Starfish

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There is a story you’ve probably been privy to sometime in your life. In fact, I can remember writing a post about it a few years ago. The basic idea is that of a man walking along the beach; he notices a boy picking up starfish. These creatures are slowly withering in the sun, so the boy tosses them back into the ocean where they can survive. When the man gives the boy the news that even his best efforts will be in vain—that there are simply far too many starfish to even begin to think that he could make a difference—the boy tells the man about how change comes to each as an individual.

As a teacher, each year I feel that I am that boy. I walk along the beach throughout the days, and I throw starfish into the vast ocean of knowledge. I relish in the thought that—while in my classroom—they are becoming so much more than what they once were. That they are being instilled with basic things that will help them to become who it is that they will one day be.

I’ve noticed that there seems to be a group of starfish that I have to keep throwing back into the ocean. Then, despite my best efforts to keep them in a place where they can survive, these same creatures crawl out of the life-sustaining waters and lie on the scorching sand where they again begin to wither away.

I pick them up over and over, throwing them into the blue waters; then, before I know it, they are again crawling out. My strength is redoubled as I center my attention these half-dozen starfish that seem to have a secret death wish.

It’s exhausting.

I also discovered that I usually don’t give near enough attention to those starfish that are floating about in the shallows, and nearly nothing to those who are out in the depths. After all, I know that those starfish will be okay. These are the urchins that will make it. These are they who will survive.

The school year ended today. My two and one-half dozen students left the classroom. They had walked in this morning as fifth graders, and left as sixthers. An entire year had flown by as fleetingly as the tide.

As they filed past me, I handed them their classroom placements for next year, and I looked at each one of them as an individual starfish. I thought of the progress each of them had made—or hadn’t made—during the year. I looked at those I had worked the hardest with—but who still left the classroom pretty much the same way as they came in. Despite my best efforts, these were they who were content to laze in the blistering sands.

It was hard to watch them leave, knowing that in nine months I had so little effect them; that they were so obstinate that they were happy staying the exact same as they were.

As a teacher, I want all of my students to be successful. I want them all to achieve. I want them all to thirst for knowledge. I want them all to want to give nothing but their personal best.

Sadly, this is not to be.

Over the years I’ve learned that each must decide on their own what it is that they will do and who they will become. When I talked with a friend earlier tonight, she spoke about measuring successes in life not solely on the outcome, but on the efforts put into the endeavor—our partial successes and achievements. We should never feel that our energies are wasted when trying to help another.

As a teacher, I want my students to achieve. I would love for each of them to always do their personal best, and I will continue to help them as best as I can.

I am a thrower of starfish.

Even to those who don’t like the ocean.

The Visit

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Yesterday a piece of yesteryear walked into my classroom.

My class had just returned from music, and they were settling down to begin our weekly meeting when the door opened, and in walked a student who’d been a part of my class five years ago.

I’d seen this young man from time to time when driving home, or on an errand. We’d both waved, but I hadn’t had words with him since he’d been in my class as a ruddy-faced twelve year-old. As he stood before me I was taken back to a vision of he and his friend during a three-legged race on field day, he’d stumbled and fallen; his friend picked him up on his back and finished the race with this boy hanging off his shoulders—and laughing the whole way.

The boy of yesteryear hadn’t changed with the exception of being a little bit taller—all right, a lot taller, and the faint traces of a mustache gracing his upper lip. Also, when he spoke it was evident that his voice had lowered just a bit, but he was still that kid I remembered from my classroom so long ago.

I recalled the difficulty he’d had in school, the times he’d struggled to complete assignments on time, and the hours I worked with him after school to get him caught up. There were days he completely exhausted me... but if I’m honest, I’d have to admit that I loved every minute of working with him.

While my current class of students continued with the complements portion of the meeting, this young man and I talked for a few minutes.

“I’m going to graduate high school a year early, Mr. Z.”

“Really?” I responded. “How are you planning to do that?”

The boy smiled sheepishly. “I decided to take extra classes and fewer electives to get the credits I need to graduate.”

I blew out a breath, “That must have been quite an undertaking.”

He grinned as he told me of the lessons of hard work he’d learned as a sixth grader, and how well prepared he was now. “After being in your sixth grade class, high school is easy.” He chuckled, and after a few more minutes’ talk, he agreed to have a little chat with my class about his story of working hard, and doing what you should.

When the class finished the meeting and had returned to their desks, I introduced him. He stood and his voice was a bit quiet at first, but grew rapidly with confidence as he told them the benefits of working hard and doing what you’re supposed to. He told them about endurance and always trying your best.

“When I first started the sixth grade, Mr. Z asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, and I think I said something like, ‘I want to be a video game tester.’ But that’s not what I’m going to do…I’m going to be a pilot or a lawyer. I’m going to do something with my life.”

I couldn’t have been more proud of this boy as he answered a few questions from my class and then told me he needed to go. I told my students to take out their math assignments and we’d start to correct them. As he turned to leave, this young man gave me a hug and said he’d be back to visit again.

Then he was out the door as quietly as he’d slipped in.

Though we corrected our assignment and did the math lesson for the day, my mind kept slipping back to this boy—now a young man of seventeen—who’d made a change; one who’d decided somewhere along the lines that being ‘okay’ or average was simply not good enough. A kid who realized that college is vital in today’s society. A boy who’d been carried during those critical moments of adolescence by parents, teachers, and friends during those times that were the most influential.

I don’t think I could be any more proud of him.

A Public Thank You

Pin It It’s always nice to be recognized for the efforts you put into something. There’s something liberating about it really. Perhaps it’s in the knowledge that somebody noticed that you were doing something right; that others appreciated the extra efforts you put into a job long after the time clock had said that you could go home.

It’s draining…those days when you come to work and the sun hasn’t yet risen, and has long since set by the time you stagger out to the parking lot. In fact, there have been days that I felt so exhausted that I have been reminded of Bilbo Baggins when he said that he felt like butter scraped over too much bread.

However, there are moments that give me the shot of adrenaline that I need to make it through another day. It’s in the card that Joey made for me, it’s in the hug that Becky insists on giving me each day when everybody else is leaving and getting high fives, it’s in the ‘secret’ note left on my desk that one of my students tried to surreptitiously leave, but I know they wanted to be seen because they lingered just a bit too long. It comes in the smile and the thankful words of a parent who glowingly reports of a child who loves to come to school each day. It happens when I pull out my guitar and my class gets excited as I draw my fingers across the steel strings, and we join our voices together as one.

In fact, the desire to keep on keeping on comes from all of these—and a thousand other—moments which compose a lifetime.

However, every once and again the appreciation comes in a different form. It comes in a way that you least expected, and one you don’t ever truly feel that you rightly deserve.

I wanted to publicly thank the parents and students of Amelia Earhart Elementary for the honor of being chosen as this year’s Golden Apple Teacher, though a dozen other teachers could have received—and rightly so—this honor. Words can never truly express the how I feel. Thank you for entrusting me with the education of your children…and for noticing all the little efforts along the way.

The Wonderful World of Writing

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Lately, I’ve been trying to teach my class to be better writers.

’Tis not always the easiest of feats, I must say; as I pondered over how I should best go about this a few weeks ago, I was struck by a gloriously wonderful epiphany.

I decided to invite the students into my thought processes as I wrote—to take a journey into my brain for a short visit...which I did. I started this all off by writing an un-descriptive, lame ‘paragraph’ of one to three sentences; from there I would model to my students how I would read this text aloud, reread it, and change the wording until it sounded the way I wanted it to, causing it drip from the tongue like honeysuckle nectar.

The first mini-selection I wrote on my own, but for the others I invited the students to offer up suggestions and we rewrote these—on ensuing days—together.

And now, I present you with the final versions of creative writing from my motley crew of fifth graders...


I didn’t want to go to school today. I was really tired.

When the alarm on my phone pierced the early morning darkness, I realized that I had no desire to go to school today. As I tried to pry my eyes open, it felt like my eyelids were glued in place. I felt completely exhausted; I wanted to stay in bed all day and do nothing but rest.


Last week, Mr. Z said that we couldn’t use pronouns. It was hard.

Last week, Mr. Z decided to challenge the class not to use pronouns for one whole hour. At first, I thought that this would be a piece of cake, but was I ever wrong! It was extremely hard and that hour felt like a million years. It got even worse when that loudmouth, *Joey, suggested that we pay one bonus buck for every pronoun we used in class! Man, that stunk for those people who used pronouns! Luckily though, Mr. Z said that he would pay all of us one bonus buck for every pronoun he used. It was awesome.


We read a story in class today. We made salsa. It tasted good.

We read a story in class today called Carlos and the Skunk. It was about a boy named Carlos who was trying to impress his friend, Gloria; however, it turned out terrible! Carlos tried to pick up a skunk by its tail that they had nicknamed two toes. As a result, Carlos got sprayed from head to shoes. I loved the story, because it was hilarious!


Carlos’ family had a fun tradition of making homemade salsa, and the recipe for the salsa was at the end of the story. Mr. Z surprised our class by bringing all of the ingredients (except garlic) to make this deliciously zesty recipe.


The fragrant odor of cilantro filled the classroom as we watched Mr. Z make the salsa. My mouth was watering. We had to read the story again with partners (if we wanted) with good expression while the next batch was being made. The whole time I was reading, I was thinking about the salsa and how good it would taste.


Finally, it was time. Mr. Z broke out the bags of chips; my taste buds were begging me to taste the salsa. Even though *Joey said that it was disgusting, to the rest of us it tasted like summer was already here.


It snowed. I like the snow. It’s pretty. I wish it snowed more than it has.

It was Sunday morning; I was nestled and snug in my soft, warm bed. When I opened my bleary eyes, I had to shield them from the brightness flooding my room. I groaned and rolled out of my bed feeling like a zombie emerging from its grave for the first time.


I slowly dragged myself over to the window and opened the blinds—seeing a Narnian world of whiteness. I could feel the icy coolness of the outside as I pressed my cheek against the frosty window. A warm fire seemed to burn deep within my soul. My eyes widened as I gazed at the snow, drifting from the heavens on gossamer angel wings, and settling on the roofs of the houses and yards in the neighborhood; it was like the sugary rooftops of gingerbread houses. It made me think of Christmas all over again.




*Name has been changed so as to protect the guilty.

Another Valentine's Day

Pin It I was driving home from school tonight. Evening was settling in, and the sky threatened snow, but it had yet to make good on its threat.

As I drove, “It’s too Late,” by Carole King came on on the radio. As the song progressed, it reminded me a record mom used to play back when I was a kid. My thoughts turned to Valentine’s Day when I attended Summit Valley School a lifetime ago…the memories of making valentine holders and attaching these to the sides of our desks. Eating cupcakes with whipped frosting. Passing out cards with cartoon characters on them to everyone in class—plus that one special card for the teacher that came in every 32-count box of valentines.

I my mind drifted to my own class’ party earlier today. I had wanted to give a card that would be something unlike the typical usually given out; yet it had to be something amazing and fun at the same time. So, again this year I decided to give the kids a card of my own making.

Twenty minutes later, with the aide of Photoshop, this is what had emerged.

Of course, it was printed in black and white so as to save the wear and tear on the cartridges of the color printer. Also, it said that it was from Mr. Z on the bottom instead of Teachinfourth (I thought I’d change that up so that you could print yourself a copy, and then tuck it away with your other prized Teachinfourth holiday possessions).

Needless to say, the card was a hit and had the exact results that I’d anticipated. Snatches of comments like, “Oh man…this is way too cool!” and “How did Mr. Z get these?” drifted to my ears over the music that was playing.

Over the course of the next five or so minutes, the valentines were passed out—ah that rite of passage of the elementary years…

I snapped back to the present for a moment as I drove under the underpass by the tracks, I again thought of my own years of Valentine’s Day. The outlandish dancing, the sugar rush, and the feeling that a relationship was never very complicated. If you liked her, you acted like an idiot and wouldn’t leave her alone until she either hit you, or told you that she liked you back.

Oh, how some things never change…

When my students begged me to play “The Party Anthem,” it was like a throwback to my own years in elementary school…they all began to dance insanely about the classroom, each claiming that he or she could do the shuffle. Of course, only one student proved that he was fully capable of it.

You got it; it was Joey.

Of course, walking around the classroom with a video camera inspired even more outrageous moves, as well as a dozen students begging me to put the video on YouTube – to all of which I deflected with, “Nope, not a chance…I don’t want to scare anyone out there.”

Than before I knew, it the day had reached its end. More than enough sugar had been consumed by the kids to put the most stalwart anti-nonsugarist into a tizzy. The bell sounded, and the kids left right before the rush had set in—and most likely—the coma inspired afterwards.

Sitting in my car, Carole’s song ended, and with it, the musings of the day.

Another Valentine’s had passed successfully, and I had survived. I switched the channel and kept on driving.

Just Like the Ending Scene of a Movie

Pin It There are moments in life that - no matter what words we use - will never adequately convey the power of a moment.

This was one of those moments...



If I ever have a movie made about my life, I think that I want this to be the final scene.

Media of the Week – The Documentary

Pin It I know that I usually post links to music, humor, or something that brings a tear to your eye and a smile to your heart.

This week I’d like to do something just a little bit different than any of that, because a few years ago I created a documentary.

No, I’m not a filmmaker…that’s one thing for sure; however, I wanted to give a crack at it. At the time we had this amazing after-school coordinator, Melanie Bliss (yes, my longtime friend and once-upon-a-time cowriter at Four Perspectives). You see Melanie had started up a program a few years back called “Stories on Stage.”

In a nutshell, it was dramatics programs like you’ve probably never seen before…loaded with awesome and just a smidge of ‘whoa.’

Yeah, I thought that it was simply amazing.

I could go on and on right now—telling you all about it—but then this sixteenish minute documentary I made would be rather pointless now, wouldn’t it?

Yeah, that’s just what I was thinking.

Weekly Kodachrome - The Sound of Christmas

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The festivities were in full commencement when I arrived—fashionably late—having spent a few hours at the school getting ready.

I didn’t plan on remaining for an extended period, just long enough to grab a bite to eat and then head out into the still-snowless evening, to enjoy the rest of my Christmas break.

The blast of warmth from the house was friendly against the chill lingering outside, and the lights of the tree near the center of the room lit up everything around it in a bravuran glow. It wasn’t long before I found myself lost amidst a dozen different conversations, while the smells of delicious foods wafted about the Christmassy air.

Some time later I found myself seated in the living room, looking at the tree and basking in the warmth of the moment.

The boy walked into the living room and sat in the rocking chair. Seeing the guitar lying next to the piano, he picked it up and asked if he could play me the piece that he’d performed for his recital recently.

As the strains of the Christmas music floated about the room it reminded me of a space in time almost two years ago, back when he’d taken his first guitar class from me in the after-school program.

I thought of how far he’d come since then.

The lights on the tree continued to twinkle. The aromas still permeated the sweet-smelling air. The sounds of Christmas still played on.

I smiled.

<center><a href="http://teachinfourth.blogspot.com/search/label/Weekly%20Kodachrome/" target="_blank"><img alt="Adventures & Misadventures of Daily Living" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi0e1GL4TLj1n6H-veDNFvj6gHUt_9-X1MWA6Qo-0zyEHW2dGTMl4JeI8v_q4AdNQxb8FADxYjLPhQnxl1rEPTU9B2N1_m9vVei9Ea8PXDRASzVKotvo4jseesUFUvqazg0pxtTAN75ao/s800/Weekly%252520Kodachrome.png"/></a></center>

Did you take a photo in the past seven days that made you smile? If so, feel free to include it in the linky below. 

Remember, by adding your photo into the Weekly Kodachrome meme you are agreeing to do one of the following: display the linky or button to your post, or link back to this post so that everyone gets a little more exposure for the image they’ve uploaded. Those who don’t help to ’share the love’ will have their links removed. You can find the code for the linky here.

Melancholy

Pin It I’m a bit despondent tonight.

Melancholy thoughts drift about and weigh heavily on my mind; the tree—with it’s hundreds of glittering lights—does nothing to lighten my somber mood.

I went to lunch with a boy I used to mentor—now a young man. In the course of our conversation, he asked if I’d heard about one of his friends, an old student at my previous school—

I told him that I hadn’t.

The young man told me.

As the words left his mouth, my heart dropped out of my chest and I sat there in dumbfounded silence—the news washing over me in a tidal wave of despair.

This boy had been in my Math class. I’d joked with him in the halls and out at recess. I’d watched him in class working with his friends.

But now he’s gone.

It was yet another sordid reminder of how temporary and fragile this existence truly is.

It’s been on my mind all evening.

I Want an Alien for Christmas

Pin It It was a little over a week in the planning.

My team and I had to come up with something for our school Christmas sing-in, which we’d perform on the last day before the kids were to leave on break.

I’d jokingly thrown out, “I Farted on Santa’s Lap” as a possibility for the past three years in a row, but it’d never been considered with the least bit of enthusiasm or possibility of happening from my team…

…and this year was no exception.

However, I guess this was understandable coming an elementary school environment; you just know that you’d get a plethora of shocked intakes of breath from parents, copious giggles from children, and you’d hear the song caroled down the hallways and in the lunchroom for months to come.

It would give ‘deck the halls’ an entirely new meaning. Yeah, in other words the entire staff’d hate me.

Still, it’s fun to throw out the idea for the song every year, just to watch it crash and burn in a fiery inferno.

Yet even with this particular song being off the table, the fifth grade team has always managed to dredge up something that totally rocks…after all, my team and I are all about awesome and substandard just won’t do. Yeah, being a perfectionist with narcissistic tendencies is always a huge asset in regards to this.

It was about two weeks ago that we sat in our weekly meeting and kicked around ideas for this year’s performance. After all, our debut of “The Santa Claus Rock” last year would be pretty hard to beat.

After a few minutes I said, “Hey guys, I’ve got the perfect song for this year.”

My team waited for the usual proposal. I made it, it was shot down, and then threw out my real idea.

They loved it; it was so astonishingly overwhelming that they just couldn’t say no.

I came home and scoured the information superhighway in search of a karaoke version of this particular little tune, only to learn that one didn’t exist.

Curses.

Being resourceful, I pulled out my guitar, I looked up the chords online, and three practices with the students later, we were standing in front of the rest of the school ready to blow them away with our high school musical-ish performance.

Granted, in retrospect I wish that the gym hadn’t been quite so big…the roof-shaking rocking we’d performed in the classroom just wasn’t quite as strong as it had been in that vast space.

But still we were awesome.

Without further ado, I present the fifth grade in their entire splendor and glory…yours truly on lead (and only) guitar.




But now I’ve already begun to think about possibilities for next year’s presentation, mostly because I realized somewhere along the way that we’ve again set the standard for coming up with something amazing, and besides, I have to beat out my first grade teacher friend, Abe Yospe, when it comes to performance awesomeness.

...and he can be a tough act to follow.

Sometimes, it's Not the Packaging...

Pin It Sometimes greatest gifts come in the most unexpected of packaging…

I walked back to my desk on Monday of this week to pick something up, and that’s when I saw the note. It sat there, inconspicuously, like a secret message passed from a friend back from when I was still in school.

I glanced at it and saw the writing on the front, claiming that it was from my ‘silent student’. According to the message, it was to be read only during the Christmas break…not while we were still in school.

I slipped the note onto the shelf behind my desk and there it lay, catching my eye every now and again. However, it was more a mild curiosity than anything else.

It was later that afternoon that package arrived, it silently appeared on my desk as if placed there by Hogwart’s house elves. It lay, unassumingly, wrapped in a sheet of notebook paper. The handwriting—5th grade chicken scratch—was the exact same as on the note which had mysteriously appeared earlier during the day.

The message on this little package was clearly written: OPEN IT.

However, the bell had just rung, indicating that lunch recess had come to an end. So as my class filtered into the room, I set the package aside and began to teach.

The parcel lay on my desk throughout the day, not moving or drawing attention to itself in any way. Near the end of the afternoon, one of my students—I’ll call him Joey—approached me and asked if I’d opened any of my gifts yet. He glanced over to my desk where a few neatly wrapped boxes and bags lay.

I replied that I hadn’t.

He nodded, looked as if he were about to say something, then appeared to change his mind.

He walked away.

Throughout the rest of the day Joey stole glances to my desk, and the package that was wrapped so diametrically unlike than any of the others there.

When he left at the end of the day he wished me a good evening, glanced at the desk one final time, and then ushered himself from the room.

I began to correct assignments, enter scores, and clean up the messes left behind from 29 little people. As I passed my desk, the small haphazardly wrapped gift caught my eye.

Overcome with curiosity, I picked it up. It was light and flexible…whatever was inside wasn’t very heavy.

I carefully pulled away one side of the wrapping, that’s when I saw the tie.

It was ugly—probably something from this boy’s dad’s closet, or one he found at the local thrift store.

I cringed as I looked at the gaudy pattern that—in the gray parts—made it appear to be filthy. You see, I’m very particular of the ties I wear four of the five days of the week, and this one wouldn’t have made the list in a million years.

It was truly and awfully horrific. The pattern of it made me want to vomit…it was a tie throwback from yesteryear.

The tie remained on my desk as I packed up and went home.

That night, thoughts about that tie kept coming back to my mind…again and again I thought of it. I knew who’d given it to me…it was but obvious from his less-than-guarded inquiries throughout the day.

I had a nagging feeling in the back of my mind that I should wear that tie the next day to school. I brushed this feeling aside, but it kept returning…like an unwelcomed visitor during the holidays.

When I awoke the next morning, I finally decided that I’d wear the tie; however, I didn’t do this willingly. I had to practically force myself to put on my white shirt and black slacks. I felt frustrated because I wanted to wear a pair of khakis and a button-up shirt…this would have been far more comfortable ensemble than wearing my ‘suit’ as my students called it. As I thought of wearing that monstrosity back in my classroom, I felt myself settling into a bad mood. It was an ‘old man’ tie and I hated it…in fact, I even decided to take along another tie ‘just in case’ I didn’t feel that I could stomach wearing that one the entire day.

When I finally arrived at school I put the tie on.

I loathed the thing.

When the bell rang nearly an hour later, my students came into the classroom—and as we went over the language lesson for the morning, Joey’s eyes were riveted to the tie I wore…through my peripheral vision, I could see him staring at the tie intensely. He did this all morning long. Every time I went to help him with something, he’d gaze for a few seconds at the tie with a mesmerized look in his eyes.

I was can’t express how glad I was that I’d decided to wear it.

Fast forward to today…the students left for their holiday break at 12:30. When everyone was gone, I began entering grades and organizing assignments for nearly an hour. As I set something on the shelf behind me, I saw the note from Monday morning.

I opened it.

For those of you who may have difficulty reading the scrawl it says:

Dear Mr. Z,


I’m your silent student ‘Joey,’ I wrote this Journal so you can cry tears of joy. I just wanted to say that you’re the best teacher I have ever had. I like It when you tell jokes. I know you don’t know me veary much but I like you because you make school fun. So that’s what I wrote this so Merry Christmas Mr. Z!!!!!!

On the back it read:

P.S. go on facebook on Christmas and find a video that has a Lego guy on That’s my video.

I sat gazing at this note for quite some time.

Words cannot adequately describe the feeling that washed over me. It was a feeling like watching the first snowfall of the year as the silvery flakes tumble from the heavens; it was the feeling you get when the music rises at the end of the movie, and you realize that everything is going to be okay and everyone is going to live happily ever after; it was the feeling you get when your niece or nephew gives you a hug and tells you that you mean the world to them.

It now rolls on to nearly 6:00 and I still sit in my classroom as the hours trudge onward and the skies outside became dark, I look at that tie again.

This tie is one of my favorites…it’s beautiful and I couldn’t have asked for anything better from my student at Christmastime. You know what? Sometimes the greatest of gifts come in the most unassuming of packaging…

Bonsai

Pin It I did announcements at my school today.

I do this on occasion, usually when my principal is out of the building.

I’ll be honest here, when it comes to announcements, I pull out all the stops.

I use my ‘Mr. Voice’ Voice—the one I reserve for ComedySportz. I combine this with some rockin’, kickin’, upbeat, get-your-blood-pulsating-in-your-veins-music through the intercom system as I belt out:

“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, welcome to Amelllllliiiaaaa Eaarrrrhhhheaaarrrtttt Elemmmmmeeennnntttaaarrrrryyyyyyy!”

I’m pretty awesome…well, to kids under the age of twelve.

I usually try to keep things upbeat and pulsing until the end as I announce birthdays, upcoming events, kids who were caught being amazing around the school, and stuff like that…and then I bring it down.

I play some Kenny G.

Okay, maybe not that; however, I kill the tunes and then always try to share a poem or a thought of some type—sometimes something ‘ish’ I’ve written from my blog—but a kid version. This is the time when I encourage the kids to be kind to others and remember that they are teeming with awesomeness. I try to help them remember that they are in charge of the choices they make each day and help them to remember that they need to make good choices—but it is only they can make that choice as an individual.

The message I shared today was about appreciating their teachers. I decided to share this because we had seven or eight teachers out of the building—training up in Salt Lake—and I was thinking of the third to quarter classrooms in our school where substitutes were going to be instructing for the day.

I didn’t want the kids to eat those poor souls alive.

I talked about being appreciative. I told them about writing their teacher a note or having another way to let them know they cared because these people became teachers because they wanted to make a difference.

I told them that their teachers loved them. I let them know that this is why teachers do everything that they do.

I signed off, letting them know that the choice of how they would behave today was theirs, but Mr. Z had all confidence that they would make good choices—after all, each and every single one of them was teeming with awesomeness.

I hung up the intercom. I walked the empty hallways back to my classroom. I reached the door.

When I arrived I saw one of the boys standing just inside the door, looking out the small side window. When he saw me he cried out, “He’s here!” and then vanished back into the classroom.

Puzzled, I opened the door and was greeted with a scream of “Bonsai!” from 28 prepubescent children and found myself practically slammed against the wall from the blunt force impact of the group hug that followed.

How can I not love being a teacher?

Especially when I love them back so much?

* Bonsai is our class' awesomeness yell of the week...heck, it probably will be for the whole year. And, just if you were wondering where it came from, it was mentioned in our Treasures book basal reader and was subsequently a pop culture media reference as well.

Yeah, the kids love it, too...




BTW, Don't forget that this Saturday is Christmas in September...

Juvenile Detention

Pin It The reverberation and echo of the slamming door behind me was a sickening reminder of where I was; I licked my lips nervously as I stood in that small space between the doors that I christen as ‘the airlock,’ where one door is shut behind you and—once closed—the other is opened.

The second door buzzed, indicating that the locking mechanism had released and we were free to walk into recesses the Slate Canyon Juvenile Detention Center.

My steps were slow as I passed by the small rooms to the sides, the entire front wall made of windows, allowing view to the occupants therein. Some were boys whom I assumed were in processing, detox, or who were awaiting visitation from parents or legal counsel.

A feeling of gloom settled over me as I walked past the glass rotunda-ish master control where the eyes and ears of the detention center watched a plethora of monitors. A veritable montage of buttons and levers were splayed out before the workers as they buzzed people through doors and kept a watchful eye on the detainees of the facility.

I was given a brief tour of the varied facilities at my disposal, and found myself becoming increasingly more and more overwhelmed at the sheer magnitude of the building, and the enclosure I’d only beforewhich seen the exterior of from a distance as I sat in my air conditioned vehicle at the traffic light, listening to a playlist full of music waiting for my chance to proceed through the busy intersection. I’d seen the boys in the compound area, confined behind the high chain-linked fence playing football or walking the exterior lines.

But now it was I viewing the outside from within.

It was vastly different.

I snapped back to the present I was shown the copy room—through two more doors and down a hallway where I was buzzed through at each turn; video cameras gazed down watchfully from the ceiling at regular intervals as an assiduous reminder that big brother was always on the lookout.

I was shown to the classroom where I’d be teaching, and found my heart rate quickening somewhat as I thought of the next four weeks ahead of me.

Why had I agreed to this?

Why was I doing this in the first place?

What in the world was I doing here? I was a fifth grade teacher for heaven’s sake; I was not somebody who should be teaching high school students in lockup.

Each time the boys marched past the wide windows of my classroom I felt sorry for them, wondering what had brought them to this place and moment of time.

I didn’t want to know.

I taught my first three classes without getting knifed, stabbed, wounded, murdered, maimed, decapitated, or anything of the sort.

…until fourth period.

It was the voice that did it.

As the final group of boys trudged into the classroom that first day, I heard a voice I recognized—quite clearly—that said, “Mr. Z?”

Even without looking up I recognized him…he was one of my students.

The years compressed together as my mind careened through the durations to the tousle-haired boy who’d sat in my sixth grade classroom. And, for a brief second, the image of that eleven year-old youth materialized in my head. This young man was one and the same.

He was a bit embarrassed…along with the other four kids who recognized me, but they were also glad to see me as well, all being previous students at schools I’d once taught, though I had never before been their teacher.

I thought of these kids as I taught that day; I thought of the choices they made to bring them to this place in time.

It cut me to the quick.

I am a teacher.

I have been teaching at the juvenile detention center for three weeks now.

Each morning I walk through the double-lock doors and past the guards before entering my classroom, and it is there that I meet my students.

I am their teacher.

These are my kids.

In one more week my stint at the detention center will end, and two weeks later my upcoming 5th graders will arrive in my classroom to commence a new year with me as their teacher; however, I will miss my time in juvenile detention...and I am grateful for the chance to have been able to call myself their teacher.


The image above is not of my student, the shot was garnered from here.

To the Bully in Middle School

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It’s been a few years since we were in middle school together.

I thought you should know that I still remember the way that you made fun of me in the lunch line. The way that my spine curved because of a condition I had when I was still a kid, and how you got all of the other students to laugh at me, too, as you mockingly jeered about it.

To you, it was no big deal.

I remember the time you let all of your friends cut in front of me in the lunch line.

Every. single. time you did it.

I still remember all the laughing—probably nothing to you—poking fun at my expense.

You were a jerk.

I say that now, years later.

A score of years separate that time between my twelve year-old self, and the self that exists in the here and now.

Today I’d have told you to knock it off. I’d have had the nerve to stand up to you and tell you that it wasn’t cool.

I’d tell you that being mean to others isn’t anything to be proud of.

I’d show you what being cool was really all about.

Did you know that I grew up and became a teacher?

I still see you from time to time…in the faces of some of my students.

I do everything I can to help them to realize that being a bully just isn’t cool.

I realize that many of them have been hurt, too.

Sometimes, I rail on them for being mean to somebody else.

Then I put my arm around them, and I remind them that Mr. Z is on their side, too.

I let them know that I care about them…even when they do wrong.

I wanted to thank you.

You gave me a heart.

It was partially due to you that I learned what it felt like to be shunned, to be ridiculed, and to be the butt of jokes.

You want to know what you did to me?

You made me stronger.

No, not at the time. At the time, you destroyed me. Words can’t express how much it hurt all those years ago, nor can they convey just how much it helped build me and make me who I am today.

Did I mention that I’m a teacher?

I see you all the time.

Sometimes in the faces of my students.

I do everything in my power to help them not to become like you were.

For that, I thank you.

And I’m no longer angry.

Letters from Your Twelve Year-Old Self

Pin It For the past ten years I’ve had my students write one of the most important letters they will ever compose.

You see this letter is to a very important person: themself.

When I started teaching a decade ago, at the end of the year I had my students write a letter to themselves, which I then had them seal in an envelope with a current photo. This envelope is returned to the school to me as one of the final homework assignments I give for the school year.

I then put these letters in a large, manila envelope and place that envelope in a storage box I only open twice a year; once to put a new set of letters in, and once to take an old set of letters out to mail.

About three years ago I sent out my first batch of letters, and a few days later one of my old students showed up in my classroom. I hadn’t seen this boy for quite a while, yet here he was. He smiled and I asked him how he was doing. It didn’t take long before he cut to the chase.

“I got a letter today, Mr. Z,” He said with a bit of trepidation in his voice.

“Really?” I responded. “Who was it from?”

He sat down in the chair across from me, and exhaled a deep breath. “It was…from me.”

There was a longish pause as we both sat there, not saying anything. Finally I asked, “So, what did your twelve year-old self have to say?”

The young man before me shook his head. “I don’t know, I didn’t read it…I don’t think I’m quite ready to read it yet, either.”

He paused and looked around the familiar classroom, as if reminiscing over days gone by. “I don’t remember what I wrote all those years ago, and I just wasn’t ready to read it…so I decided I’d come and visit you instead.”

He stayed for quite some time, and then eventually left. As he was leaving I told him that there was no rush, he could open his letter when he felt ready; after all, his twelve year-old self had waited this long, and could surely wait just a little bit longer.

Monday and Tuesday of this week my graduating sixth graders from six years ago will be getting their letters from their twelve year-old selves in the mail. On Tuesday my fifth graders will be writing letters to themselves that will sit in a box and wait for them for seven years.

I can only hope that these kids will give themselves the type of advice and reminders they are looking for in the future; after all, this could be one of the most important letters they will ever receive.

Gettin' A Life...

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If you’ve followed this blog for a year or more, the ad above might look familiar…

You see, every year I challenge my class; I challenge them to turn off their TVs sets, video games, and all gaming systems along with abstaining from attending movies for one full week. In the place of these electronic diversions, I challenge them to spend more time with others: playing outside, reading, writing, and enjoying the company of their friends and families.

We call this the “Turn off the TV and Get a Life” challenge—an idea I picked up a few years ago from John Bytheway. This will be the 10th year of my class taking this challenge, and the great thing is this challenge has now spread to the entire fifth grade at my school.

However, what I’d like to know is if you’d like to take part in the challenge with us.

Would you do it?

Could you do it?

One full week devoid of video games, movies, and all forms of television…

Now, I’ll be honest with you…there are a few day when I come home from school, beaten and tired – wanting nothing more than the brainless eye-candy of the tube, but for this week, no matter how badly I want to watch a movie, I won’t.

Those students at my school who are successful with this endeavor, we will celebrate their accomplishment on Friday next week with a par-tay. So, what IS the party? It will be afternoon fraught with board games, teamwork activities, and things one can do without the aid of a television or any type gaming system.

If you are successful, you are more than welcome to join our entire fifth grade at our celebration; whether it is with us physically in our classroom—or from afar in spirit.

So, now comes the big question…will you do it?

Tuesdays with Mr. M

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A student approached me at my school about five months ago; I’ll call him “Mr. M.” He wanted me to teach him to play guitar.

Now, I’d never taught someone to play guitar before – not really. I mean, I’d had small groups of students in an after-school class for eight or nine weeks, meeting once every seven days, but that was the extent of my musical teaching experience. I put Mr. M off, telling him that it would have to be approved with his parents before I agreed to any such type of undertaking.

His mom contacted me later that day, indicating her excitement that I’d be teaching her son to play—if I were indeed willing.

I won’t lie; I felt a trifle overwhelmed at the prospect and sorely contemplated telling Mr. M that I was too busy to teach a private guitar lesson each week. Considering my then-current schedule, fitting a 30-45 minute session in each week was going to be a stretch; as Bilbo Baggins so eloquently put it, it would be “like butter scraped over too much bread.”

Music of the Heart

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My mind is a tumult of thought this evening. The ideas tumble back and forth in my head like clothes in the dryer, making and breaking static unions as they spin in a haphazard circle without a softener sheet.

Seriously.

I’ve entertained a dozen different postings - all the way from the terribly exciting to the dreadfully melancholy.

However, one thing stood out: The recital.

I was invited to attend a music recital this evening of a past student. He would be playing the guitar, “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree” to be precise.

I snatched up my stack of journal entries to finish reading and commenting on as I moved into the building. The cold, biting, night air nipped around the room as I sat down and commenced reading.

Within’ a few minutes, the recital began. It was nearly at once that I found the music played by these children was nothing short of amazing. I felt myself become wrapped in the warm glow of the Christmas music they played, and the feeling one seems to associate with this wonderful holiday. A fire ignited in my chest as the first strains of “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” filled the room. I found myself drawing in a breath as the feeling of magic wafted about me.

It surrounded me. Enveloped me. Consumed me.

I stopped correcting the entries and just listened and felt the music. When it came time for my student to take his place center stage, I couldn’t help but feel an immense sense of pride.

He sat and played with his teacher on his shiny, new guitar, and it reminded me of a moment in time space, when he asked me about learning to play – over a year ago now – after we’d finished a session of singing time in the classroom where I accompanied my students with the guitar.

I listened to him playing now and I felt a rushing sense that something I’d done along the way had helped him to arrive here at this place. It was the same feeling I’d had when I’d taught someone to become a better reader, when a student had mastered a difficult concept in Math, or when they had simply become a more active participant in their own learning.

Tonight I felt that.

As the recital ended, I recalled this boy’s and my time together when we practiced “Frosty the Snowman” for a literature response when he was just getting his musical wings about him.

It made me smile.

Before I left, I leaned over to this boy and told him how proud I was of him. Of how far he’d come, and how I wanted him to mention me when he was playing with some famous band or in a concert hall. He smiled and said, “Sure, Mr. Z.”

I left the recital and walked out to my car, thinking of another student who I just started teaching on the guitar. As the cold, wintery air blew about me, I smiled.


By the way, I also posted today over at Four Perspectives...just so you know.

First image source: Someplace I can't remember...

Fever for the Bieber

Pin It Today we were hit by a snowstorm. Teachers were late to school because of the adverse conditions. People were stuck on the sides of the road. My class had our Christmas party.

Needless to say, the festivities were festive, the excitement was exciting, and the drama was dramatic.

Gotta love 5th graders.

I’ve come to the conclusion that I really should have my blog be required reading for my class. Even after my dandy gifts post, I got more than my fair share of candy, tree ornaments, and knickknacks and paddy whacks. Sprinkled amongst them were a few fantastic gift cards, another homemade magnet – this one of a guitar to add to my ‘Z’ and iPod set from the same student (which I didn’t take a photo of, unfortunately, and I’m not driving back out to school to do so). I also got probably one of the most creative gifts this year…I’ll post a photo of it below.

I have to admit, this gift was pretty cool…

As school was starting, I had a certain girl in my class ask if I liked Justin Bieber. I won’t lie…there are a few songs sung by this teen sensation which have me tapping my feet, and even singing along with on the radio. Heck, I even learned to play “Baby” on the guitar—mostly as a joke, but also because it would catapult me into the realms of awesomeness with my class.

Oh, it did.

Imagine 20+ students singing along as their teacher accompanies them on the guitar but nobody really knowing any of the words—only the chorus.

It. was. Bieberful.

“Sure, I like some of his music…” I responded.

She smiled and held up my Christmas present with a flourish; a Justin Bieber poster…

I was touched. I was moved. I wasn’t quite sure how to respond.

“Wow, Justin Bieber!” Joey said with shining eyes. “Can I have it?”

That would be a negatory there, Ghost Rider…

I’m still trying to decide what to do with it. Another teacher said that I definitely needed to put it in my classroom. I’m thinking of perhaps adding the following message…

I’ll have to let you know.

I'm pretty sure that I’ve got the fever…Mr. Z-ber.

Oh, and just for fun:

Makes Me Smile #1 - Goofy Little Boys

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There are days in which I am at school and start to feel a bit down. I feel burdened by the work that lies before me. It can be overwhelming some days being in a Title 1 school with the expectations, remediation, accommodations, and assessments. There are some days I find myself slipping into a veritable pool of despair gazing at the mountains of work in front of me and wondering just how in the world it will all get finished.

But then I get a student like this:

When my students come up and smile in the early morning – excited for a new day of school, when they tell me that they love being in my class, or simply give me a hug in the lunchroom – even the big sixth graders – all of that work doesn’t seem quite so bad.

Goofy little boys make me smile.