In my early days of subbing, I only accepted assignments for which I felt qualified -- English, language studies, social studies, world history, music, and so forth. I would soon learn that schools did not have the privilege of making such distinctions: they would gladly take anyone available. Because of this, within two weeks of this November 16th assignment, I, who know nothing of carpentry, would be subbing in woodshop classes at another school, where I would be asked to play a home improvement video the students had already seen a zillion times, and where I would unwittingly set the stage for being barred from that particular school district.
But I am getting ahead of myself. The November 16th assignment was for 8th and 9th grade Social Studies and World History in a mostly white school only about 10 minutes away from my home. The town is the usual small, rural town but there's a sense of life and vibrancy there that's missing in many other such towns, including my own (in which, despite the large American flags hanging in abandoned storefronts on Main Street, no one is fooled -- you can't turn a sow's ear into a silk purse by hanging up a few flags -- this is a decaying town, more obsessed with hiring a Blight Ordinance Officer to ensure that its citizens' lawns are kept tidy than with coping with serious local drug problems). The November 16th town is about the same size as mine yet it has far more interesting stores and restaurants. In the summers, it also has a much more thriving, colorful farmers market than the mostly ignored one I started several years ago in my own town. I have never understood why two towns so close to each other could be so different. C'est la vie ::sigh::
Anyway, on November 16th I arrived at this town's middle school. I was warned that one young lady had a history of seizures. I was told that her classmates, however, were remarkable and knew how to handle such incidents. She asked for Kleenix in my classroom, and I immediately phoned to ask for someone to deliver a box. Other than that, she was fine. Later, she had a seizure in the hall between classes but students and staff were thoroughly prepared and handled it well. I was touched by the concern everyone showed her. One teacher commented to me that her seizures tended to occur after lunch, which suggested that high carb and sugar levels might be involved. I mentioned that to someone in charge but have no idea what was done with such information -- they probably already knew that lunch could be a possible trigger.
Most of my classes there were working on England's first colonies in the Americas. I have only a basic knowledge of that period and did not swerve from their teacher's assignment. It was a Friday so students were more noisy than usual, especially if they partnered up to work as teams (their teacher didn't say if this was allowed or not but the students insisted that it was -- I found, however, that they got more work done if they worked alone so starting with the 2nd hour, I made that my policy).
In 3rd hour, one young lady with a chip on her shoulder was loud, uncooperative, and spent most of her time punching holes in her worksheet. She insisted she couldn't work alone. I reluctantly let the class partner-up, but this was a mistake as she only got worse. There weas no point in sending her to detention -- that would only increase her animosity. Aside from her, however, the rest were great.
The remaining two classes were on ancient Greek science and philosophy. I would have been fine with that except that the author of the text they were using elevated Greek views and denigrated those of Egypt and Mesopotamia as "superstitious." I could not let that go. So I gave them a mini-lecture on the fallicies of such a viewpoint. I brought in Greece's rainbow goddess, Iris, Plato's positive view of her, discussed Egyptian and Mesopotamian metaphors and symbols, etc. The ancients simply did not make the same rigid distinctions between "myth" and science that we do and I felt it was important for these students to understand that. They seemed to enjoy this journey through science, myth, and philosophy and some even said they wished I was their regular teacher. I brushed that off, recognizing it for being "over the top," but couldn't figure out why. I would later learn on 7 December 2007 from another sub, who had had a similar positive experience at that school, that the reason those students were so nice to subs was that they got double detention if they weren't!
Regardless, they were still great kids and I'd return in a minute -- unfortunately, that school's need for subs seems to be minimal. As of 26 May 2008, I have not found a single assignment listed for them. Hopefully, I'll have better luck when the fall term begins, if I'm still subbing (smile).
Monday, May 26, 2008
Sunday, May 25, 2008
#4: Journal Notes on Subbing Assignment for 9 November 2007
[Begun 1/17/08, completed 5/25/08, 1:50am]
November 9, 2007
A hundred or more years ago, a small town in Michigan was a bright beacon attracting black professionals, intellectuals and artists. They lived in grand houses (many still standing, but much faded), had white servants, and nurtured a lively, creative excitement in this corner of Michigan.
Times changed, populations shifted, and poverty arrived. The town remained predominately black but was no longer a cultural mecca. The upper class blacks had mostly moved on. It was now just one more small, struggling, rural Michigan town, regardless of race.
Eventually, a nuclear power plant was built on the town's vulnerable shores of Lake Michigan. This became a major employer. There are rumors about mismanagement and corruption at this now-aging plant, but such rumors, probably well-founded, doubtless abound at all nuclear installations. Our nuclear scientists may be brilliant, but human error and greed too often trump science.
Today, the town's schools keep their buses at the ready, just in case. The drivers' instructions are to head due south with their students. Why? Well, it seems that prevailing winds will blow any fallout towards the north/northeast -- towards an expensive resort town, in other words. I doubt the wealthy of that town were aware of such wind patterns when decisions were being made by local politicians. Residents probably assumed the small, impoverished black town would be "ground zero." Their own lifestyle, safely up the coast, would not be impacted. But such reasoning left out the winds.
Nevertheless, the idea of children in caravans of yellow school buses threading their way south in the chaotic wake of a nuclear emergency does not sound like a convincingly safe plan. It is disgusting that powerful tycoons, backed by the wealthy politicians of this state, placed a nuclear plant only a few miles from a town too poor to fight the decision.
Yet because of its once-glorious history, I was looking forward to getting an assignment in this town. I am a romantic -- I felt that some of the long-ago magic of this place might still remain. I kept checking online postings for a week until I finally saw an opening for November 9th in that town's middle school. I clicked on it instantly.
Daylight Savings Time had ended by then so arriving in darkness was a thing of the past. I parked in the back where I saw others parking. The back doors were locked but a teacher with a key kindly let me in. As I walked through the halls to the office, other teachers, mostly black, greeted me warmly. There was an immediate sense of camaraderie. The children seemed more rested and livelier too. The sullen, mean-spirited heaviness I had felt up the coast in the more affluent school the preceding week was absent here. My spirits rose.
I checked in with a black woman who had a pair of sparkling red shoes on a shelf over her computer. "Dorothy's red shoes," I laughed, pointing. I'm an Oz fan from way back and own all of L. Frank Baum's series.
"No," the woman replied, "Snipp, Snapp, and Snurr and the Red Shoes." That really tickled me -- the three blonde Swedish brothers, Snipp, Snapp, and Snurr, from Maj Lindman's late 1930's books, were a familiar feature of my own childhood, although I didn't remember any tales about red shoes. Yet, that this woman would be familiar with my own childhood favorites was a delight. Most people have never heard of them and yet she had. (At Christmas time, five and a half weeks later, when I would sub here again in band, I would discover that she and I had both played first chair violin in our respective junior high schools, and she had gone on to play first chair viola in highschool, which created yet another bond between us.)
I really like this place, I thought to myself -- some of the magic is still shimmering here. (Update, 25 May 2008: despite problems since my first assignment there, this remains one of my favorite schools.)
I was subbing that day for a teacher in 8th grade Social Studies. The instructions were clear, both for the first period of U.S. History, and the 2nd, 3rd, and 5th periods of World History/Geography. What I remember, looking back, are not the assignments but the kids. It was a Friday and many of the youngsters wore Junior ROTC uniforms for a major assembly scheduled for noontime. They looked so smart and proud in their uniforms, the girls in their black patent leather shoes peaking out below their trousers, the boys all looking gallant, somber, and old beyond their years.
All of them broke my heart though. They were 8th graders -- why were they being recruited so early? Well, of course, because enlistments are down and the government will take whatever is available. But 8th graders from this impoverished little town with its lethal nuclear reactor? Did Washington have no shame?
Many students, of course, had no involvement with ROTC. Those kids were noisy and unfocused as they worked on their assignments that morning. One sweet, somewhat overweight, and very bright young woman in her ROTC uniform helped the others, for which I was grateful. She too seemed old beyond her years and I was glad she was overweight -- that might protect her from active duty later on. At least I hoped so.
The ROTC assembly took place in the gym around noon and all those in uniforms were excused early so that they could get organized. Then the other students were released to attend the assembly. I planned to attend as a sign of support to the youngsters. I got to the gym after nearly everyone else was inside. The youngsters in their uniforms were lining up inside and marching in formations. Crisply uniformed old guys (well, my age, actually) in their 50's or 60's were calling the shots. I kept watching and started feeling sick. I wasn't in college in the 60's and so was never part of the ROTC college scene during the Vietnam years, but I certainly heard enough about it on the evening news in New York City's Lower East Side, where I lived then. These kids, proud and *too* mature in their fine uniforms, parading about the gym with such hope, unnerved me. I couldn't bear it, couldn't bear the patriotic BS they were being fed nor the danger in which their young lives were being placed by this country's current administration.
I left. I walked the halls and finally came across the library -- a large room, functional, but lacking in charm. I puttered about, looking at books. A single librarian was there -- no students -- only her and me. She looked about five-ten years younger than me but she'd certainly remember the Vietnam years. "I'm subbing today," I explained, approaching her desk. "I meant to attend the ROTC assembly, but I just couldn't. It brought back too many bad memories. I can't stand what's happening to these kids."
She was sympathetic and said that she too had problems with it. But she also said that the ROTC program had helped a lot of these kids to grow up, to get grounded and focused, to take responsibility for their own lives. She said that very few would ever actually enlist when they came of age, which made me feel much better about it all. She saw the program as a way to help kids mature who would otherwise flounder and waste their opportunity to get a good education. I was impressed -- it gave me an entirely new slant on ROTC. I hope what she said is true.
The afternoon sessions soon arrived and some of the youngsters I had had in the first hour for U.S. History were now back for World History/Geography. Since I had already interacted with them in the morning, I felt free to kid around with them more. They were really charmers. The topic was the Middle East, something I happen to know a lot about, so I tried to share what I knew, with mixed results. Subs aren't expected to "teach." They're just subs.
One young lady, after I reached across her book to point to a map, said sharply, "You're in mah purrh-sonel space!" I was startled -- was this a new "no-no" in today's world? Were teachers no longer allowed to reach across a student to demonstrate a point?
"No," I replied quietly, "I'm just trying to show you where the answer to the question is." And I walked away, hiding my confusion.
Another young lady was sitting on a desk in front of a young man, flirting with him, entwining their limbs. There was an easy familiarity between them, a fondness, but without any overt sexual overtones. They were more like dancers, not sexual partners. I weighed my reactions. The young "me" watching from Sister Euphemia's Latin class back in the late 50's was horrified. Obviously, Sister Euphemia would *never* have permitted such physical expression. But this is a new age, I told the young "me," these kids have grown up much faster than we did, they face drugs and wars we never heard of.
"I like your swag," a boy said unexpectedly. He sat up the row beyond the dancers and off to my right. I had to check to be sure he was addressing me. He was.
My swag? I was puzzled. It sounded like a compliment but I didn't understand it. "My swag?" I said. "In my day," I continued, "'swag' meant something you stole -- it was your booty -- and then you stashed it away in a safe place so no one else could take it from you. What does it mean to you?"
The shy child looked completely confused and mortified.
The young lady sitting on the desk, still entwining herself with the fellow on the other side of that desk, spoke up. "He means your SWAG -- you know, the way your hair is, the purple scarf, the purple top, your boots -- you know, your SWAG."
Then I understood. It was an idiom probably taken from "swagger." In other words, in my well-coordinated purple tones and done up hair, a certain "swagger" -- or confidence -- was expresed that he liked. I thanked him. I later realized the term could also come from a "swag" -- i.e, the flow of draperies as a window-treatment.
Regardless, I've often thought of that moment, especially when I feel demoralized and drained by what is too frequently a thankless task. To most of these kids, a sub is a subhuman species. I'm not good with faces and wouldn't recognize that shy youngster again, but I owe him nevertheless. He liked "my swag" (smile). There's solace in that on days when I feel like no more than a faceless cog. Because of him, I continue to walk with confidence.
November 9, 2007
A hundred or more years ago, a small town in Michigan was a bright beacon attracting black professionals, intellectuals and artists. They lived in grand houses (many still standing, but much faded), had white servants, and nurtured a lively, creative excitement in this corner of Michigan.
Times changed, populations shifted, and poverty arrived. The town remained predominately black but was no longer a cultural mecca. The upper class blacks had mostly moved on. It was now just one more small, struggling, rural Michigan town, regardless of race.
Eventually, a nuclear power plant was built on the town's vulnerable shores of Lake Michigan. This became a major employer. There are rumors about mismanagement and corruption at this now-aging plant, but such rumors, probably well-founded, doubtless abound at all nuclear installations. Our nuclear scientists may be brilliant, but human error and greed too often trump science.
Today, the town's schools keep their buses at the ready, just in case. The drivers' instructions are to head due south with their students. Why? Well, it seems that prevailing winds will blow any fallout towards the north/northeast -- towards an expensive resort town, in other words. I doubt the wealthy of that town were aware of such wind patterns when decisions were being made by local politicians. Residents probably assumed the small, impoverished black town would be "ground zero." Their own lifestyle, safely up the coast, would not be impacted. But such reasoning left out the winds.
Nevertheless, the idea of children in caravans of yellow school buses threading their way south in the chaotic wake of a nuclear emergency does not sound like a convincingly safe plan. It is disgusting that powerful tycoons, backed by the wealthy politicians of this state, placed a nuclear plant only a few miles from a town too poor to fight the decision.
Yet because of its once-glorious history, I was looking forward to getting an assignment in this town. I am a romantic -- I felt that some of the long-ago magic of this place might still remain. I kept checking online postings for a week until I finally saw an opening for November 9th in that town's middle school. I clicked on it instantly.
Daylight Savings Time had ended by then so arriving in darkness was a thing of the past. I parked in the back where I saw others parking. The back doors were locked but a teacher with a key kindly let me in. As I walked through the halls to the office, other teachers, mostly black, greeted me warmly. There was an immediate sense of camaraderie. The children seemed more rested and livelier too. The sullen, mean-spirited heaviness I had felt up the coast in the more affluent school the preceding week was absent here. My spirits rose.
I checked in with a black woman who had a pair of sparkling red shoes on a shelf over her computer. "Dorothy's red shoes," I laughed, pointing. I'm an Oz fan from way back and own all of L. Frank Baum's series.
"No," the woman replied, "Snipp, Snapp, and Snurr and the Red Shoes." That really tickled me -- the three blonde Swedish brothers, Snipp, Snapp, and Snurr, from Maj Lindman's late 1930's books, were a familiar feature of my own childhood, although I didn't remember any tales about red shoes. Yet, that this woman would be familiar with my own childhood favorites was a delight. Most people have never heard of them and yet she had. (At Christmas time, five and a half weeks later, when I would sub here again in band, I would discover that she and I had both played first chair violin in our respective junior high schools, and she had gone on to play first chair viola in highschool, which created yet another bond between us.)
I really like this place, I thought to myself -- some of the magic is still shimmering here. (Update, 25 May 2008: despite problems since my first assignment there, this remains one of my favorite schools.)
I was subbing that day for a teacher in 8th grade Social Studies. The instructions were clear, both for the first period of U.S. History, and the 2nd, 3rd, and 5th periods of World History/Geography. What I remember, looking back, are not the assignments but the kids. It was a Friday and many of the youngsters wore Junior ROTC uniforms for a major assembly scheduled for noontime. They looked so smart and proud in their uniforms, the girls in their black patent leather shoes peaking out below their trousers, the boys all looking gallant, somber, and old beyond their years.
All of them broke my heart though. They were 8th graders -- why were they being recruited so early? Well, of course, because enlistments are down and the government will take whatever is available. But 8th graders from this impoverished little town with its lethal nuclear reactor? Did Washington have no shame?
Many students, of course, had no involvement with ROTC. Those kids were noisy and unfocused as they worked on their assignments that morning. One sweet, somewhat overweight, and very bright young woman in her ROTC uniform helped the others, for which I was grateful. She too seemed old beyond her years and I was glad she was overweight -- that might protect her from active duty later on. At least I hoped so.
The ROTC assembly took place in the gym around noon and all those in uniforms were excused early so that they could get organized. Then the other students were released to attend the assembly. I planned to attend as a sign of support to the youngsters. I got to the gym after nearly everyone else was inside. The youngsters in their uniforms were lining up inside and marching in formations. Crisply uniformed old guys (well, my age, actually) in their 50's or 60's were calling the shots. I kept watching and started feeling sick. I wasn't in college in the 60's and so was never part of the ROTC college scene during the Vietnam years, but I certainly heard enough about it on the evening news in New York City's Lower East Side, where I lived then. These kids, proud and *too* mature in their fine uniforms, parading about the gym with such hope, unnerved me. I couldn't bear it, couldn't bear the patriotic BS they were being fed nor the danger in which their young lives were being placed by this country's current administration.
I left. I walked the halls and finally came across the library -- a large room, functional, but lacking in charm. I puttered about, looking at books. A single librarian was there -- no students -- only her and me. She looked about five-ten years younger than me but she'd certainly remember the Vietnam years. "I'm subbing today," I explained, approaching her desk. "I meant to attend the ROTC assembly, but I just couldn't. It brought back too many bad memories. I can't stand what's happening to these kids."
She was sympathetic and said that she too had problems with it. But she also said that the ROTC program had helped a lot of these kids to grow up, to get grounded and focused, to take responsibility for their own lives. She said that very few would ever actually enlist when they came of age, which made me feel much better about it all. She saw the program as a way to help kids mature who would otherwise flounder and waste their opportunity to get a good education. I was impressed -- it gave me an entirely new slant on ROTC. I hope what she said is true.
The afternoon sessions soon arrived and some of the youngsters I had had in the first hour for U.S. History were now back for World History/Geography. Since I had already interacted with them in the morning, I felt free to kid around with them more. They were really charmers. The topic was the Middle East, something I happen to know a lot about, so I tried to share what I knew, with mixed results. Subs aren't expected to "teach." They're just subs.
One young lady, after I reached across her book to point to a map, said sharply, "You're in mah purrh-sonel space!" I was startled -- was this a new "no-no" in today's world? Were teachers no longer allowed to reach across a student to demonstrate a point?
"No," I replied quietly, "I'm just trying to show you where the answer to the question is." And I walked away, hiding my confusion.
Another young lady was sitting on a desk in front of a young man, flirting with him, entwining their limbs. There was an easy familiarity between them, a fondness, but without any overt sexual overtones. They were more like dancers, not sexual partners. I weighed my reactions. The young "me" watching from Sister Euphemia's Latin class back in the late 50's was horrified. Obviously, Sister Euphemia would *never* have permitted such physical expression. But this is a new age, I told the young "me," these kids have grown up much faster than we did, they face drugs and wars we never heard of.
"I like your swag," a boy said unexpectedly. He sat up the row beyond the dancers and off to my right. I had to check to be sure he was addressing me. He was.
My swag? I was puzzled. It sounded like a compliment but I didn't understand it. "My swag?" I said. "In my day," I continued, "'swag' meant something you stole -- it was your booty -- and then you stashed it away in a safe place so no one else could take it from you. What does it mean to you?"
The shy child looked completely confused and mortified.
The young lady sitting on the desk, still entwining herself with the fellow on the other side of that desk, spoke up. "He means your SWAG -- you know, the way your hair is, the purple scarf, the purple top, your boots -- you know, your SWAG."
Then I understood. It was an idiom probably taken from "swagger." In other words, in my well-coordinated purple tones and done up hair, a certain "swagger" -- or confidence -- was expresed that he liked. I thanked him. I later realized the term could also come from a "swag" -- i.e, the flow of draperies as a window-treatment.
Regardless, I've often thought of that moment, especially when I feel demoralized and drained by what is too frequently a thankless task. To most of these kids, a sub is a subhuman species. I'm not good with faces and wouldn't recognize that shy youngster again, but I owe him nevertheless. He liked "my swag" (smile). There's solace in that on days when I feel like no more than a faceless cog. Because of him, I continue to walk with confidence.
Thursday, January 17, 2008
#3: Journal Notes on Subbing Assignment for 1-2 November 2007
Proctoring an exam isn't really "subbing" (see entry below) -- so my first "genuine" assignment came two days later in a middle school about 45 minutes up the Lake Michigan coast from my first assignment. The town is upscale, a charming summer resort town, yet affluent year round. We were still on Daylight Savings Time so it was pitch black as I tried to find the school. The directions I had been given included landmarks that had since changed names, or been demolished, so, again, I was a few minutes late.
This is a mostly white school. The layout of the school is elegant -- an airy central hub with four color-coded sub-sections for each middle school grade. (In one hall were wonderful posters by Lawrence W.Swienciki [1994] on mathematics from traditional as well as indigenous peoples -- I especially loved the Navajo one -- we don't usually think of indigenous peoples as having sophisticated mathematical concepts -- these posters indicate otherwise.)
I was assigned to 7th and 8th grades in Language Arts classes. Instead of individual desks, the room held tables with two chairs on either sides so that there were four students per table. Unfortunately, table-sharing seems to invite more chaos than usual. The boys were loud, noisy, sometimes physically aggressive with their classmates (several girls ended up in tears); on the other hand, sadly, many of the girls would have fit into TV sitcoms focused on narcissistic, spoiled "princesses."
The assignment for the 8th grade classes was Daniel Keyes' deeply moving novel, *Flowers for Algernon,* which raises profound ethical and social issues. We went around the room as each student read a brief passage. I was surprised that so many read so poorly, in muffled tones, and with no expression (they certainly had plenty of volume and expression when not reading!). Despite my questions, few seemed to grasp the deeper implications of the story, nor, despite late night movies, were they aware of the 1968 Cliff Robertson *Charly* film on the same theme. (One student, however, cared enough to research this and he told the class about it the next day, which pleased me.)
The 7th grade classes were working on autobiographical timelines and I was impressed with the creativity many of them showed. One young girl in particular showed a sophisticated use of design in her asymmetrical serpentine curves and lovely colors. I complimented her on this but she acted as if it were nothing. She said it would all end in death, as would she in a few years (her autobiographical timeline ended only a few years later). Sometimes it's hard to know how seriously to take these kids but I took this one very, very seriously. "Yes," I replied, "I understand. I was in my 20's before I felt as you do, so you're ahead of me, but I do understand the pull of death. Yet I survived -- I'm now 67 and things seem worthwhile to me, even though they never did in my 20's and 30's and I honestly never thought I'd live this long. Yet I'm glad I did. I hope you'll stick it out -- you have some wonderful gifts as an artist."
I don't know if she heard me. I hope she did. She definitely has a strong artistic sense and perhaps that will save her life. Life/death issues too often hang upon such slender threads.
There is a boy in that school too -- a very young Harry Potter-type coupled with surprising maturity. I've never regretted not having children but if I could have been given a guarantee that I'd have such a son, I think I might have agreed. He told me his grandmother is a professor, which would make her probably 15-20 years younger than me, but still a colleague. I truly envy her such a delightful grandson.
A third student, a gorgeous blond girl, also stands out in my memory. She was quite noisy and uncooperative but eventually told me she wants to be a model -- she added that an agent had already contacted her. Given her looks, I could see why, but my heart sank. I've known too many such girls. Their lives usually don't end well. I looked her in the eye and said that men hiring beautiful young women like her would never think of her as ANYthing but an object. She looked surprised. "You deserve better," I said, and walked away, because I knew she'd never discuss the issue further. Not at her age. She's one of those spoiled princesses who believes the world is her oyster and has no power to harm her.
But I hope she heard me and will remember that she can do so much better.
A fourth student threw a classic tantrum when I instructed her class to write opening paragraphs on their timeline instead of completing their artistic graphics. She shouted at me, closed her books, and sat immobile, surly, refusing to cooperate. I finally sent her to the office because she was so disruptive to the rest of the class.
Later, in re-reading the teacher's instructions, I realized that it would have been ok for students to work on their graphics instead of completing the opening paragraphs. I apologized and explained this to the rest of the class. I planned to set the record straight with the surly student the following day but she never showed up. Well, ok, sometimes subs make mistakes in interpreting lesson plans. But the student's reaction was really over the top. Cutting me some slack and writing her autobiographical paragraphs instead of completing her artwork should not have become so messy. Mine was an honest mistake. She didn't have to be such a brat.
Looking back to that day nearly three months ago, I recall only those four students. The rest fade into a blur. But when I re-read the notes I made that day, the noise comes rushing back and nearly overwhelms me. I was constantly shouting at them, trying to get control and usually failing. I remember that at the end of that first day I went out to my car and simply sat there for a long time, watching the wind-tossed trees lining the parking lot. I didn't dare drive yet. I felt too broken. I felt like a bug whose limbs had been pulled off by thoughtless children. I felt like a shattered doll, with nothing left.
It was a two-day assignment, however. I had to pull myself together for the next day -- and somehow I did.
Mercifully, the next morning went surprisingly well because most of each class was scheduled to be spent in the school's lovely library. The children were well-behaved, reasonably quiet, and I could feel my whole body beginning to relax from the stress of the preceding day.
Unfortunately, everything unraveled during the final two hours after lunch. Both the librarian and I failed to control those two classes and the librarian finally expelled them in sheer exasperation.
Hurt and bewildered, I asked the last class what had happened, why had they run so amuck. I got four clear answers from them:
1) we're 7th graders
2) we're still high on all our Halloween candy
3) it's Friday and we just wanna be OUTTA HERE!!!!
4) we're 7th graders
I understood -- but ---- well, ::sigh::
Anyway, that was my first real experience in subbing. In the coming weeks, things would get both better -- and much worse....
This is a mostly white school. The layout of the school is elegant -- an airy central hub with four color-coded sub-sections for each middle school grade. (In one hall were wonderful posters by Lawrence W.Swienciki [1994] on mathematics from traditional as well as indigenous peoples -- I especially loved the Navajo one -- we don't usually think of indigenous peoples as having sophisticated mathematical concepts -- these posters indicate otherwise.)
I was assigned to 7th and 8th grades in Language Arts classes. Instead of individual desks, the room held tables with two chairs on either sides so that there were four students per table. Unfortunately, table-sharing seems to invite more chaos than usual. The boys were loud, noisy, sometimes physically aggressive with their classmates (several girls ended up in tears); on the other hand, sadly, many of the girls would have fit into TV sitcoms focused on narcissistic, spoiled "princesses."
The assignment for the 8th grade classes was Daniel Keyes' deeply moving novel, *Flowers for Algernon,* which raises profound ethical and social issues. We went around the room as each student read a brief passage. I was surprised that so many read so poorly, in muffled tones, and with no expression (they certainly had plenty of volume and expression when not reading!). Despite my questions, few seemed to grasp the deeper implications of the story, nor, despite late night movies, were they aware of the 1968 Cliff Robertson *Charly* film on the same theme. (One student, however, cared enough to research this and he told the class about it the next day, which pleased me.)
The 7th grade classes were working on autobiographical timelines and I was impressed with the creativity many of them showed. One young girl in particular showed a sophisticated use of design in her asymmetrical serpentine curves and lovely colors. I complimented her on this but she acted as if it were nothing. She said it would all end in death, as would she in a few years (her autobiographical timeline ended only a few years later). Sometimes it's hard to know how seriously to take these kids but I took this one very, very seriously. "Yes," I replied, "I understand. I was in my 20's before I felt as you do, so you're ahead of me, but I do understand the pull of death. Yet I survived -- I'm now 67 and things seem worthwhile to me, even though they never did in my 20's and 30's and I honestly never thought I'd live this long. Yet I'm glad I did. I hope you'll stick it out -- you have some wonderful gifts as an artist."
I don't know if she heard me. I hope she did. She definitely has a strong artistic sense and perhaps that will save her life. Life/death issues too often hang upon such slender threads.
There is a boy in that school too -- a very young Harry Potter-type coupled with surprising maturity. I've never regretted not having children but if I could have been given a guarantee that I'd have such a son, I think I might have agreed. He told me his grandmother is a professor, which would make her probably 15-20 years younger than me, but still a colleague. I truly envy her such a delightful grandson.
A third student, a gorgeous blond girl, also stands out in my memory. She was quite noisy and uncooperative but eventually told me she wants to be a model -- she added that an agent had already contacted her. Given her looks, I could see why, but my heart sank. I've known too many such girls. Their lives usually don't end well. I looked her in the eye and said that men hiring beautiful young women like her would never think of her as ANYthing but an object. She looked surprised. "You deserve better," I said, and walked away, because I knew she'd never discuss the issue further. Not at her age. She's one of those spoiled princesses who believes the world is her oyster and has no power to harm her.
But I hope she heard me and will remember that she can do so much better.
A fourth student threw a classic tantrum when I instructed her class to write opening paragraphs on their timeline instead of completing their artistic graphics. She shouted at me, closed her books, and sat immobile, surly, refusing to cooperate. I finally sent her to the office because she was so disruptive to the rest of the class.
Later, in re-reading the teacher's instructions, I realized that it would have been ok for students to work on their graphics instead of completing the opening paragraphs. I apologized and explained this to the rest of the class. I planned to set the record straight with the surly student the following day but she never showed up. Well, ok, sometimes subs make mistakes in interpreting lesson plans. But the student's reaction was really over the top. Cutting me some slack and writing her autobiographical paragraphs instead of completing her artwork should not have become so messy. Mine was an honest mistake. She didn't have to be such a brat.
Looking back to that day nearly three months ago, I recall only those four students. The rest fade into a blur. But when I re-read the notes I made that day, the noise comes rushing back and nearly overwhelms me. I was constantly shouting at them, trying to get control and usually failing. I remember that at the end of that first day I went out to my car and simply sat there for a long time, watching the wind-tossed trees lining the parking lot. I didn't dare drive yet. I felt too broken. I felt like a bug whose limbs had been pulled off by thoughtless children. I felt like a shattered doll, with nothing left.
It was a two-day assignment, however. I had to pull myself together for the next day -- and somehow I did.
Mercifully, the next morning went surprisingly well because most of each class was scheduled to be spent in the school's lovely library. The children were well-behaved, reasonably quiet, and I could feel my whole body beginning to relax from the stress of the preceding day.
Unfortunately, everything unraveled during the final two hours after lunch. Both the librarian and I failed to control those two classes and the librarian finally expelled them in sheer exasperation.
Hurt and bewildered, I asked the last class what had happened, why had they run so amuck. I got four clear answers from them:
1) we're 7th graders
2) we're still high on all our Halloween candy
3) it's Friday and we just wanna be OUTTA HERE!!!!
4) we're 7th graders
I understood -- but ---- well, ::sigh::
Anyway, that was my first real experience in subbing. In the coming weeks, things would get both better -- and much worse....
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
#2: Journal Notes on Subbing Assignment for 30 October 2007
In my small part of the world, subbing has been outsourced to a company that represents much of Michigan. The advantage is that one can accept computer-listed assignments days, even weeks, ahead of time instead of having to wait for 5am telephone calls seeking replacements for last minute teacher absences.
I like this very much. As a nightowl, the very idea of a 5am call is brutal. If I can accept an assignment a day or two ahead of time, I can ease into it gently. I can pack my lunch the night before, drink "sleepytime tea," and turn in at an unseemly but necessarily early hour.
My first assignment under this new system (which in my area went into effect July 2007) sent me to a large, mostly black highschool on October 30, 2007. It was still dark when I tried to find the school. There are studies proving that teenagers need more sleep than they're getting and should actually start their school days around 10am. Such data is unknown in most American schools. The youngsters are expected around 7-7:30am.
At that hour, it's too dark to see street signs so I usually get lost and arrive late. That day was no exception and I was about five minutes late. The students were lined up in the cold and I couldn't find an unlocked door to get inside. Another teacher finally helped me out. Once inside, what struck me was a hallway filled with long, wild, dense Halloween streamers of orange and black crape paper. It was very rich and magical. I had never seen anything like it. I felt like an awed child walking into that hallway. Surely, this was a place where children's creativity would be nurtured.
Reality hit when I reached the school office. I was one of several subs that day and the office people didn't know what to do with us. The computers were down and there was no way to figure out where we were supposed to go. I was initially sent to a French classroom. But, as I told them, I couldn't teach French. Latin, yes, some German and Spanish, but not French. I was told it didn't matter -- they didn't have a regular French teacher anyway -- just endless subs. I was settling in when a young, handsome, cheerful fellow arrived and said he was replacing me and I should go back to the office. Turns out he knew some French. I was greatly relieved.
I made my way back through the halls, including the magical forest of Halloween streamers, and returned to the office. Three subs were now ahead of me: a gentle, middle-aged black man with a heavy African accent who had subbed there before -- after 30 minutes he was sent to a classroom on the second floor. An older black woman was soon sent to yet another classroom. But another black woman and I sat waiting for an hour. She was very young -- early 20's -- and she got a call on her cell phone asking if she was available to accept a last minute assignment at another school where a friend of hers was in charge.
She got up and told the office staff that she had another job if they didn't know where to send her. Then we again sat together, waiting. She told me that when she was in highschool, she and her classmates were truly awful to subs, so she could understand where kids were coming from when they saw a sub. But she let them know they couldn't fool her. That's how she got control, she said. I was amazed. I had gone to a Catholic highschool in the early to mid 1950's and can't honestly remember ever having a sub. If a nun were ill, another nun took her place. I couldn't imagine being rotten to a sub.
An hour passed as we talked, sharing experiences, often laughing. Finally she was told that it would be ok if she took the other assignment. She did, wished me well, and left immediately. It was 9am by then. Soon afterwards I was informed that I should drive to the other end of town to help proctor a Michigan Merit Exam. Seniors from this same school had already been bused there an hour earlier.
It was daylight but I still got lost again. Finally I found the abandoned school that now serves as an exam site. I was quietly introduced to the teacher in charge of one of many rooms full of seniors from the school I had left. I asked how I could help her. We agreed that I should walk up and down the aisles but we didn't want to make the students nervous so I was careful not to pace too much. The room was very cold and many students were shivering. The heating system was down, we were told. I felt very sorry for the kids -- exams are always stressful and being cold didn't help much.
Those kids did their best although I have to say that maybe 30% of them just gave up, pulled their hoodies up over their heads like little turtles, and fell asleep at their desks. I tried to awaken a few but their teacher, who, as I've mentioned, was in charge of our room (there were many students in other rooms that day), regretfully whispered to me that we weren't supposed to talk to them or help them in any way. I liked her -- we both knew this test was a crock, but there was nothing we could do about it. And when a state examiner came to our room later that morning, we both did what was expected and reluctantly walked up and down every few minutes.
I was struck by how hunched over most of the kids were. Did they have vision problems? Had anyone checked? Didn't they know that being hunched over would interfere with the supply of oxygen getting to their brains? I asked if I could make an annoucement reminding them to breathe in deeply but I was told that communicating with them was forbidden. Later, when I was assigned to walk some of the girls to the bathroom, I'd whisper, "Don't forget to breathe." But I don't think it helped much. These tests are sheer madness. This isn't education. It's "obedience training" and it isn't working.
Later, the teacher (who teaches English, by the way, and loves medieval literature) told me that these seniors had initially taken this Merit Exam the year before as juniors. Out of a class of some 200, only five had passed! All the rest were failures and were now repeating the test.
Only five had passed?!!!! I was shocked. Either something was horribly wrong with that test or else the school is in dreadful trouble. I found it hard to believe. The numbers made no sense to me. This is Bush's "No Child Left Behind" at its worst.
I have since mentioned this incident to others around here and have found that very few share my sense of shock. They aren't surprised at all -- they tell me that such schools simply pass these kids along and hope for the best. When too many fail, the government punishes such schools by imposing stricter standards (but without additional funding to achieve such standards).
Punishes the schools? This is crazy. These are impoverished schools in disintegrating neighborhoods. We need to give them more money and improve the employment opportunities for their parents. Punitive measures are absurd. We all know the statistics. These beautiful kids will wind up as fodder in rich white men's wars. Or else they'll be put in rich white men's prisons. This is unacceptable. But what on earth are we to do?
I ended that day in a deep depression. Everything is stacked against these kids. What is wrong with us that we're allowing this? We have put men on the moon. Why are we letting these exhausted children, turtle-ing in their thin hoodies, fall through the cracks?
I like this very much. As a nightowl, the very idea of a 5am call is brutal. If I can accept an assignment a day or two ahead of time, I can ease into it gently. I can pack my lunch the night before, drink "sleepytime tea," and turn in at an unseemly but necessarily early hour.
My first assignment under this new system (which in my area went into effect July 2007) sent me to a large, mostly black highschool on October 30, 2007. It was still dark when I tried to find the school. There are studies proving that teenagers need more sleep than they're getting and should actually start their school days around 10am. Such data is unknown in most American schools. The youngsters are expected around 7-7:30am.
At that hour, it's too dark to see street signs so I usually get lost and arrive late. That day was no exception and I was about five minutes late. The students were lined up in the cold and I couldn't find an unlocked door to get inside. Another teacher finally helped me out. Once inside, what struck me was a hallway filled with long, wild, dense Halloween streamers of orange and black crape paper. It was very rich and magical. I had never seen anything like it. I felt like an awed child walking into that hallway. Surely, this was a place where children's creativity would be nurtured.
Reality hit when I reached the school office. I was one of several subs that day and the office people didn't know what to do with us. The computers were down and there was no way to figure out where we were supposed to go. I was initially sent to a French classroom. But, as I told them, I couldn't teach French. Latin, yes, some German and Spanish, but not French. I was told it didn't matter -- they didn't have a regular French teacher anyway -- just endless subs. I was settling in when a young, handsome, cheerful fellow arrived and said he was replacing me and I should go back to the office. Turns out he knew some French. I was greatly relieved.
I made my way back through the halls, including the magical forest of Halloween streamers, and returned to the office. Three subs were now ahead of me: a gentle, middle-aged black man with a heavy African accent who had subbed there before -- after 30 minutes he was sent to a classroom on the second floor. An older black woman was soon sent to yet another classroom. But another black woman and I sat waiting for an hour. She was very young -- early 20's -- and she got a call on her cell phone asking if she was available to accept a last minute assignment at another school where a friend of hers was in charge.
She got up and told the office staff that she had another job if they didn't know where to send her. Then we again sat together, waiting. She told me that when she was in highschool, she and her classmates were truly awful to subs, so she could understand where kids were coming from when they saw a sub. But she let them know they couldn't fool her. That's how she got control, she said. I was amazed. I had gone to a Catholic highschool in the early to mid 1950's and can't honestly remember ever having a sub. If a nun were ill, another nun took her place. I couldn't imagine being rotten to a sub.
An hour passed as we talked, sharing experiences, often laughing. Finally she was told that it would be ok if she took the other assignment. She did, wished me well, and left immediately. It was 9am by then. Soon afterwards I was informed that I should drive to the other end of town to help proctor a Michigan Merit Exam. Seniors from this same school had already been bused there an hour earlier.
It was daylight but I still got lost again. Finally I found the abandoned school that now serves as an exam site. I was quietly introduced to the teacher in charge of one of many rooms full of seniors from the school I had left. I asked how I could help her. We agreed that I should walk up and down the aisles but we didn't want to make the students nervous so I was careful not to pace too much. The room was very cold and many students were shivering. The heating system was down, we were told. I felt very sorry for the kids -- exams are always stressful and being cold didn't help much.
Those kids did their best although I have to say that maybe 30% of them just gave up, pulled their hoodies up over their heads like little turtles, and fell asleep at their desks. I tried to awaken a few but their teacher, who, as I've mentioned, was in charge of our room (there were many students in other rooms that day), regretfully whispered to me that we weren't supposed to talk to them or help them in any way. I liked her -- we both knew this test was a crock, but there was nothing we could do about it. And when a state examiner came to our room later that morning, we both did what was expected and reluctantly walked up and down every few minutes.
I was struck by how hunched over most of the kids were. Did they have vision problems? Had anyone checked? Didn't they know that being hunched over would interfere with the supply of oxygen getting to their brains? I asked if I could make an annoucement reminding them to breathe in deeply but I was told that communicating with them was forbidden. Later, when I was assigned to walk some of the girls to the bathroom, I'd whisper, "Don't forget to breathe." But I don't think it helped much. These tests are sheer madness. This isn't education. It's "obedience training" and it isn't working.
Later, the teacher (who teaches English, by the way, and loves medieval literature) told me that these seniors had initially taken this Merit Exam the year before as juniors. Out of a class of some 200, only five had passed! All the rest were failures and were now repeating the test.
Only five had passed?!!!! I was shocked. Either something was horribly wrong with that test or else the school is in dreadful trouble. I found it hard to believe. The numbers made no sense to me. This is Bush's "No Child Left Behind" at its worst.
I have since mentioned this incident to others around here and have found that very few share my sense of shock. They aren't surprised at all -- they tell me that such schools simply pass these kids along and hope for the best. When too many fail, the government punishes such schools by imposing stricter standards (but without additional funding to achieve such standards).
Punishes the schools? This is crazy. These are impoverished schools in disintegrating neighborhoods. We need to give them more money and improve the employment opportunities for their parents. Punitive measures are absurd. We all know the statistics. These beautiful kids will wind up as fodder in rich white men's wars. Or else they'll be put in rich white men's prisons. This is unacceptable. But what on earth are we to do?
I ended that day in a deep depression. Everything is stacked against these kids. What is wrong with us that we're allowing this? We have put men on the moon. Why are we letting these exhausted children, turtle-ing in their thin hoodies, fall through the cracks?
#1: Tuesday, January 15, 2008: HOW THIS BLOG BEGAN
I am an academic who in the late '70's and '80's taught adult courses for Community Services at Ventura and Oxnard Colleges, as well as for Ojai's World University -- all in Southern California. The courses I taught were in creative writing, dream interpretation for writers and other artists, and past life explorations (via guided imagery/active imagination).
In 1992 I earned a Ph.D. in Religious Studies from the University of California, Santa Barbara. My areas of expertise are world religions, aesthetics, and cross-cultural mythology (ancient India, Egypt, Mesopotamia, Greece, medieval Europe, and Native American).
Between 1994 and 2003, I taught in a small graduate institute near Santa Barbara, California. During that time, I guided dozens of mythology and clinical psychology students through their own doctoral work. The average age of my students during those years was 47.
Today, semi-retired in my home state of Michigan, a state with the highest unemployment rate in the nation, I have turned to substitute teaching ("subbing") in order to make ends meet. Here, I encounter students the age of the children and grandchildren of the adults I once taught. As a single woman who never had children, it has been a sobering experience.
Out of my deep concern for current educational issues in middle and high schools, I have decided to create this blog for others who, as substitute teachers, have a front row seat when it comes to what is happening in this country's so-called "education." Hopefully, this will also prove insightful to parents and, perhaps, to the few students who might stumble across it.
The "subbing" portion of my "Subbing/Grubbing" blog is clear. "Grubbing" is probably less clear. On a superficial level, it has to do with an often "grubby," untidy, dirty, messy situation in today's schools. But for subs, working in a precarious economy, it also implies obtaining a much-needed "grubstake" -- i.e., the money paid to "prospectors" for their work in this educational enterprise. Like everyone else, we have bills to pay.
It isn't just about paying bills, of course. "Grub" also means food, which suggests that subs, if given a chance, could provide rich nourishment to the students we encounter. Unfortunately, we are rarely given that chance -- students see us as targets. They play us, con us, insult us, and force us to be "noise Nazis." At the end of a long day, we may often feel like broken, shattered toys. This is when another meaning of "grub" comes into play -- as Websters defines it: "to work hard, especially at something menial or tedious; drudge." Subs work very hard and too often are treated as worthless drudges. This is difficult to accept, especially when we care so much.
Finally, however, there is yet another relevant meaning of "grubbing," which has to do with extracting precious ore. Among the reasons I have created this blog is to reveal that intractable yet wonderful "ore" in the minds of our students.
P.S. -- I'm new to blogs and have no idea if this version will get posted or not. :-( Nor do I know if the previous unfinished 1/14/08 draft will be deleted and replaced with this correct version. Google's blog service doesn't seem very user friendly. This may be my first and last entry since I can't figure out how to keep adding to this blog.
23 January 2008 update: I have solved some of the technical issues and will keep making entries, time-permitting. Please be patient. :-)
In 1992 I earned a Ph.D. in Religious Studies from the University of California, Santa Barbara. My areas of expertise are world religions, aesthetics, and cross-cultural mythology (ancient India, Egypt, Mesopotamia, Greece, medieval Europe, and Native American).
Between 1994 and 2003, I taught in a small graduate institute near Santa Barbara, California. During that time, I guided dozens of mythology and clinical psychology students through their own doctoral work. The average age of my students during those years was 47.
Today, semi-retired in my home state of Michigan, a state with the highest unemployment rate in the nation, I have turned to substitute teaching ("subbing") in order to make ends meet. Here, I encounter students the age of the children and grandchildren of the adults I once taught. As a single woman who never had children, it has been a sobering experience.
Out of my deep concern for current educational issues in middle and high schools, I have decided to create this blog for others who, as substitute teachers, have a front row seat when it comes to what is happening in this country's so-called "education." Hopefully, this will also prove insightful to parents and, perhaps, to the few students who might stumble across it.
The "subbing" portion of my "Subbing/Grubbing" blog is clear. "Grubbing" is probably less clear. On a superficial level, it has to do with an often "grubby," untidy, dirty, messy situation in today's schools. But for subs, working in a precarious economy, it also implies obtaining a much-needed "grubstake" -- i.e., the money paid to "prospectors" for their work in this educational enterprise. Like everyone else, we have bills to pay.
It isn't just about paying bills, of course. "Grub" also means food, which suggests that subs, if given a chance, could provide rich nourishment to the students we encounter. Unfortunately, we are rarely given that chance -- students see us as targets. They play us, con us, insult us, and force us to be "noise Nazis." At the end of a long day, we may often feel like broken, shattered toys. This is when another meaning of "grub" comes into play -- as Websters defines it: "to work hard, especially at something menial or tedious; drudge." Subs work very hard and too often are treated as worthless drudges. This is difficult to accept, especially when we care so much.
Finally, however, there is yet another relevant meaning of "grubbing," which has to do with extracting precious ore. Among the reasons I have created this blog is to reveal that intractable yet wonderful "ore" in the minds of our students.
P.S. -- I'm new to blogs and have no idea if this version will get posted or not. :-( Nor do I know if the previous unfinished 1/14/08 draft will be deleted and replaced with this correct version. Google's blog service doesn't seem very user friendly. This may be my first and last entry since I can't figure out how to keep adding to this blog.
23 January 2008 update: I have solved some of the technical issues and will keep making entries, time-permitting. Please be patient. :-)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)