm back to work. I answer emails, explain and reexplain what students are to do, grade, create lessons, and then attend webinars and/or learn new online platforms. At 5 pm, I have to jump back on and take attendance. And the next day, I do it all over again.

I'm struggling with lack of face to face contact with people other than my family. I'm an introvert. But I like my colleagues and I miss popping next door to talk about an issue or concern, or ever something good. My colleagues make me laugh. Sometimes they pop into my room and force me out of my shell. I'm lonely.

This experience has forced me to understand that I need to make friends and not rely on my teacher colleagues. I've asked a couple of colleagues who I thought were friends if we could have a video chat, but they can't. Or won't. I don't know. I'm sure they're as overwhelmed as I am.

I'm worried about my students. Several have indicated to me that they aren't doing well. And yet, I've offered to video chat with them, and they've politely thanked me and said no. I can only imagine their struggles.

I'm a teacher, and I'm struggling as I learn new platforms, new ways to teach. It's exciting and frustrating and difficult all at the same time.

I'm a teacher, and I'm struggling with the stiffness and soreness that comes from sitting for seven hours.

I'm a teacher, and I'm struggling with loneliness, sadness, grief. I'm mourning the end of the year without saying goodbye to my students. I'm mourning the end of the year without saying goodbye to my colleagues. I'm mourning the end of the year without saying goodbye to my classroom and the building. I'm mourning the loss of a routine that's as familiar to me as making spaghetti sauce.

I'm a teacher, and I'm struggling, and though I know I'm not alone, I feel like I am.

Remote meetings

I'm new to the whole "remote teaching" experience, and after two weeks without seeing my colleagues, I found myself eagerly awaiting my first video meeting today. Normally, I don't enjoy meetings, but I haven't seen my friends' faces for ages, and I couldn't wait to say hi and talk to them.

I was early to my meeting today, and when I saw my first colleague face, I nearly cried with joy. No exaggeration. I was happy to see a friend, hear her voice, and when other colleagues began arriving, my excitement was palpable. I know it was nice for some of them to see other faces as well.

It was a fascinating experience--talking to people from around the city. I can't imagine how amazing it is to video conference with people from around the world.

I'm going to try video conferencing with my classes this week, and I hope it goes well. I want to see my students again.

Remote Teaching

This week, instead of being with colleagues and students, I'm home. Like millions of other Americans, as well as most of the rest of the world, I'm hunkered down, hoping to avoid the coronavirus aka COVID-19. Because of my school district's focus on technology, I'm able to continue to work with my students and visit with colleagues from my home computer.

What are the positives of working from home? I get to sleep in...not too late because I have work to do. I can take my time eating my breakfast. I've worn leggings and sweatshirts all week and haven't done my hair or make up. I can play with my dog and take her on walks.I'm doing some of the projects I've avoided for the past couple of years in order to stay busy. I'm able to read more. I'm not worried about getting to bed by 9 pm. It snowed yesterday, and I didn't have to leave my house. As an introvert, it makes me happy to stay home, be quiet, and do what I love doing.

However, as an introvert, I'm not moved from my comfort zone. I only speak to my family and dog. Have once before been "quarantined" in my house with relatively few people to speak to, I can attest at how much it changes a person. Forced to remain in my home causes my depression to rear its ugly head. Remote teaching is tough. I miss my students and colleagues.

Students+Data=lack of humanity

I've been thinking a great deal about data. Not that I'm some sort of math whiz, but educational data. See, years ago, educational reformers decided that students are data points rather than human beings, and teachers have been forced to closely examine the data to determine if their students are learning.

There are many fallacies about educational data. For one, there's no context. School districts gather loads of data about our students, like economics, ethnic origin, gender, but there's no true individual element of information gathered, like mental illness, hunger, abuse.

Data is manipulated to achieve a particular effect. For example, my colleagues learned this week that my AP class scores dropped in comparison to last year's students. I saw the bar graph displayed in all its glory with the two different years of results displayed, but there was no context provided. In reality, I had fewer students take the test this year, but their results exceeded the national average in all measurable areas. In my AP English subject area, test scores dropped across the United States. So yes, my scores dropped from last year, but I still exceeded the national average for this year.

I'm no supporter of standardized testing. I believe this push to test the shit out of kids has harmed them psychologically. My students feel tremendous stress and anxiety about their tests, and our institutions don't help much. We practice and practice and practice, and the kids feel worse and worse about their performances. We wonder why kids need anti-depressants and anti-anxiety medications, considering them "weaker" than previous generations or blaming technology for these issues. No one considers the pressures of taking a yearly test and the amount of pressure teachers are forced to place on our students to perform well.

Back in my day, we took the Iowa Test of Basic Skills every couple of years. There was no pressure, no academies, no pre and post tests to worry about. We just did it, got our results and moved on.

I've spent all week thinking about, talking about, and looking at data. As of today, my students have been reduced to high achiever, mid-achiever, and low achiever. I know nothing about them except how they've performed on a standardized test. A snapshot of one day in their lives. I am saddened by the reality each child is a piece of data used to measure ME rather than a human being making progress in my learning environment.

My other complaint is this: when students do well on a standardized test, they are complimented. Teachers, admin say, "This was a good group of kids!" No credit is given to the teachers who worked themselves to exhaustion help kids achieve those scores. However, when kids don't do as well, criticism is leveled at the teachers; we didn't do enough, we need to do better. We can't win. Apparently we aren't responsible for student success just student failure.

School starts tomorrow, as does testing windows and data collection. I will walk into my room filled with young, curious minds eager to learn, and throughout the rest of the year, I will be forced to determine their achievement levels. There is no humanity.

Test score humiliation

Imagine a math classroom-or any classroom where a teacher uses humiliation as a teaching strategy. Imagine Martha, a young woman, who is about to receive her math test back. Martha works hard and tries different methods to make sure she is ready for her tests. In fact, she felt good about the results of the test she was about to get back.

But her teacher, Miss Green, has a strategy to motivate students to improve: she likes to put up their test results for the entire class to see. She takes names off the tests, but the entire class knows whose scores are on the screen. The first test on the screen is Peter's; again, everyone knows it's his. Miss Green shows his current score, but then she compares his current score to his past two test scores. Students can see his growth. Leaving Peter's scores on the screen, Miss Green then adds Mary's test scores. She's doing well, and all students are happy to see Mary's scores improved from her previous scores. After comparing several other student scores, Miss Green places Martha's scores on the screen. Martha failed the test. Moreover, Martha's previous test scores, Ds, are compared to everyone else's scores that are on the screen. Miss Green lectures the class about how Ds and Fs are not acceptable; students need to do better.  Martha hangs her head in shame.

Isn't this a horrible way to teach? I think so. In fact, there would be an outcry against this teaching method, yet, in a few weeks, this will be a reality for countless teachers, including at my school, across the country. Our test scores will be placed on a screen for all to see; we will be compared to other high schools in the district; and we will be told we need to "work smarter," "work harder,"  or other "motivational" words to let us know we are not doing our jobs sufficiently.

How do I know this? This is what happens each year at a beginning of the year faculty meeting. Granted, no one's names are on the screen, but we know who teaches which classes, which subjects. My colleagues and I dread this meeting; we feel shamed and humiliated. Many of us whose scores dropped this past year are already feeling stressed about having our scores placed in front of our faculty.

Why is it acceptable to shame and humiliate teachers? We work with a varying population: homeless students, students dealing with mental illness to wealthy students whose parents provide them every luxury. We work with a varying population: students who cannot read at grade level to students who read at a college level. We work with a varying population: students who care about learning to students who don't care about anything at all.

I teach AP Literature and Composition as well as IB senior English. For the sixth year in a row, I had a 100% test pass rate in IB. My AP Literature pass rate dropped to 55%. In fact, to provide context for this score, AP Literature pass rates dropped across the United States. Moreover, CollegeBoard has encouraged an "AP for All" mentality, so out of my 76 students, I would say more than half were not "AP material." Many could not read or write at grade level, which their PSAT and SAT scores will substantiate. None of this information will be presented at the "meeting of shame and humiliation."

IB senior English has a population of students who want to be in the class and who have the aptitude for the work. My AP class is different, therefore the results are different. Does this mean I am unfit to teach AP Literature? No, but I feel the message will be that I--and my colleagues--are not working hard enough or smart enough with our students, which is reflected in their test scores.

I have no answers, no solutions. But I do know this: a couple of test scores DO NOT measure the thinking or learning that took place over the course of a year. And it's a shame we value a test score over the work of a teacher.