Here and Now
My first official day of summer. My three kids are away at three different places. At my desk alone are 74 things that beckon my attention. A small pile of thank-you cards make me smile.
Years ago a vice-principal told me that teaching is hard because the reward is not immediate, that you don’t know the influence and impact you’ve made on a student until many years later. I think I knew what he meant, but I also thought that time and distance would make it even more difficult to find out.
Why can’t the rewards of teaching be here and now. Why am I spending hours crafting this lesson if my students didn’t care to learn it. How am I supposed to care about my students if they didn’t care about me. How do I make it through another day.
What does a teacher consider to be a “reward” anyway. How many Starbucks gift cards should I be getting — as compared to my colleagues. (There is nothing worse than showing off to the wrong people. I can just imagine saying, “Hey, Erin, I got six gift cards from kids today!” And Erin replies, “Ha!! I got twenty.” Shit.)
Teaching is physically and emotionally draining. And if that sentence doesn’t describe you as a teacher, then I think you should write a how-to book.
So I’m thinking now of the small daily rewards from students that must have fueled and replenished the parts of me that felt drained and lost. These are the things that they do and say. Almost on a daily basis.
Tito dashes into my class with an excitement like he hasn’t seen me in weeks, “Hi Mrs. Win! How are you? I’m the first one in here again.”
Maddie seems most genuine when she comes right up to me, “How has your day been, Mrs. Nguyen?”
Jonathan greets me with, “Go Oregon Ducks.” And before a quiz he says matter-of-factly, “I’m ready for this. I feel loose and ready because I learned from the best.”
The kids give me rousing applause after a lesson they know I’ve worked hard on and that they’ve learned from.
They applaud me when I share something good or semi-brave that I did.
They know how to deliver sarcasm kindly, “What favorite lesson of yours do we get to do today?”
One 8th grader would start, “I love you, Mrs. Nguyen!” Another kid follows, “I love you more!” Yet another, “And I love you most!”
John, an aspiring musician, remembers all the concerts I go to and tells me what songs he likes.
They roll their eyes and smile when they know I’m lying.
I realize that so much of my daily interaction with kids isn’t directly tied to mathematics. Even though in my teaching head, it’s all about math, it’s all about problem solving and struggling and asking questions. But my students’ heads aren’t filled with math the way that mine is. They just want to make it through the day — like the rest of us grownups. They are social creatures. They need to talk to each other or they’ll die.
Then as the last days of school draw near, the rewards I get are these tangibly beautiful thank-you cards from students that mostly say how much they’ve enjoyed my class and what an amazing teacher I am. You know, it is what it is :)
But these two cards — from parents — made me cry.
(And just now. Just now I recall someone recently accusing me of practicing “zero-sum teaching.” I don’t fucking think so.)
Do These Two Things
Here’s a bold claim that I can make here and now: I have made more teaching mistakes than any other teacher I know. I have the years to back me up.
You’ve asked your students to work out of the textbook for an entire period? I’ve done that more than once. You’ve snapped at a kid and made him cry? I’ve done that. Or you’ve cried in front of the class because you’re so fed up with their ungrateful and spoiled behaviors? I’ve done that. You’ve doled out a factory-made test without checking through all the questions on it? I’ve done that. You’ve brought ungraded papers home and shredded them? I’ve done that. (Although this may not be a mistake at all; we know crappy assignments must be burned.)
You’ve punished the whole class for something one or two kids had done? I’ve done that.
You’ve denied your kids’ opportunities to think deeply because you gave them all the answers? I’ve done that. You’ve given them timed tests? I’ve done that. Worse, you’ve given them timed tests preceded by this lie: just relax and do your best. I’ve done that. You’ve shown a video without previewing it? I’ve done that. You’ve made a promise that you couldn’t keep? I’ve done that.
This list drones on and it’s already exasperatingly dull.
If I may shift my attention then to the two main things that I’ve learned to do over the years so that when I do make my mistakes, the kids are incredibly quick to forgive me. Just two things.
Teachers are not in it to climb some corporate ladder to reach the thick-carpet land. The ladders we know are the ones we climb on to proudly hang our students’ work in our classroom. Or we scaffold a lesson to get students to play around on that ladder of abstraction. We are here to learn right along with the kids. Teachers are hypersensitive to that metacognition thingumabob.
Maybe it was during my second year of teaching when a veteran teacher dropped in to give us new teachers a short presentation about what to do and what not do as a teacher. He told us to not talk about ourselves to our students, that the kids are not interested.
I disagree. I think you should tell stories.
1.
Do talk to your students about yourself. We are adults, they are children, we are teachers, they are our students, so of course the topics have to be appropriate. But it’s disingenuous and selfish to say that we want to know more about our students yet not reciprocate in this endeavor. How else may we create that magical “rapport” that everyone talks about?
I tell sporadic stories about what’s going on in my life — past, present, future — dispersed between solving equations and talking about math. These are not planned conversations, they just come out naturally and haphazardly. These light moments came up within last week.
We were playing Nim in class and discussing how many chips to remove on one’s turn. This made me remember when someone at a department store was trying on a shoe of mine that I’d removed in order to try another shoe myself. I guess it looked new enough that she thought it belonged to the store and wanted to ask the salesman how much it was until I told her it was my shoe! Give me back my shoe, lady! (Two kids couldn’t stop laughing about this.)
I told them briefly about my trip to D.C. and the soft sheets in the hotel room. I told them about my visit to the Holocaust Museum. One student asked, “Did you cry?” Another student replied before I could, “She cried when we did bad on a test, so what do you think?” We eased right back into simplifying the next rational expression.
I was hungry and told them about the so-so enchiladas I’d made for dinner the night before. The kids shared their preference or indifference about red and green enchilada sauce. Quickly the conversation was centered around “mystery meat” coming from our school cafeteria. We agreed that our favorite school lunch is the teriyaki chicken. Then we were all quiet again thinking if these two triangles shared a height or base and what the ratio of their areas might be.
2.
Tell them about things you’re not good at. To balance out my heard-all-too-often outbursts of I’m brilliant!, I tell kids about the many things I cannot do. I tend to tell the class this when I sense they are struggling with a math concept. And when I’m no good at something that they are really good at, I shower them with genuine admiration.
I can’t tread water. I think I can swim. But that’s just it. I have to constantly swim or I’ll drown. I can’t do the eggbeater routine with my legs. My teacher took me to the deep end and said, “It’s really easy. Just watch me…” Ten minutes later, she said, “You’re right. You can’t tread water. Oh, look, our time is up.” I tell this story knowing that the kid who’s struggling with what we’re doing right now is on a swim team. He says, “I’ll teach you. I’m a good teacher.”
Once I skied straight into a big pole while taking ski lessons. I know I’m not supposed to look at the pole because looking at it turns it into a giant magnet and me into an iron rod. I didn’t give up though. Not after I saw a guy take a giant tumble and had taken forever to get up. I was way cooler when I fell.
I bring in a math problem that I cannot solve. Then I share a different one on another day.
I can’t sing. My husband, bless his heart, showers me with affection and compliments ad nauseam. But even he can’t lie about my tone deafness. What I’m about to reveal next has only been known to a handful of people outside my family. Here goes: I was in 2nd or 3rd grade, standing on a small platform at the front of the class with another classmate, we have a song to sing together. I remembered how cute I must have looked because I wore a pretty dress. We did not get far into the song when my duet partner turned… and…(are you ready for this?)… slapped me in the face! She fucking slapped me. I was that bad.
Walking Around House Naked
This framed card hangs right by my school desk.
It’s a reminder that I once would rather scrub toilets for a living than teach unruly teenagers.
My fourth year. Around late September. On a Friday, end of school day. Principal’s office.
Me: I’m not coming back. I’m done.
Principal: What’s wrong?
M: I can’t teach these kids. I hate it here.
P: You just need some time off.
M: Like the next nine months off. I’m sorry. I’m a lousy teacher. I don’t know how to do this.
P: Fawn, I’m not letting you leave. Take a week off. We’ll get you a sub. No worries.
M: You don’t understand. My mind is made up.
P: I understand that you’re really stressed. I see it all the time. You’re working too hard.
M: You don’t know that I cry every Sunday night because I dread the upcoming week. And when I’m driving to school Monday morning, I actually wish to hear news that the school had burned down over the weekend.
P: I’m sorry.
M: Me too. What kind of sick teacher wishes that, right?
P: Is this about a particular kid or group of kids? A parent?
M: No. I just hate them all.
P: I’m still not letting you just quit. Do I have to remind you your husband is still in medical school? You can’t afford to quit, Fawn.
M: I’ll scrub toilets. At least I’ll feel accomplished when I’m done with them. I love the smell of bleach. We’ll manage somehow.
P: Take a week off. Call me next Friday.
M: Fine. I’ll do that. But next Friday I’ll call to remind you to hire someone for the rest of the year.
The following Friday. I waited until school was out to call. I had the whole scene played out in my head: one of our two school secretaries would pick up the phone, I’d ask to speak with the principal, then I’d tell my principal exactly this: Thank you for the week off. Now, I quit.
Me: Hi! This is Fawn. May I speak with [principal] please?
Counselor: Hi Fawn. She was just here. Let me try to find her.
(A good 5 minutes went by.)
C: Sorry, I can’t find her. Can I take a message? Were you absent today?
M: I was absent all week. I really need to talk with her. Can I just wait or call back?
C: I didn’t know you weren’t here last week! Is everything okay?
M: Yeah.
C: Sure, you can wait for her. Oh, hey, I almost forgot. I actually need to talk with you anyway.
M: Yeah?
C: We have to let [a math/science teacher] go at the end of next week. Budget cuts.
M: That sucks!
C: I know. So I had to re-do our whole schedule. Your classes will change quite a bit. Want me to tell you what they are while we wait?
The whole chain of events still befuddles me:
Where were our two school secretaries that Friday afternoon that made our counselor pick up the phone instead? (Her office was across the hallway.)
Where was my principal?
We had to lay off that nice new teacher? After the school year had already started?
Any other staff member could have answered the phone — so why the counselor who apparently had to talk with me anyway because of all the changes to my schedule?
I didn’t have fewer kids, actually had more due to losing one teacher. I didn’t have a different set of kids, they just got shuffled around in my schedule.
Counselor: So, Fawn, sorry for all the changes.
Me: I know. Sad to lose the new teacher. Great guy.
C: Do you just want to leave a message for [principal]?
M: Yes, please. Just tell her thank you and I’ll see her Monday.
I bought the card during that one-week hiatus. It’s more funnier now. I once gave up. This teaching thing was once too hard for me. I sucked that badly at it.
If you ever think that you suck at something, like teaching, then it’s quite likely that you do suck at it. But if your heart is in it, like 100% in it, then you’ll suck less as time goes on. Kindly let your “sense of humor” and “pride in work” and “ability to explain” expand and occupy larger spaces in your teacher brain. Don’t completely do away with “walking around house naked” though — just keep the curtains drawn.
My Gratitude and One Share
I sat down wanting to share a lesson I did in Algebra on Friday, but I’m weepy because it’s Veterans Day. Please allow me to share this first.
I love this country. I love the America that welcomed me and my brothers and sisters with open arms 36 years ago. I love Mrs. Schnettler for patiently teaching me English, Mr. Hoon for making me feel visible in math even though I couldn’t speak the language.
I was too young and stupid to understand the nuances of war. Can’t say I understand it now. But I knew what life was like without freedom. I understood when my mom told me I couldn’t repeat what was said at the family dinner. I heard the bombings at night. I was aware that my teachers had to teach from a curriculum laden with Communist propaganda. Fear weaved itself into my blanket of insecurity. Hunger — and the shame of it — marked my days.
For the generations of servicemen and women, on behalf of my three spoiled teenagers, I thank you with all my heart. You give me and my family this privileged life that I know was my childhood dream when I stared at the black sky in Saigon.
Another great lesson from MARS is Interpreting Distance-Time Graphs. You really need to do this lesson if you want to hear kids spend full periods sharing their thinking on graphs.
The first part of the lesson was like a pre-assessment, a peek into their current knowledge. They described what may have happened in this graph.
What they wrote blew me away because I learned so much about what they know and do not know. Here are a few:
Tom walked at a constant speed for the first 50 seconds. Then he began to slow down. At 70 seconds he began to speed up. He stayed at this speed up to 100 seconds. Then he stopped.
Tom must of tooken a different road. That had more curves or he simply took the long way.
First he kept at a constant speed. Next he went back 60 m. He went at a constant rate. Finally he got to the bus stop and waited for 20 sec.
While he was walking he was speeding up so he was probly running. However when he got to 100 meters he slowed down, so he probly began walking then he sped up again, and once he reached 160 meters he traveled at a constent speed.
In the second part, they were asked to choose which story best matched the graph. Two-thirds — two-thirds! — of my 8th graders picked choice B!
We had a lot of work to do! In pairs, students worked on matching 10 graphs with 10 stories (one story was intentionally missing, so they had to write one in). After they got a good start with this, I then passed out the set of table of values for them to add to their matching. I wish you could hear all the conversations in the room!
Teaching American kids — what a privilege and an honor for me.
[Updated 11/12/13]
I have this great book called A Visual Approach to Functions that I will use to follow up the lesson above. While I can’t share the book here, I found a section of it — the section that fits perfectly with this lesson! — online that you can download here.]
I Really Needed to Read This Note Tonight
Only 9 hours until the first class bell of 2012-2013. I still need to shower and get some sleep. I need to wake up early enough to make my kids’ lunches also. They’re seniors, for crying out loud, can’t they make their own lunches? Oh, but they might forget to pack fruits and water. Do I have any clean clothes to wear and what am I wearing as it’ll be warm again tomorrow? What am I forgetting?
Shoot, I need to clean out my school bag.
I turn my bag upside down to literally dump everything out. A small blue envelope drops out along with two paper clips, a napkin, some papers, a bag of hot cocoa mix. I tear into the envelope not even guessing whom it’s from. I’m really tired.
Oh no, it’s from J. He wrote this back in June! I’m so sorry I’m just reading this now.
Dear Mrs. Nguyen
You have been an awesome, amazing teacher this year! Learning Algebra was fun, but you really brought it to a whole new level! My favorite project we did was the Barbie Bungee jumping, and I also really liked how you brought up the idea of doing an online e-portfolio! I will always remember how excited you got when you told us stories or shared pictures, and you’ve made the class crack up so hard to a point where I was crying! I will also be crying because once I’ve left Mesa, and all your classroom’s memories will stay in my heart. But of course I will move on to Geometry in High School, with a different teacher and a different class and still have fun. I hope to see you again Mrs. Nguyen!
From,
J.D.
Although it’s a 3-month old note card, the timing is perfectly serendipitous for me to read this the night before classes begin. Maybe no nightmares tonight — that would be a first. Maybe I’ll have a good first day. Maybe tomorrow’s school lunch will be yummy. Maybe I really love to teach.
May we all have a wonderful school year.
One More Thought Before Classes Begin
My neck snapped as I quickly turned toward the homophobic comment that just came from one of my students. I stared at the small group of students. Who said that? Why would you say that?! I wanted to say something but nothing came out. My mouth went dry as my eyes pooled up with tears. Their eyes softly settled on me, others looked down at their desks.
Then someone said, “I’m sorry. I was just joking around.” A different someone said, “He didn’t mean it. I’m okay… I didn’t take it personally.”
On February 12, 2008, Brian McInerney shot Larry King twice in the back of the head in the middle of class. Brian was 15, Larry 14. Both went to a middle school only 10 miles from where I teach. Larry died two days later. On November 21, 2011, Brian pleaded guilty to second-degree murder and voluntary manslaughter. He’ll be 38 years old when he gets out. Both my sons played baseball with Brian’s cousin whose father was the coach.
It must have been late 1992 (I remember being heavily pregnant with my first child) when I attended a conference in Portland, Oregon. Then Portland was already my home for 13 years. I can’t recall the exact conference title, but it was a rather major two-day event, and the topics centered on educational awareness on the harm of bullying and discrimination against gay and lesbian youth. I had no idea there would be demonstrators and wide media coverage at the conference. My next-door teacher went with me, but apparently she was surprised that I had signed up to go because — and I didn’t realize this either — most of the conference attendees were gay. She turned to me right before the first speaker came on and asked, “Fawn, is there someone in your family who is gay?” I replied, “No. I don’t think so. I’m just here for my students.”
That same year, 1992, Oregon’s anti-gay Measure 9 drew vast national attention. I wore all kinds of NO ON MEASURE 9 buttons. It was entirely possible that I would pack up my young family and move away if the measure passed. On November 3, it was defeated.
Seven years later, in the summer of 1999, I was driving home from Seattle with my niece Jennifer late one evening when she came out to me. Jenny was just starting college. She hadn’t told her parents yet. Jenny was my brother’s only child, thus I felt a strange sadness that her parents may not embrace the news with the same fierce love they’ve always had for their precious girl.
My niece Dominique came out to her mom, my sister, when she was 14. Dom is crazy smart. So levelheaded yet driven. So articulate and funny. She enjoys the simple pleasures and appreciates the tiny luxuries. She smiles easily and lights up a room. I can say the same things about Jenny. They embody happiness. They love their families deeply and surround themselves with generous people who know how to reciprocate unconditional love.
They are my family.
Nothing is more important to me than my family. Nothing is more important to me than my students. I take this personally.
You are a girl. Female.
Nicolai and I had another nice conversation this evening when I drove him back to his dorm. The sun was a giant orange ball sinking near the horizon of Pacific Coast Highway. We talked about girls. I talked about my mistakes, lots of them. I told him the same thing I said at the dinner table two weeks ago when my sister and her two kids visited, “Don’t marry someone you love. Marry someone who loves you.” My sister disagreed.
I settle in to make the one-hour drive back home — Pandora is set to Elton John Radio. I get a whole mix of great nostalgic songs from Journey, The Beatles, Stevie Nicks, CCR, and EJ himself.
A sense of gratefulness envelops me.
I see the waves still slapping against the sandy beaches under the now dark sky. The ocean does not sleep. The dark waters flood me with memories of our escape: our days floating out somewhere in the South China Sea, our boat bobs up and down without a captain because there is no fuel for it to move anyway, all 13 of us on board already know tomorrow was never promised to any of us. But I’m only 11 years old, and I really don’t want to die.
We all see it because it’s the only thing we’ve been looking for — our glimmer of hope. It is a single dot in the canvas of blue sky and blue water. The dot gets bigger. The men wave their dingy white shirts, hollering out for help but only hearing their own voices bounce off each other. My own mouth is dry, I try to yell for help too but no words come out, I’ve been without water for a long time. The bigger dot is now elongated. Then it begins to look very much like part of a ship’s mast. An eternity goes by when the dot has finally morphed into a ship. No one speaks of it being a possible pirate ship —
I’m grateful to the Thai crew of this ship — this large fishing vessel — to feed us and give us water. I still can taste the sweetness of the giant steamed squids from that night. How do you thank people who save your life?
If you put my three kids into three separate rooms and ask each this question, What does your mom want for you? They should all give you the same answer, To be kind and to be happy. It’s a mantra I’ve been repeating since they were little. Nicolai, on his own, ended his 8th grade valedictorian speech with a familiar quote from Mark Twain: Kindness is the language which the deaf can hear and the blind can see.
I know “be kind and be happy” is vague — like lazy parenting — but life is vague. I want them to define their own happiness. But I don’t want kindness to be a choice for them, I just want them to be kind.
All 13 of us were rescued by the fishermen who reached out with immeasurable kindness. Then this great country welcomed our family with open arms. This is the only America I know — the America that made it all possible for me and my family to go to school, earn a college degree, work, raise a family. How do you thank a country for all this? There has never been a single moment when I hear or sing the American national anthem and not tear up.
I’m now about half way home. But I don’t want to rush the drive. It’s a perfect night, the highway is sparse, I turn up the volume — Stevie Nicks is singing “Landslide.”
I’m overwhelmed by all the kindness that comes in small packages too.
I’m in 6th grade. Carla, tall with brown short curly hair, sits next to me in class. There is a form that we all have to fill out. I write down my first and last name. Then I am stuck because I don’t understand what the form is asking me. I glance over at other kids’ papers and see that they’re already halfway through the form. Carla smiles at me because she always does. She notices that I’m not writing. I’m embarrassed that I don’t know enough English to fill out this form. She leans over and puts a check in the “female” box for me. She says quietly, You are a girl. Female. And she points to Tony across from us, He is a boy. Male. She smiles again. Carla doesn’t know that I still think of her today.
I’m pulling out of the school’s parking lot. It’s the start of winter break and also my three-month maternity leave. I’m really pregnant with my first baby. I see Brian, my 7th grade student, running fast toward my car, he’s out of breath. I turn off the engine and step out of the car. Brian pulls out a blue stuffed animal from under his jacket. He says between breaths, I’m glad you’re still here, Mrs. Nguyen. Here, I want your baby to have my stuffed animal that I got when I was a baby. I want to tell Brian that I can’t accept this precious blue floppy eared stuffed puppy from his childhood. But I can’t get myself to say anything. His kindness breaks my heart.