I finished my school year today and immediately took a nap. Teachers hear a lot of crap about how much time off they have, how nice it must be to get paid for twelve months of work but only work nine (or ten) months for it. For the next several weeks, however, as I revel in my 'freedom' and take my naps, I'll recuperate from all I do during the ten months I am at school.
8,000 pages of student writing is approximately what I've read, edited, and graded this year. I was shocked when I figured that out. That doesn't include tests or quizzes or any other assignments, simply essays. What's worse is that I couldn't assign as many essays this year as I usually do because I had double the students I normally have. With all that grading, no wonder my hand started cramping last month and a lump developed in my arm!
While my payoff isn't monetary, I know my students had ample opportunities to practice their writing, to improve, and to produce quality pieces of writing. I know those who took advantage of the opportunities will be better writers next year and will have a foundation they can continue to improve upon. Experience and former students also tell me that most who attend college will be stronger and more successful writers than their peers. Knowing this makes the hand cramps, the lump, and the tired eyes worth it.
Summer allows me the chance to rest my weary arm, hand, and eyes; to read new novels I can incorporate into my teaching; to take classes and/or attend conferences where I can also improve my effectiveness as a teacher. Summer allows me a break from 8000 pages of student writing, tests, quizzes, and prepping for important national tests. Summer allows me a break from 150 people-or more-needing me, questioning me, interacting with me on a daily basis. I spend a great deal of time during my summer in quiet, relishing the time to hear myself think. Summer isn't heavily scheduled, guided by bells. Summer allows me--and many of my colleagues--the time to take care of pertinent appointments we often cannot schedule during the school year. Summer allows me to slow down and take care of myself, to rejuvenate, before I'm back in the swing of things.
Yes, it is nice to have time off, even for a few short weeks. Our work culture could do with some time off; maybe employees would have better attitudes, fewer sick days, and be less likely to job hop if they too could have six weeks off to rest and relax. There are plenty of cultures around the world that expect workers to take off more than two weeks a year; maybe if our society demanded more time off, teachers wouldn't be the only group who can come back to work refreshed and ready.
Now, excuse me. It's time for me to get back to summer.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Monday, May 30, 2011
Memorial Day
At the beginning of this year, my mom died suddenly. Then, at the school where I teach, several more teachers' parents died...some were expected, some were not. And then there is the recent death of my student.
All of this adds up to a different meaning for Memorial Day, at least for me. I remember Memorial Days from my childhood, spent in Trinidad, CO, for example, visiting the Catholic cemetary there and going to my aunt and uncle's to eat. I remember other Memorial Days, having cookouts at my grandparents' house. There were those Memorial Days spent at the Bolder Boulder, napping, hanging out with friends, planting flowers. But this Memorial Day is different as my mom is on my mind.
I can still hear the sound of her voice, and I sometimes see older women who look like her--at first glance. I see her bright smile, the smile that lit up her eyes. For years, she walked with purpose in her step, always in a hurry to get to the next place or chore. Toward the end, her walk had slowed, but her smile was still there, still lighting up her face.
My mom was a terrible driver, but as a child, I never knew that. I knew that our VW squareback would go up on two wheels when she rounded certain corners, mostly because she was driving too fast. I remember when I learned to drive, she'd tell me, "The sign says stop, not park" if I sat there too long for her. In later years, she'd pump the brake and the gas, sending my head banging into the back of the seat or causing the seatbelt to catch. Sometimes she'd stop paying attention and drift off the road. We'd always laugh about that. Last fall, she had to come pick me up from school after I'd had foot surgery and couldn't drive. Because she didn't like highways, we'd take side streets to get to my child's school as we had to pick him up too. It was a nice time, just the two of us chatting about our days while I secretly prayed my mom wouldn't have an accident.
Not a day goes by where I don't want to call her to tell her something...about my day, about my child, or to ask her a question. So this Memorial Day, unlike all the previous ones, is different, sadder, and quieter. And while I realize the initial reason for Memorial Day is our fallen soldiers, it is also a day to remember those whom we've lost, those whom we love, to revel in the memories, and to thank those we've lost for being part of our lives.
All of this adds up to a different meaning for Memorial Day, at least for me. I remember Memorial Days from my childhood, spent in Trinidad, CO, for example, visiting the Catholic cemetary there and going to my aunt and uncle's to eat. I remember other Memorial Days, having cookouts at my grandparents' house. There were those Memorial Days spent at the Bolder Boulder, napping, hanging out with friends, planting flowers. But this Memorial Day is different as my mom is on my mind.
I can still hear the sound of her voice, and I sometimes see older women who look like her--at first glance. I see her bright smile, the smile that lit up her eyes. For years, she walked with purpose in her step, always in a hurry to get to the next place or chore. Toward the end, her walk had slowed, but her smile was still there, still lighting up her face.
My mom was a terrible driver, but as a child, I never knew that. I knew that our VW squareback would go up on two wheels when she rounded certain corners, mostly because she was driving too fast. I remember when I learned to drive, she'd tell me, "The sign says stop, not park" if I sat there too long for her. In later years, she'd pump the brake and the gas, sending my head banging into the back of the seat or causing the seatbelt to catch. Sometimes she'd stop paying attention and drift off the road. We'd always laugh about that. Last fall, she had to come pick me up from school after I'd had foot surgery and couldn't drive. Because she didn't like highways, we'd take side streets to get to my child's school as we had to pick him up too. It was a nice time, just the two of us chatting about our days while I secretly prayed my mom wouldn't have an accident.
Not a day goes by where I don't want to call her to tell her something...about my day, about my child, or to ask her a question. So this Memorial Day, unlike all the previous ones, is different, sadder, and quieter. And while I realize the initial reason for Memorial Day is our fallen soldiers, it is also a day to remember those whom we've lost, those whom we love, to revel in the memories, and to thank those we've lost for being part of our lives.
Monday, May 23, 2011
The Noble Profession
For eighteen years, I've worked in middle schools and in high schools as an English teacher. Eighteen years of my life have been devoted to teaching, reteaching, and preparing students to succeed in reading, writing, thinking, and speaking. Some years have been good. Some have been, well, thankfully over.
Anytime I meet new people, I dread telling them what I do for a living. I'm not embarrassed by my profession, but so many people have hang ups about teachers, especially if for those of us who teach a subject they hated. Responses include, "Man, I hated English in high school;" or "Do you still make kids read Beowulf? I hated that book!" There are also comments such as, "Must be nice to work 10 months a year and get paid for 12." Finally, there are those "God bless you" folks. "God bless you for working with our young people; I bet you're a good teacher and our kids need good teachers; God bless you for working with high schoolers, I don't think I could stand it." The last comment is usually about how teaching is such a noble profession and "we just don't pay our teachers enough."
Why do these comments bother me? Several reasons, actually. It's hard to remember what a noble profession I'm in sometimes when a parent is in my face, telling me how I've ruined a child's life or a student is cussing me out for not awarding a 'better' grade, albeit an unearned one. I cringe when people criticize my profession. I was once a student and remember what it was like; however, times have changed, and so much more takes place behind the scenes than anyone knows. What really chafes me, though, is the comment about how teachers aren't paid enough or are paid for twelve months but only work ten.
Actually, I'm only paid for 10 months of work, which is stretched to twelve months. I am paid a low salary in comparison to other fields and professionals where my level of post-secondary education is required. There's a great deal of pressure on teachers to improve test scores, to not leave students behind, and to ensure a quality education for each student. Of course, many neglect to mention the workload teachers carry...31 students per class, for example, or extracurriculars they are expected to lead. Teachers easily could spend 60 hours or more per week on school-related work, reducing time with their families, and all for a nice, low price.
I'm always shocked at our values: how we're willing to pay entertainers and athletes exorbitant salaries to provide us with a little entertainment, but those who nurture our children, spend hours teaching our chldren, and spend more time during the day with our children than their parents can spend are paid ridiculously low salaries. There are countries that revere their teachers, giving them respect and decent wages. In our country, we seem to loathe our teachers and education in general, taking pride in our own ignorance.
To some, teaching might be a noble profession. To me, it's what I do, who I am. I just wish teachers were better compensated.
Anytime I meet new people, I dread telling them what I do for a living. I'm not embarrassed by my profession, but so many people have hang ups about teachers, especially if for those of us who teach a subject they hated. Responses include, "Man, I hated English in high school;" or "Do you still make kids read Beowulf? I hated that book!" There are also comments such as, "Must be nice to work 10 months a year and get paid for 12." Finally, there are those "God bless you" folks. "God bless you for working with our young people; I bet you're a good teacher and our kids need good teachers; God bless you for working with high schoolers, I don't think I could stand it." The last comment is usually about how teaching is such a noble profession and "we just don't pay our teachers enough."
Why do these comments bother me? Several reasons, actually. It's hard to remember what a noble profession I'm in sometimes when a parent is in my face, telling me how I've ruined a child's life or a student is cussing me out for not awarding a 'better' grade, albeit an unearned one. I cringe when people criticize my profession. I was once a student and remember what it was like; however, times have changed, and so much more takes place behind the scenes than anyone knows. What really chafes me, though, is the comment about how teachers aren't paid enough or are paid for twelve months but only work ten.
Actually, I'm only paid for 10 months of work, which is stretched to twelve months. I am paid a low salary in comparison to other fields and professionals where my level of post-secondary education is required. There's a great deal of pressure on teachers to improve test scores, to not leave students behind, and to ensure a quality education for each student. Of course, many neglect to mention the workload teachers carry...31 students per class, for example, or extracurriculars they are expected to lead. Teachers easily could spend 60 hours or more per week on school-related work, reducing time with their families, and all for a nice, low price.
I'm always shocked at our values: how we're willing to pay entertainers and athletes exorbitant salaries to provide us with a little entertainment, but those who nurture our children, spend hours teaching our chldren, and spend more time during the day with our children than their parents can spend are paid ridiculously low salaries. There are countries that revere their teachers, giving them respect and decent wages. In our country, we seem to loathe our teachers and education in general, taking pride in our own ignorance.
To some, teaching might be a noble profession. To me, it's what I do, who I am. I just wish teachers were better compensated.
Saturday, May 21, 2011
A loss so great
Nothing bothers me more than the loss of a child, regardless of that child's age. In 1996, I experienced the loss of one of my students. She was tragically killed in a freak car accident. I mourned deeply, crying each day. Some tried to comfort me, reminding me that this young girl wasn't a member of the family and I should just get over her death.
I've had other students die--usually after graduation--and my heart has a little hole in it each time I find out about a student's death.
However, one of my all-time favorite students killed himself this week. I don't know why. I do know he was smart, funny, loyal, loving, and sweet. He had potential to do much with his life. He was in love with a beautiful young woman, close to marriage.
When Steve walked into my classroom in August of 2005, wearing his work boots, long t-shirt, baggy jeans, and a large silver chain around his neck, I realized that I had two choices: make an enemy of this kid or make him my friend. I decided to try to make him my friend. It took awhile for him to thaw, a wounded young man--wounded by people who didn't believe in him, wounded by people who felt he was useless. By the end of the first semester, I felt like I knew him, and I admired him greatly.
At the beginning of his senior year, I was disappointed not to have him or his friend on my roster. After talking with his girlfriend, I realized he had made a mistake and registered for a class he would flunk. He wouldn't flunk it because it was too hard for him; he'd flunk it because the teacher would anger him and he'd stop going to class. Like a mom, I nagged him to move to my class; I felt like I had a shot at helping him graduate. I also moved his friend to my class.
Athough the class was a college preparatory class and neither boy had any desire to continue schooling after high school, both worked diligently to pass. By May, both did what many didn't expect them to do...pass English (and with decent grades) and graduate. Among their parting gifts to me was a picture of Steve, his friend and his girlfriend, immortalizing them at 17. I treasure that picture, and it reminds me why I work so hard each day with my students.
But now Steve, the smart, funny, loving, and loyal guy, is dead. Dead becuse he tried to commit suicide. Dead at 22. My pain is deep. I simply want to crawl into bed until I can feel better.
That's one of the problems with suicide. Why. Why did Steve kill himself at 22? How could he? All those unanswered questions.
I looked frequently at that picture today, the last day for my seniors. One student said that he wondered where they would be in 10 years, who would be dead, and what would the world be like.
All I could think about was Steve, dead four years after graduation. And a world much emptier because he is no longer in it.
I've had other students die--usually after graduation--and my heart has a little hole in it each time I find out about a student's death.
However, one of my all-time favorite students killed himself this week. I don't know why. I do know he was smart, funny, loyal, loving, and sweet. He had potential to do much with his life. He was in love with a beautiful young woman, close to marriage.
When Steve walked into my classroom in August of 2005, wearing his work boots, long t-shirt, baggy jeans, and a large silver chain around his neck, I realized that I had two choices: make an enemy of this kid or make him my friend. I decided to try to make him my friend. It took awhile for him to thaw, a wounded young man--wounded by people who didn't believe in him, wounded by people who felt he was useless. By the end of the first semester, I felt like I knew him, and I admired him greatly.
At the beginning of his senior year, I was disappointed not to have him or his friend on my roster. After talking with his girlfriend, I realized he had made a mistake and registered for a class he would flunk. He wouldn't flunk it because it was too hard for him; he'd flunk it because the teacher would anger him and he'd stop going to class. Like a mom, I nagged him to move to my class; I felt like I had a shot at helping him graduate. I also moved his friend to my class.
Athough the class was a college preparatory class and neither boy had any desire to continue schooling after high school, both worked diligently to pass. By May, both did what many didn't expect them to do...pass English (and with decent grades) and graduate. Among their parting gifts to me was a picture of Steve, his friend and his girlfriend, immortalizing them at 17. I treasure that picture, and it reminds me why I work so hard each day with my students.
But now Steve, the smart, funny, loving, and loyal guy, is dead. Dead becuse he tried to commit suicide. Dead at 22. My pain is deep. I simply want to crawl into bed until I can feel better.
That's one of the problems with suicide. Why. Why did Steve kill himself at 22? How could he? All those unanswered questions.
I looked frequently at that picture today, the last day for my seniors. One student said that he wondered where they would be in 10 years, who would be dead, and what would the world be like.
All I could think about was Steve, dead four years after graduation. And a world much emptier because he is no longer in it.
Friday, May 20, 2011
His wife could eat no thin...
Once, when my son was five or six, we were reading Mother Goose together. We jumped happily from rhyme to rhyme, until we came to the "Jack Sprat" rhyme. My son, in his innocence, looked at the picture of the wife and said, "Mommy, she looks like you!" My heart fell to my stomach, I swear.
I decided that I didn't want to look like the fat wife in the nursery rhyme. And thus began my three year journey to lose weight. I have to say, this is a long and tedious journey. I'm far from where I need to be, and I find my motivation ebbs and flows. Gaining weight is so simple, so easy. Open mouth, insert refrigerator. What's most difficult, as an emotional eater, is knowing when I'm hungry and when I'm eating for some feeling. It's so hard to tell! What if I'm hungry but emotional at the same time?
Writing down what I eat is a drag, but then I remember why I want to lose weight. I have those moments, don't we all, where I want to give up. I want to let myself do as I wish. For emotional people like me, that's the worst I can do! I have to find my motivation...I have to lose weight for my health. For my son. For myself.
Spring is here, new life blooms. My motivation blooms as well. I can do this, I remind myself. I can, and I will.
I decided that I didn't want to look like the fat wife in the nursery rhyme. And thus began my three year journey to lose weight. I have to say, this is a long and tedious journey. I'm far from where I need to be, and I find my motivation ebbs and flows. Gaining weight is so simple, so easy. Open mouth, insert refrigerator. What's most difficult, as an emotional eater, is knowing when I'm hungry and when I'm eating for some feeling. It's so hard to tell! What if I'm hungry but emotional at the same time?
Writing down what I eat is a drag, but then I remember why I want to lose weight. I have those moments, don't we all, where I want to give up. I want to let myself do as I wish. For emotional people like me, that's the worst I can do! I have to find my motivation...I have to lose weight for my health. For my son. For myself.
Spring is here, new life blooms. My motivation blooms as well. I can do this, I remind myself. I can, and I will.
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