I had a horrible dream about school...

 School dreams.  Every teacher I know gets them.  Usually, the dreams surface before the start of the school year.  The teacher is inappropriately clothed in front of class, or he/she forgets the lesson being taught, or some student is refusing to do what the teacher is asking.  All these are normal school dreams, and all teachers have had them (and more) at one point or another.

  This year (2020) has added to those dreams, brought on by stress and fear and the unknown.  I've seen my peers on Facebook talking about their horrible school dreams, and I commiserate with them, for I've had those, too. 

  And then I had this morning's dream.  I've had dreams before where I had dreams within dreams (I am not assuming they're prophetic), but this felt so real.  I dreamed that I had missed school--that I had fallen asleep and not awakened at my three alarms.  I dreamed that I walked in to the school at the end of the day once I had actually woken up and realized I'd missed it, only to find the administrators all waiting for me to explain why I had missed school and had not called in to get a sub.  

   I explained first to one, then another, and then yet another (all not actual administrators for my school, I realized, once I awoke and was mulling it over) why I, who had perfect attendance for most of my long teaching career, had just "skipped" without contact.  To make matters worse, there was a school board meeting (in my classroom, which was kind of like my house...so that should have clued me in to the fact it was a dream), and I was going to have to go before the board to explain my dereliction of duty.

  My dream excuse was this: "I woke up at three in the morning and couldn't go back to sleep, so I got onto Canvas to do some work and plan for the day.  I then must have fallen asleep in front of the computer, but I didn't realize I'd fallen asleep.  In my dream, I got up at my alarm, got showered and ready, and left the house as I always did.  I even dreamed I carpooled with my carpool buddy and listened to her audiobook as we drove to school.  I went to first hour, took the kids' temperatures, and started my lessons.  I went through the whole day in my dream, teaching the virtual kids on zoom while also engaging the students in my classrooms, all the while answering emails from parents and students about how to fix their computer issues at home or to explain for the fourth time how to find a particular assignment.  

   "I did all the things: grading, adding new content to Canvas to keep it interesting, emailing a student's parent about his grades and why he was failing, eating a cold and hurried lunch in my classroom so I could make some phone calls to the virtual students' parents about how their children weren't following the behavior expectations on zoom, and keeping track of the attendance and participation of all the kids on the umpteen spreadsheets I've had to create so that I could document all of those things.

  "At some point in my dream about the school day, I explained, I woke up to find myself still in my PJs, sitting in front of my computer, and realizing by the light streaming in the window that it was well into the day.  I looked at the clock in the bottom right corner of my computer screen and realized that the school day was almost over.  I panicked and reached for my phone.  Surprisingly, I had received no phone calls from anyone at the school.  Could I have mistaken the day?  Was it the weekend?  I checked the calendar in the bottom right corner of my computer screen and realized that it was Monday--not a day off.  Cringing inside, I shakingly called the school, and the secretary said I was expected to come up to school for the school board meeting."

   And that's how I ended up in my dream, walking into the school building, feeling the dread of what was to come causing my heart to beat erratically and my knees to shake. I walked up to the first administrator to give my excuse, and I wanted to ask why no one had called me, why no one had bothered to check to see if I were okay since I had not missed a day for illness or non-school related reasons for many years.  Instead, I meekly told administrator after administrator that I had not shown up for school because I had, in my dream, already been at school.  And then I had to speak in front of the school board to convince them I should not be fired, all the while knowing that there was nothing I could do to change their minds.

  And that's how I woke up this morning--disturbed and worried and, ultimately, relieved when I realized it was Sunday.  And then I checked my phone and saw thirteen emails from school.  Sigh.  I certainly hope that dream wasn't prophetic.

Birthday Wishes....

Margaret Berg: birthday/celebrate

Yesterday I gave my annual birthday quiz to my students.  It's a fun little quiz that gives the kids a few extra credit points and is a quick formative test to see how closely they read the questions.  I mean, when the kids have problems answering "What is my sister Heather's name?" they obviously are not reading the question very carefully.

I even give a "guessing list" for the 15 questions.  And I still have students confused as to which animal is my favorite (mountain lion) and who my favorite singer is (Frank Sinatra) because they don't want to read through the list at the bottom of the page of the offline version or the drop down box in the online version.  

Why is it that we want to rush through everything?  That's what those who were frustrated were doing, after all.  The students who didn't know my sister's name (even though it was right there in the question) or the name of my favorite animal/singer/whatever other topic I asked about (even though the answers were right there on the page) were rushing through the quiz instead of taking their time.  Perhaps that is one of the reasons we celebrate birthdays: to slow down the year that seems to be just flying by.

It is always fun, though, too, to get all the birthday greetings from the students.  I heard "Happy Birthday a day early!" many times yesterday.  It brings back memories of bringing in cupcakes or treats with my sister to elementary school on our birthday.  I didn't bring treats to all my students, but I like to think that the extra credit points more than made up for the lack of frosted cupcakes (and were more nutritiously sound, too).

Yes, you read that right: our birthday.  I'm a twin.  My sister is a blessing in my life, and I wish her a happy birthday today.  I wrote a poem about her in another blog post (So I had to write a poem about twins...), but I wanted to share another poem I wrote about her on this, our birthday.

The Sister I Love                                                                  

Her laughter and tears                                                                           

Complete me as if they’re                                                                         

Happy Birthday Heather!  Love you!

Left over parts of myself

That I lent to her and never

Got back after we left, prematurely,

The shared room inside our mother.

I see her smile on my face and hear

Her voice in my throat—and

Me in her likewise. She shares

A bit of my soul, too, as we

Can know each other’s

Thoughts with just a glance. She is

A lifetime of shared amusements

And trials and worries and joys

All wrapped up in a package

Only two minutes older and yet

Infinitely wiser than I. My mirror,

My other self, if I were married and

Had a son and lived by crunching

Numbers instead of building cathedrals.

Reflective Teaching: Day 21, Hobbies/Interests in the Classroom

Day 21--Do you have other hobbies/interests that you bring into your classroom teaching? Explain.

I have a few hobbies, but crocheting and making cards are not part of my content area. I do like singing, and I often incorporate it into my classroom as participation. The kids enjoy the random songs we burst into almost as much as they enjoy the extra points they can earn when they do.  I'm also a bit of a fangirl, so I enjoy using examples from my favorite shows and movies in my teaching.  The kids find it amusing, too, when I geek out about some of the same shows they like.

One of my interests is writing, and that I do indeed incorporate into my classroom teaching. I like it when the kids and I share our thoughts about writing. In my creative writing class I do the same prompts that they do and share them to show that it's a process. If I'm not afraid to share my rough drafts, they feel more comfortable in sharing theirs.

Another interest is reading, and I enjoy bringing that to the classroom.  So many of my students claim to not like reading (heartbreaking, I admit), but when we start talking about our literature, most of them begin to realize that the reason they didn't like it was that they hadn't taken the time to really understand it.  We talk about reading strategies and the tricks that good readers use to help them understand what they're reading.  We practice those strategies until they, too, see that maybe reading is not as bad as they thought.

Reflective Teaching: Day 11, Favorite Part of the School Day

Day 11--What is your favorite part of the school day and why?

I like the morning before school starts when I'm at school early so I can get to the copy machine before a line starts and can have some time in my room to prepare for the day.  There is a peaceful anticipation in the quiet halls.  There are no lockers slamming.  There is no hustle and bustle as students shove their way through the burgeoning halls like salmon swimming upstream.  There are no disruptions to the quiet.  Yes, the morning before school is one of my favorite times of the school day.

Another favorite time of the school day is the Professional Learning Community Late-Start time we have at our school  It affords us teachers who teach in the same department a time during the school day once a week when we can make curriculum decisions, work on Common Assessments, pour over data, and have collaborative talks.  When teachers who teach the same content can work together to share their knowledge, the result is greater than the sum of its parts.  So, PLC time is some of my favorite time spent at school.

However, my most favorite time of the school day varies from day to day and hour to hour.  It occurs at those moments I mentioned in my fourth blog of this series. I love those moments in a school day when the kids are involved and actively participating in the lesson.  They are learning.  When the students are working and unaware of the time, when they are surprised by the bell, when they feel that the class has sped by: those are my favorite parts of the school day.

Homecoming...

It's homecoming week at school.  We've had a fun time dressing up in strange costumes all week in preparation for Friday night's game and dance.  It's been a bit of a crazy time, and it is super easy to get caught up in the hype and forget about the point of homecoming: coming home.  They say (whoever "they" are) that a person can't go home again, but I had an experience a couple of years ago during a similar homecoming week that reminds me that maybe, sometimes, you can.

Fall, 2011....

          I was visited today by a student who used to give me trouble every day. He was not the “ideal” student in any way—he was obstinate, he hated to do his work, hated to be told what to do (well, so he WAS a normal teenager), didn't like writing, and most of all didn’t like English. He was never going to have to use proper grammar; he didn't care if he ever spoke correctly; writing was the last thing he'd ever do.
         I didn't know what I could to reach him. He was failing my class (all classes, really), and more than anything he didn't know how to help himself. One day he was refusing (AGAIN) to do his written work. I kept him after class for a “come to Jesus moment”—yes, we have those in public school too—to explain yet again WHY he needed to do his written work.

         He ‘liked reading well enough,’ he'd argued slightly, but his ‘handwriting was horrible, and his spelling was even worse, so why try?’ He ‘knew the answers,’ why should he ‘have to write them down to prove it?’
         I must have said the right thing, or the Holy Spirit spoke through me, because it was like he actually SAW me and HEARD what I had been saying for weeks. If he ever wanted to do anything (even if he never went to a traditional college), I explained, he would need to be able to use his reading AND writing skills.  Even if the only writing he did was fill out a job application, someone needed to be able to read it—and he couldn't always rely on someone else to write it for him. What if, I went on, your boss asks you to fill out a proposal or form or whatever…? What then; are you going to tell him, “I know the answers, why should I write them down?”
        I asked him what he wanted out of his life, and he seemed to realize that I really wanted to know and cared what happened to him. He didn't have a plan; he said he didn't know what he wanted other than just to maybe get through the year until his birthday when he could drop out.  I told him that he was settling for less than he was, for he was a smart kid who was letting himself down.  I told him about the potential for great things that he was wasting if he didn't apply himself.  I’m sure I said more that I can’t recall. What I do recall is that he changed. 

        He began to put forth effort and show that he wasn't settling for less than he could do.  He didn't turn into a star student who always got an 'A' on everything, but he was no longer willing to give up when it got hard or when he didn't understand.  Even the next year when he wasn't in my class, he came to me for help or for advice. I was so proud of him when he graduated from high school two years of hard work later. I was glad that I had any kind of impact in his life.  It was a great moment when he walked across the stage, knowing that he had done his best.

        And then time passed.  I hadn't thought of this particular student in several years.  The last of his siblings had graduated, so there wasn't anyone I could ask for information about his life.  He'd moved on to I didn't know where. That's why, when he showed up at my classroom door this morning before school, I was blessed beyond measure and a bit surprised. He stopped by, he said, to thank me for helping him and “putting a fire in his belly" to do all that he could do to make something of himself.  He wanted to let me know that he had done something with his life--that he hadn't settled for less than he could be.  He showed me his diploma from a welding school, proud to show it off to a teacher he remembered pushing him toward a future he hadn't really considered possible.

        He didn't stay long; in fact, the whole experience only took about five minutes of his time.  However, it was just what I needed; it was a blessing, giving me a tangible reminder that I AM doing what I'm supposed to be doing. I am building cathedrals in my student’s lives.  Thanks, former student, for stopping by during homecoming week to show me that it is not always true that you can't come home again.  Thanks, also, for showing me that homecoming is about more than a football game and a dance; it's also about remembering the people who are still there and the things about home that make coming back worthwhile.

What teachers think....at the end of a school year...

I am fully aware that it is June. I am also fully aware that school's out for summer. Big grin. I wrote this poem in May in response to a prompt I gave my Creative Writing kids. If you can't tell, I was stressed. If you can, well, it's because it was so close to the end of the school year: that's stressful. Graduation has come and gone, and summer school is now into its second week. Time flies. I hope that it doesn't fly too quickly this summer because the feelings expressed in a teacher's life at the end of the school are also there at the beginning.

What TEACHERS think...in May

It can’t be Monday already,

It was just Friday!  Did I even HAVE

A weekend?

What?!  An early morning meeting?

I must not have put it on my

Calendar...wait, there it is... shoot.

Will I ever see the top of my desk again?

Every time I get it cleaned off, something else

Comes along and covers it up.

Finals are due..when?  Friday?

I haven’t even thought...okay, I’ll just

Dig through last year’s stuff to find one.

Oh these KIDS!  Why can’t they just

Get it through their heads that we teachers

Desire summer break as much as they do...

The countdown’s begun.  In just eleven...

ELEVEN!?!...days counting this one we’ll be

Done with school. How is that possible?

I have too much to get done,

But not enough time to do it... something’s gotta give

And I hope it isn’t me.

Homecoming Dance

The homecoming dance for my high school occurred this past Friday night.  The dance was a "black light and neon" format, so kids were coming in white or neon colors so that they showed up brilliantly in the black light.   I had fun checking outfits for school-appropriateness and embarrassing students when I told them they couldn't pass me until they'd proven they knew how to dance by showing me their signature dance moves.  I was doing this job as a chaperone when one of my Creative Writing students "assigned" me some homework: "Write a poem about the dance by Monday, Miss Schneider," said Aaron T.

Challenge accepted.

Since the dance had been going on for a while, and I was just standing in the doorway as the "bouncer and self-proclaimed dance-move checker" anyway, I decided to write the poem then and there.  I grabbed a notebook from my purse and the pen from the lanyard around my neck and began to compose my poem.  The principal and several students came by to check on my progress, and one even gave me the idea for the title.  Before the end of the dance, my poem was finished.  Here it is...

"A Handful of Dances"
(thanks for the title to Seth R.)

Students glowing with neon fire
Stand in groups of three or five
While beats pound unmercifully dire
Upon my ears, and, lands alive!

The smell of nerves, of dance, of sweat--
Not unlike that of an old, wet dog--
Assaults my lungs with odor, and yet,
Fills the air with a pluming fog.

Lights blaze and strobe and blind the eyes
With pink and green and orange and blue;
The black lights give us quite a surprise
When they turn all things white a ghostly hue.

The students jump and spin and whirl
Or stand like stones against the wall.
The boys dare each other to ask the girl
Whom they've only seen out in the hall.

The songs progress from slow to fast
And back again from fast to slow;
The dancers beg the DJ to make it last,
For alas, too soon, it's time to go.

Shoes...

Our school is collecting shoes.  One of my National Honor Society members heard about this group which takes old and used shoes that just clutter up the bottom of closets and puts them to good use that eventually causes water wells to be drilled in third world nations.  She suggested we have a shoe drive for this semester's service project, and I thought it was a great idea.  The whole process seems to be a bit of a miracle: once collected, the shoes are given a second life when this group exports the donated shoes to retailers in the developing world. The resale of shoes provides jobs and affordable footwear. Funds generated from the export of  shoes provides well drilling rigs, water purification systems, and hand pump repair businesses bringing clean, fresh water. 

So, because of this I have a pile of shoes in my classroom.  It's sort of amazing how cleaning out one's cluttered shoe closet (I DON'T have a closet just for shoes... really!) can help people I will never meet.  Seeing all these shoes, though, gets me to wondering who wore them and what stories about their owners those shoes would tell if they could (those that have tongues, at least) (and no, I couldn't have avoided that horrible pun....).  After all, our shoes do sort of tell on us--about what kind of person we are, what our goals are, and what we're up to that day (or night).  A person whose closet is filled with tennis shoes is likely very different than a person with a closet filled with strappy high-heeled sandals.  What kind of shoes we buy and wear (or buy and never wear) can reveal who we are. 

Having all these shoes in my room reminds me of that famous quote in Forest Gump: "My momma always said you can tell a lot about a person by their shoes, where they go, where they've been." I've always thought Forest's mother had some great wisdom there.  We CAN tell a lot about a person by his or her shoes. That quote also reminds me of a poem I wrote around this time (Lent, Good Friday, Easter) last year, as I used part of it as the title. 

“You can tell a lot about a person..."

I’ve protected these Feet for many good years;

Holding myself together, now as I take the last few steps

I think of my journey. 

I walked up and down this country of Promise—

Dusty roads, with rocks that wore out and punished

Even sturdy leather.

I walked through barley fields and deserts,

Rested by wells in foreign countries, spent many nights

On board fishing vessels.

I supported Him through varied surfaces.

I’ve walked in rain, on water, in sand, on mountains,

In temples, on stone.

I was removed by adoring, tender hands

To honor His feet: washing, anointing them until

Even I absorbed the spill.

I enjoyed the previous walks in this garden,

Where grass and flowers perfumed the air at each step,

But now it’s not the same.

I understand anger, having kicked over tables,

But anger towards the Man I carry is unwarranted,

Unjust and quite unfair.

I remember the days from when I was new,

Toting lumber across a shop, but this beam is a weight,

A burden, never born before.

I’ve dragged on this last journey, since pain

And blood comes mingled down with his sweat;

I am slippery inside.

I stumble the last few steps, for, despite the help

He received, He is weighed down by more than wood.

It is not long now.

I am undone and stripped away from His beautiful feet—

Feet that bring Good News—thrown at the foot of the beam,

My journey finished. 

Building Cathedrals

    I suppose I am, in a way, a devotee of Maurice de Sully (for those who don't know, de Sully was the architect of Notre Dame Cathedral), but my reference is a little different.  "Build Cathedrals" means more than the building itself--which is a good thing because I am not an architect or a construction worker. 

    A couple of years ago I was at a teaching conference where this story was told:

    When a great cathedral was being built, workers from all around the countryside came to help in the construction, and the little children of the area could be seen watching the amazing structure rise from the formerly bare ground.  One little boy, watching three stonemasons, asked the first man what he was doing. 

    Seeing that the boy was curious, the man answered, "I'm laying bricks.  You take the bricks and lay them on the foundation; then you take the trowel and add the mortar that holds them together to all the sides that touch other bricks.  That's how you lay bricks."

    The boy moved on to the next mason, and asked him what he was doing.  The man said, "I'm building a wall.  You take the bricks and lay them on the foundation; then you take the trowel and add the mortar that holds them together to all the sides that touch other bricks.  That's how you build a wall."  The little boy nodded and moved on.

    He watched the third man, doing the exact same job as the other two--buttering bricks with mortar, laying them on top of the rows of bricks already there in the same way the others were doing.  He watched for a while, and then asked the third man what he was doing.  The third man looked at him with shining eyes.  "I'm building a cathedral."

    A second story that shaped my motto is similar to the first.  I read it in a book called Keeping a Princess Heart in a Not-So-Fairytale World the same summer I went to that conference.

    When St. Peter's in London was being built, a skilled woodworker/artisan was hired to create the ceiling joists for the building.  He could have just carved several rough beams out of the logs he was given, but he spent hours and hours on the joists--intricately carving flowers, gargoyles, images, etc. into the beams.  He was asked why he had spent so much time and effort adding all this artistic beauty and "wasting" his skill, especially since the ceiling joists were all to be covered up--no one would ever see them.  After he heard that--the part of no one ever seeing his work--he answered simply, "God will."

    The third man in the first story, although he was completing the same task as the other two men, had a greater vision than the other two.  He saw the end result of his labor, not just the labor itself.

    The artisan, although he was "simply" supposed to carve rough-hewn beams for the joists, had a greater understanding of audience than most.  He understood that he was working for God, not men.

    So I began to look at my job in light of those two epiphanies.  My job is more than just laying bricks (i.e. teaching lessons on grammar, making sure the students understand the story plotline, struggling to comprehend Shakespeare's language, etc.) and building walls (i.e. giving tests and checking mastery); I am building cathedrals (i.e. having a vision of what these kids COULD be).  My Audience notices the intricate details of my work--those things I do all the time and never get praised for, and/or those things I do to make my teaching better that no one will ever see--and is pleased.

    Some days I build cathedrals.  Some days I just lay brick.  But all the time I must remember that my vision and audience must be greater than what I can really do or see.