These Little Lights

I applied for jobs in 13 school districts today and have 9 more on my list to get done before the week is over. The majority of these are districts that haven't yet posted their availability, but I figured putting my name out there couldn't hurt... they've gotta have SOME idea of whether or not they'll need elementary teacher candidates for next year.

This job thing is happening. I feel so good right now. 

I have been SO flaky on the blog posts, and likely will continue to be so until after this Friday, when my colossal project part 1 is due. However, I've got plenty of stories I want to keep written down and will add here when I have some time and much less stress.

And when I don't have the flu, thus, when I'm not dehydrated, burning up, and sleeping between 10 and 12 hours each day.

And when it's not the last day of student teaching.

To foster an interest in reading chapter books, I've been reading a few chapters a day of The Tale of Desperaux with the kiddos each day. We're only a little ways into it, but they ADORE that little mouse and get so excited when I say "...well, we have five minutes to spare, so let's knock out a chapter in Desperaux." They snap to attention like little soldiers and no one makes a peep. It's magical. 

So today we did a review of making connections (text to self, text to text, text to world) with this book. I made a big chart on the whiteboard and had volunteers come up and tell me about their connections, and then I'd write them on the board. So Student E (who has Autism) jumps up out of his seat when I ask if anyone has a good text to self connection. Grab a box of tissues real quick.

Desperaux was born "different." His ears are too big, he doesn't want to act like other mice, he can read, and he's always sick because he had his eyes open when he was born and that affected his health negatively. His name literally means "despair" in French, and his family is so disappointed in how he came out. 

Student E goes "I was born different like Desperaux and some people think I'm strange, but I'm just like Desperaux because I have different talents that are really cool." I swear, my heart was in a puddle on the floor. He said all this with the biggest grin on his face and this fiery little pride behind him. The story's hero resonated with Student E, and he's got this ally now in the form of Desperaux. And then of course all my other students are nodding in agreement and chiming in with talents that Student E has. Like... how could I ever ask for a better group of kids? As much as I snap at them and they make me wanna tear my hair out sometimes, they rally together as this little family who fiercely defend and care for one another. 

Sorry I'm definitely NOT sorry for headlining this post with One Direction. I always have and always will love this song, and I was this close to totally embarrassing one of my kids (and myself!) today by singing it to her if it could bring a smile to her face.

Beauty is such a relative and intangible concept. The idea of what makes a person a beautiful human specimen varies from brain to brain, and is centered around different things. Some people see beauty in physique. Some see beauty in a pair of eyes. Some see it in the sound of a voice or the way one carries themselves. Some find it in the way a person's words go together, the goals they set for themselves, their ideas about the universe, or the frequency with which they laugh. For most, it's a combination of things. And for some reason, we as human beings are experts at forgetting that and tearing ourselves apart because we're less than "perfect."

I know from experience what it feels like to truly be your own worst enemy - ask my mother how many times I've openly declared for YEARS that I "hate myself" with real meaning. I'm a lover. I don't hate anyone. I give people way more chances than they deserve and I see the best in people long after I should have walked away from them. But never in my life have I given myself that kind of love, especially when it comes to the way that I'm physically built.

I remember vividly being around 8 or 9 years old, sitting on the swingset in my backyard in the summertime, and noticing how wide my short-clad thighs were when I sat on that swing. I didn't like it. The discomfort with my body continued throughout elementary school as I grew - I developed much quicker than my peers did and found myself feeling very awkward and out of place. My friends were built "normally" - straight up and down - while I was a too-tall third grader with hips and a training bra. I hated that feeling, and even when my peers caught up to me, the cycle of self-loathing had been in motion for a number of years and was something I was naturally accustomed to feeling. It wasn't anything society did to make me feel like I was ugly or chubby or what have you. It wasn't the unrealistic standards set by supermodels or celebrities, nor was it anything anyone had ever said to me; I have never in my life been told I was fat. It was my personal discomfort in my own skin and my own perfectionistic tendencies that made themselves at home in my brain and ate me alive. And though I've gotten significantly better at thinking positively about myself, a lot of those awful thoughts still take up much more space in my mind than they should be allowed to.

I know I'm not alone in this. Every single person I have known on a deep level, both male and female, would move mountains if they could see themselves how they truly are. As humans we hinder ourselves with our self-loathing, and it's honestly an obstacle to the progress of humanity. Just imagine the colossal things we could do if we had the kind of faith in ourselves that our loved ones have in us. You know that theory that says we only use 20% of our brain power or something like that? I'm convinced that a lot of it stems from the shackles we attach to ourselves because of our petty insecurities.

Getting off my soap box now so I can tell you all how this actually ties in to what happened at school today.

Student T comes in to class every day in the most darling little outfits, and I always make a point of telling her how cute she looks. She always responds to me with "no, I look ugly today" and it kills me. I usually go overboard and ask her where I can buy her shoes in my size, or whether or not she'd be mad if I stole her scarf, and it's enough to put a smile on her face and get her back to doing whatever she's supposed to be doing. Today Student T came in wearing a winter hat and refused to take it off, even when I had to threaten to "change her color" (classroom management system that we use). She finally took it off and revealed a new hairstyle that her mom had given her over the weekend.

She grabbed me by the wrist and practically ran me into the hallway, and when we were out of sight of the other kids, she broke down in wordless tears. After a few minutes of coaxing, she finally told me that she was scared that the other students would make fun of her hair because of how horribly ugly she thought it was. No amount of convincing on my part could change Student T's mind about her hair, and I could feel my heart breaking on the spot. As irrational as her thoughts were, I knew her fears with familiarity. And looking in from the outside at this little girl who puts so much sunshine into my life each day, all I wanted to do was to give her my eyes so she could see what I see. 

So I did what adults do best in instances like this... I told a little white lie. In my years of struggling with self-loathing, I've been told by countless people that I should write down the things that I like about myself to try and re-focus my thinking. Never have I actually done that exercise. But I told Student T that it had worked for me in the past, and I asked her if it would be okay if she tried doing it. I also told her that I'd make a list of beautiful things about her, and that we'd compare the two lists at the end of the school day. She agreed, wiped her tears, and went back in to join her classmates. 

Fast forward a few hours though a really great school day (my lessons all went amazingly today and the kids were SO good). I called Student T over and she approached me with a piece of paper folded up as many times as it could possibly be folded. She pulled up a chair next to me and I read her list first. At the top of the notebook paper in her nicest handwriting was her title: "Student T's Beautiful Life," followed by a list of bullet points including things like "hair," "eyelashes," "clothes," "funniestness," "straight As," and "runs fast". I made her read her own words aloud, and she sheepishly and quickly did so.

Then I showed her my list, which included things like how her laugh fills my heart with joy, how she gives the best hugs in the world, and how she's a leader among her peers. None of it was elaborate or deep, but the way she danced back to her chair with a smile on her face... and the way she paperclipped those two notes together and immediately tucked them safely into her bookbag like she had found buried treasure told me that for a small moment, Student T saw herself the way that I saw her: as a beautiful ray of sunshine that plays an integral and unique part in our classroom's community. Oh. My eyes are filling up as I think about it.

Which takes me back to the fact that I lied when I told her about the activity I had her do. I should probably do it more often. Whether it's actually on paper or in my head, taking my own advice would probably be worthwhile in this facet of my life and thinking.

I'm stocky and curvy, built with short legs and the broad shoulders that I gained from years of swimming. But those legs I too often call chunky are built strong: to carry me to the places where I'm supposed to be. My height makes it easy for me to kneel alongside my students so I can look them in the eyes when I talk to them. My shoulders support the arms that are built to hug and extend into hands that are made to guide. I'm not lanky and built like a rail, but I'm not supposed to be. I'm strong and built like a me, and honestly, none of that really matters to the people who love me and see beauty in places where I don't see it. None of my students wonder what size dress I wear. None of them know what cellulite is, nor would they care if they did. My kids see me for so many other things that I am. So does my family, and so do my friends and all the people in my life who love me. Those are the important ones, and the ones whose eyes I need to look through when I look in the mirror.

My kiddos know it's almost time for me step down from being their teacher, and try as I might not to think too hard about it, they're constantly finding little ways to remind me that the day is fast approaching. 

I'll go work with a group of students on something, turn around to head back to my desk, and find a scrap of paper on it that says "I love you Miss D don't go" on it. Or "I will be good if you stay." Or my personal favorite... a teeny tiny frowny face on my desk calendar in the box for April 30. 

Confession time: I am so so worried about classroom management and dealing with behavior problems once I get my own class.

It's just SUCH a tricky thing to do - I want these kids to enjoy their school experience and to be engaged and excited to be in class. But at the same time, I can't allow them to get away with everything they want to get away with. There's a time for messing around and a time for learning, and teaching kids how to tread that line (especially at this stage of cognitive development) is complex and often over their heads. Combine that with home lives that differ vastly from school life, and you've got a mixed bag of challenging behavior surprises from every single child.

So then you're finding yourself treading a line. When is it too much? They need recess. You just can't take that time away from them... it's a valuable way for them to "get their wiggles out." And sometimes, they're just being kids. Maybe calling home isn't a great idea, maybe they just need to be made aware of what they did wrong and why it was a bad choice. Maybe you should just make them go apologize to the kid they called a name... but that will just perpetuate the issue because they didn't REALLY have a punishment, did they? Though for some kids, that will do the trick and stop the issue. And then there's the kid who never does his homework because he's taking care of his little brother while mom works the late shift... and his classmate who never does his homework because he's lazy. So do you hold one kid accountable but let the other off the hook? When is it okay to send them to the principal? What happens when you've got 6 kids running at you with a thousand different versions of the same incident from the cafeteria that you didn't witness, and you don't know who to believe? Do you punish all of them if you can't get a straight story, regardless of who might be innocent? How do you get that balance... and when is it too much?

When after a week of spring break, they come barreling across the room on Monday morning without dropping their coats or backpacks and right into your arms, saying ridiculously hilarious things like "I missed you all summer Miss D" (and after being reassured that break was only a week, insisting that it was actually MONTHS) or "I have a confession to make... I didn't study." Couldn't wipe the smile off my face all day. These goofballs.

But unless we are creators we are not fully alive. What do I mean by creators? Not only artists, whose acts of creation are the obvious ones of working with paint of clay or words. Creativity is a way of living life, no matter our vocation or how we earn our living. Creativity is not limited to the arts, or having some kind of important career.

Madeline L'Engle

And here's the post I've been wanting to write for like a week and a half now.

I have always loved the written word. It really came alive for me in early elementary school: I couldn't get enough of books and the way that words came together to give me new friends in the form of characters, and brought me along on endless adventures. It was like discovering that I had super powers when I was introduced to creative writing and found that I too could bring characters and their stories to life on paper, and from then on, I was hooked. I was the kid who would jump up out of bed 5 minutes after my parents said goodnight to me to grab my flashlight, pencil, and notebook so I could add another chapter to whatever story I was working on at the time. 

To this day, one of my life's goals is to publish a book. I remember the first influential person who told me that I was an author by nature and originally planted that idea in my head: it was my second grade teacher. She ignited a passion in me that has stayed with me to this day, and now I find myself in the unique position to pass the torch that she gave to me along to my own students. 

Watching my students get excited about books is such a beautiful thing. I can't tell you how many times I will look up from a book that I'm reading aloud to the class to see each of their enraptured faces focused on the story, and you can practically see the gears turning in their heads as they predict what they think will happen next or connect to something that just happened to the character. There was one instance I'll never forget when I was reading a book to them about a slave who escaped on the Underground Railroad. I turned the page and glanced up at them, and it looked like they were all watching a movie. A few of them sat there with their mouths hanging open in shock, leaning forward with wide eyes - clearly having been whisked away to the world that the little girl in the story was living in. These kids love books and consume them like candy: constantly asking me if they can borrow something they fell in love with from the classroom library to read at home for the night or sneaking books out of their desks when they're supposed to be doing something else. They pile them up in their cubbies, share them with their classmates, and become absolutely devastated when they accidentally rip a page (one little boy today stood by my desk doing the nervous dance as I taped a page back into a well-loved book like he thought I was performing emergency surgery on it.) These kids have a thirst for literacy, and now that they've developed such a passion for reading, they're at that perfect stage to come into their own as writers.

This is the part where I get really excited.

Teaching writing is a dream come true for me. Writing is the one subject that really allows for my students to explore their own selves creatively, and gives them the liberty and encouragement to do so frequently. It allows them to jump into a different role, and when they take off their "student hat" and put on their "author hat", they stand a little taller. They take very genuine pride in their creative work, and assume their roles as authors with great care and motivation. 

Take for example the writing unit on persuasive letters that I just finished teaching. After painstakingly examining and familiarizing my students with the facets of effective persuasion, I handed them the reins and opened the floodgates for them to brainstorm and put their new set of skills into action. I read "Don't Let the Pigeon Drive the Bus!" to them (it's a really goofy book about a pigeon who tries to bargain his way into driving a bus) and had them re-write the pigeon's argument using facts instead of bargaining.

The letters they came up with were phenomenal, but my favorite part of the whole thing happened the following morning. My student who has autism came running into the classroom with an ear-to-ear grin and a stack of printer paper in his hand. He ran right up to me and proudly showed me his creation: he had written and illustrated a 15-page spinoff of the mentor text titled "Don't Let the Pigeon Have a Phone!" I was blown away by his creativity and had him read his book aloud to the class after lunch. All morning he carried his book around with him, showing it to anyone who he came in contact with. And when he read it to the class, he sat on the stool I sit on when I read aloud and perfectly imitated a classic "Miss D reading lesson", (including a word-for-word replication of the question I ask them every time I start a new book with them: "Okay class, is this book fiction or non-fiction? How do we know that?" Yeah. My heart melted.) The kids adored his story, laughed at all the right parts, and declared this student to be a "great author." When they said that, he looked up, smiled, and said matter-of-factly, "Yeah, I know."

Mrs. J and I asked him if we could keep the book at school overnight and he let us. We laminated it and bound it with some colorful tape, and ran off copies of it for each student in the class. When he came in the next morning, he was a published author. That achievement carried him through the rest of the week with a spring in his step and an exceptionally good behavior streak (this is the child who throws fits and constantly gets frustrated to the point of intense anger.) The pride he had in himself inspired him, and in turn, inspired a number of his classmates to write books of their own.

Moving on before I get emotional.

We finished our persuasive unit a week early, so this week our in-class writing time has been dedicated to creative writing. Each day, I've given the kids a prompt and had them open to a fresh page in their journals to respond. They absolutely eat it up. Writing time this week has been such a precious thing to them because it has given them them the opportunity to create. They can unlock their imaginations on paper, and because there's no right or wrong answers, each and every one of them is successful at it and does it with a sense of pride. On Monday I had them write a story to go along with this picture. Tuesday, they had to tell me about "If I was an animal, I would be..." and today they described what features would be in their dream car (in response to this book that I read aloud to them today). 

As soon as they put those pencils to paper, they're gone. They're not in my classroom anymore, they're in their own worlds and are imagining things that make them excited. Having this creative free-writing time has been such a gift because it's allowed these kids to become passionately excited about writing, and has turned each and every one of them into an author. All week this week, my students haven't been able to get enough writing. Today I told them to line up for recess and not a single one of them flinched or made any kind of effort to look up from their notebooks. They were fervently imagining their dream cars and were not about to be interrupted. They're eight-year-olds. This kind of thing does not happen with eight-year-olds. 

I was utterly stunned and deeply moved. For all I know, this one small week of creative writing mini-lessons could be making all the difference in the world for some of my students. They finish their pieces and run up to me, journals in hand, begging me to read their work. The pride that they radiate is contagious and reminds me so much of my own passion and pride for my written work. This is what it's all about. And if there's anything that I have accomplished in my student teaching, it will have been this renaissance of thought. I've done nothing more than awaken them to the gifts and abilities that they've had inside them all along, and watching them take flight is exactly how I imagine my second grade self through the eyes of my favorite teacher when she planted the seed in my heart by telling me that I was an author. 

Yes, I did lie on Friday. I didn't write all weekend. When I don't force myself to do this every day, I get horribly lazy and just push it off to the side. It doesn't help that I'm exhausted and increasingly terrified of the fact that the clock on my college career is ticking, so I'm perusing the internet like a madwoman in my free time looking for job openings and then planning more lessons for school and working on my senior project. Yes, I'm making excuses for not blogging. Sooo.

One major theme from the past week or so:

Kids are storytellers, and much as I like to think my students are all these shining little golden citizens, sometimes their stories go too far (whether or not they realize it.) Last week, Student S was totally out of line - throwing things, tearing up papers, and saying cruel things to his peers and to Mrs. J and I. So we brought him to one of the other teachers (the school has a discipline policy where unruly students will go to another classroom to cool off. Usually this works well. Usually.) Student S kicked over the recycling bin upon entering the other teacher's room, ran out the door and down the hallway, and promptly was suspended from school for the day. Yeah. It was an intense morning.

Fast forward a day. Mrs. J gets called down to the office only to find out that Student S told his mother that Mrs. J and the other teacher (whose classroom we sent him to) hit him, grabbed him by the collar, and dragged him. So now, because of this child's storytelling and his mother's belief in his word, the drama is running high and the investigations are in full swing. Call in the union, bring up the behavior documentations, and crank up the self-awareness in the classroom. It's a nightmare. I'm documenting EVERYTHING that happens with this student, and Mrs. J and I are both turning in our notes every day after school to the principal. These are the things they don't teach you about in your methods courses.

On the lighter side of the fact that kids are storytellers: sometimes you just have to laugh at the things they come up with. For example, today during music class there was a massive debacle when one student somehow ended up hitting another student on the head... with his foot. That part I do believe. What really made me raise my eyebrows was when Student G (who was kicked) told the school nurse that Student A nailed him in the back of the head while wearing steel-toed boots. And then proceeded to call his mother to pick him up from school with the same story. I sent Student A (who was wearing Jordans, by the way) to the nurse to show off his footwear and to clarify the meaning of steel-toed boots with Student G.

I swear that tomorrow I'll catch up on this week. It's been a PHENOMENAL week in the classroom and I can't wait to write about it. I've just been super lazy this week now that I finally feel caught up with my projects... all I wanna do when I get home from school is veg out.

So I hacked 6 inches off my hair this weekend. There was no real inspiration, I just felt like it was getting too long again and have been debating going really short for a few months now.