Teacher Appreciation

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It was Teacher Appreciation last week.

Monday dawned and I arrived at school—just an ordinary day.

After I finished working with the students at before-school homework lab, I moved out to the student drop off zone for early-morning duty. As parents drove up to the curb and dropped off their children, I was approached by one of my students, Joey. I did a double take as I noticed that he was dressed up in a shirt and tie.

“Why are you dressed up today, Joey?” I asked.

He shrugged his shoulders and uttered a noncommittal, “Umm Neah.”

“Well, you look nice today.”

He grinned as he turned and walked to our line up area.

A few minutes later, I noticed another one of my students who was also dressed up.

Odd…very odd.

It was at this point that I had the thought, they all dressed up because of their president reports today? Hmmm…that’s strange, I never said anything about them having to dress up for them.

Well, as it turns out, most of the class had dressed up for me. They’d conspired together sometime during the previous week and decided that the best compliment they could give their teacher was to dress up like he did for school.

Without saying a single word they were speaking volumes. In essence they had said: Mr. Z. You dress up nearly every day to teach us, and to show our gratitude and respect for you we’re dressing up, too.

Needless to say, this was teacher appreciation at its best.

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.

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.

I'm no Superman...

Pin It Oh, this will sound an awful lot like that posting from this past May.

Mostly because it is very similar.

I’m a regifter at times; I am also a reposter sometimes, too.

Of course, I changed it up because parts of it didn’t work this time, but as I was writing this post, I thought to myself, didn’t you already write something like this already?

After a quick blog search I saw that I indeed had.

So I edited, tweaked, and rewrote.

Now, here it is - refitted and reworked - what I’d already written about today’s experience.

Yet it’s still coupled in some of the original packaging (video and photos). You know, just in case you wanted to take it back to the store for a full refund…

This morning I awoke—not to my alarm, but nearly four hours earlier—to the throbbing pain in my skull. My head was pounding, and it felt like someone had been using my brain as a punching bag.

In fact, do you remember that scene from The Wrath of Kahn? You know, the one where Kahn puts that little worm into Chekov’s ear and it burrows its way into his brain?

Yeah, you could say that it felt something like that.

I took three ibuprofens and two Tylenol—my own little migrane cocktail and put my head on ice deciding that I would be fine—after all, I was a teacher. I wasn’t just any teacher either; I was the hero…the one who never missed school because of being ill or anything like that. I guess you could say that I usually pictured myself as something like this as I traversed the distance from home to work:



It was a few hours later that I awoke still to the pain, but I was determined to go to school. Today was the day for school pictures. You don’t miss the day for school photos! After all, could you imagine a shot of the entire class with the teacher absent from it?

Yeah, neither could I.

I got ready and drove the torturous distance to work. I even rolled down the windows and breathed in the cool morning air, hoping to alleviate some of the pain throbbing in the confines of my skull, but it did little to nothing to lighten the agony. But, being the teacher that I am, I put on my ‘game face’ and went into the classroom. I smiled, I tried to be excited, and I even tried to joke around with my class as we crammed an entire day into our early-out Friday, making it feel akin to the last ten minutes of getting ready for house guests, but it felt like I’d already had a double-kryptonite power shake for breakfast.

By 11:00 - and a visit to the school restroom to vomit - I came to a stark realization…



I am not Superman.

And you know what? I realized that nobody expected me to be either.

As the pain kept increasing, it became progressively harder and harder to stay. Light hurt. Sound hurt. Thinking started to hurt. My students had seemed to sense earlier that something was wrong because I caught a final few words of the class president before I’d entered the classroom from our three-minute break earlier in the day. She’d said something about Mr. Z having a migraine and they all needed to keep things quiet and not make it worse.

Well, despite their efforts, it got worse.

I’m happy to say that I made it through class photos, but shortly afterward I admitted defeat, turned to the office staff, and allowed my Friday parent helper, Jaqs, to take over as sub for the rest of the day and drove home amidst pain, vomiting, and wanting to crack my head open with an ice pick and letting the insides out.

Five hours later my migrane was finally gone, and I felt better. The world was again a beautiful place. Tonight will go to the Rooftop Concert to listen to Dustin Christensen. Tomorrow night I will voice at ComedySportz.

Next week?

Next week I will again be Superman...but I’ve realized that being Clark Kent is okay, too.

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...

This Post has no Title

Pin It I fought my way through the depths of Walmart on Saturday evening.

Moving through the school supply aisles was like trying to claw my way out of the seventh level of Dante’s Inferno; there were melees of carts careening in all directions. Sets of beleaguered parents consulted with school lists as their confused children blocked the walkways like the buffalo in Yellowstone National Park. The shelves around them looked like war-ravaged aftermath—or something comparable to the Los Angeles looting during the riots of 1992.

I felt relieved that I didn’t give out class supply lists, but rather furnished my students with the basic necessities they’d need for the school year: glasses of water and crusts of bread.

Of course, I know that to some parents this is a rite of passage into the new year: buying the newest morphed generation of the Trapper Keeper and the retro Casio calculator watch which is as much a sentimental journey for themselves as a supply run for their offspring.

However, who am I to stop the forward ambling of progress?

I dodged down a few deserted aisles and was able to pick up my various and sundry items—rather quickly I might add—and within the space of another 10 minutes or so, I fled the store to the safety of my vehicle. I shut the door and settled back in the driver’s seat with the feeling like I’d just escaped from drowning,

I should have waited until midnight…

Today came—and went—rather quickly I might add, bringing with it the ominous realization that tomorrow, yet another school year would begin.

School.

I’d thought I was done with the major preparations before the tidal wave of students would arrive on the morrow; however, after a slew of thought I realized that there was still so much yet to be done.

Fast-forward some 9 or so hours later to where I stumbled out of my classroom just minutes before the alarm system armed itself, with my eyes glassy and a feeling of being completely and utterly worn out.

I slumped in my car and drove toward home, the miles of road stretching before me as I listened to the silence.

It sounded nice.

Tomorrow will come. I wonder tonight if sleep will evade me; it seems that it always does this time of year. Chances are I will lie there and think about my students…I will wonder about them as they spend their last few hours either in giddy anticipation or in downcast hesitancy of the new school year and the death of their old friend, summertime.

Will they be sleeping soundly tonight? Will they awaken with that selfsame feeling of newness that the first day of school seemed to always bring for me when was a kid?

I read over an email or two, wrote this post, and then I readied to close my computer for the evening. Before shutting down I decided to check Facebook; I saw that a message had been sent to my Adventures & Misadventures of Daily Living page.

It was a photograph from Megan Wade.

I stared for a few moments at the image filling my screen, all the while the neurons in my brain made their connections in regard to what it all meant…and then I started to laugh, my energy slowly returning.

Tomorrow will come, and I’m so ready to meet you, Joey. I’m excited to start our educational journey, and to begin our plethora of adventures together…

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.

First Sign of a Good Year

Pin It Each year I work hard to try to get the students in my class to all like each other, to be more than just a classroom but instead a small community. Tonight I was just checking my email and saw that I'd received a note from one of my students:

>>>> 05/28/11 6:02 PM >>>>
Subject: You made me despise summer
MR. Z
It's only Saturday and I'm already super mad that school's out for three months! literally, you don't know how badly I want to reverse time... all my friends at Amelia are out of reach for playing stuff. I'm crying while I write this I'm so miserable!!!!!!! I've never had so many friends in my entire life!!!!!! Stay in contact so I don't get crazy over the summer.
           From,
                   Joey


I think this is truly a sign that this was a successful year.


Image garnered from http://bee-media.blogspot.com/

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.

This + That = Oops

Pin It It was a gloriously wonderful idea.

It was so fantastic that I went out immediately and bought the fog machine from my local Walmart. You see, I was going to turn my classroom into a perfect graveyard of buried hopes and dreams for the school Halloween parade.

It would be simply brilliant.

I arrived early and plugged the fog machine in. In just a few minutes, beautiful plumes of ashen fog began to waft about the room.

That’s about the time the fire alarm was triggered; the warning bell screamed in the hallways and classrooms like an air raid siren.

The office immediately tried to turn off the alarm. For some reason, the number 4 button wouldn’t cooperate on the master control panel, therefore, the alarm continued to scream throughout the school and playground.

The fire trucks arrived.

Ah, the death of a brilliant idea.

Lesson learned.

I’m just glad that I tried my idea before the Halloween parade…


Oh, and don't forget that tomorrow is the last day to order your very own Joey Dosen't Like Kittys shirt.

It’s Not Me. It’s Not You. It’s Teaching

Pin It Have I ever mentioned that I appreciate you?

Really.

I love reading what you write. I feel that I have come to know many of you over the past few months/years—months in the case of some of you, while it is years in regard to others.

I have been weighing a decision lately. I feel that at the present time it is the best one I could make. This is largely due to the long hours required of being a teacher – more specifically, the hours it takes me. This time is about to go up yet again as I take on the role of remedial Reading and Math instruction with students after school and an extended day schedule this year. Basically, it means leaving for school at 7ish in the morning and not returning home until 6ish or later at night.

I have discovered that I am faced with a choice: I can be a good teacher and have a bit of a life, I can be a good teacher and have no life, or I can be a terrible teacher with a life.

Something has got to give.

You guessed it…I’ve decided to go with blogging. Though this is something that I absolutely love, it is going to need to take a backseat for the time being. Oh, I still plan to write, and I still plan on reading what you’ve got to say, but I realize that I can’t comment on your posts like I had over the summer. I simply cannot do it all without something suffering. I don’t wish to give up my own life as then I’ll have nothing to write about, and I don’t wish to shirk on my responsibilities as an educator—after all, I love my students far too much.

Just know—as some of you have probably noticed over the past week—that I will be commenting much less than I have been…probably not that often for the time being. Just know that I am still reading your words, and will make my presence known every once and again.

Thanks for understanding. My students thank you, too.

Musings of an Early Morning

Pin It The whistle of the train sounds from the distance over the sleepy city as I lie awake, listening. It’s a bit funny, really. Lately I’ve been tired, and getting up in the morning has been a challenge.

But not today.

Maybe is it because it’s the first day of September, a day usually marking the transition from summer to autumn. Perhaps it’s because of carefree sun-filled days readying to turn themselves to amber leaf canopies and crisp mornings.

Perhaps.

School started a week ago. Judging from the photos and a few posts I’ve written, you’ve probably already figured that out. I have a new Joey this year. He’s awesome. He has already started giving me plenty of fodder, now I just need to get into the mode of writing it all down as it happens; far too many moments slip away because I’m in the midst of teaching and don’t have anything handy to write on.

I wanted to write a post about my Joey from last year. I wanted to write about how he showed up in my classroom at Back to School Night last week. I wanted to write up the interaction between us. You would have laughed. I wanted to tell you all how much I missed having this boy in my classroom. I’d have told you how he finds me in the school at recess, lunch, or after school and makes it a point to give me a hug, or simply let me know that he is still awesome—but sixth-grade awesome.

He’s also humble.

Did I ever mention that I was on crossing duty last year?

I hated crossing duty.

I lied to myself, put on a smile, and pretended that it everything was great.

But secretly? I hated it. I’d stand there with a handheld stop sign and tick off traffic when I allowed students to cross through the intersection. I always felt like an idiot.

Really.

This year we were allowed to sign up for what job we’d like to have for the year. I signed up for the bike rack area at the back of school.

It’s quiet.

I don’t see too many parents. There’s no vehicular traffic. I get to talk to the kids a lot more than I did last year. There’s not as much pressure associated with the area. It kind of reminds me of the desert. The rows of corn in the field beyond the chain link fence are readying to turn. Before I know it, there will be a harvest and the stalks will be hewn down.

I wish they’d planted pumpkins again this year. Pumpkins always seem to make me feel happy, they remind me of Halloween.

I went to the grocery store yesterday for razorblades and yogurt – almost sounds like the name of a band, doesn’t it? I found myself drawn to the aisle filled to capacity with Halloween candy, decorations, and costumes.

I love Halloween.

The clock now rolls over to 5:43 and I have finally caught up on my blog reading. My alarm clock will sound in just a little bit, offering up a lame attempt to wake me – I take that back, it’ll play a Dustin Christensen song which I’ve found really helps to get me going during the mornings. The regular alarm sound just wasn’t working out for me.

There is goes again – the train whistle sounding; I can also hear the telltale sounds of traffic starting up. From out the window, the sky is a deep blue and the world is just coming to life.

I will now join it.

Late Nights and Student Expectations

Pin It The onset of the school year has left me up late for the past several nights planning lessons, grading assignments, and finding it increasingly difficult to keep up with anything which is not school.

Reading blogs has now started to slip into the backseat, although I have been trying to keep up with the rising tide.

I came home at nearly 9 p.m. tonight after a set of late student assessments, a college class, and a handful of Wheat Thins for dinner. I headed downstairs and turned on What About Bob so that I could listen as I dealt with the tracking of files, recording of student testing scores, sorting and organizing parent helper surveys, and finally tackling the stack of 28 journal entries just waiting to be read. One hour stretched into three as I finished one project only to move on to the next - all sandwiched in the dreaded blue tote...

I was feeling the weight of the year already upon my shoulders when I came across one particular little journal entry set to the topic of his expectations of the upcoming year...

Welcome back, Joey; I'll try my hardest not to overdo it...

Tonight is for Exhaustion and Backlinking Posts

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No vomiting. No migraines. Just sheer exhaustion.

It passed 11:00 a long time ago, and I should be asleep. After all, I've spent the past two weeks preparing for school. In a sense, I feel like I have been planning a wedding.

Well over a hundred hours for two days: Back to School Night and the first day of school. And no, I don't have a photo of the room after BTS Night…I was too tired to take one so you'll just need to content yourself with this panoramic shot right before the room was flooded with parents and students...

I have nothing funny to say tonight. I have no deep thoughts. I don't even have the strength to finish this sente

You get the point.

I would like to invite you to read THIS, THIS, THIS, and finally THIS. Should you choose not to, I will not be offended. I will not dock you points. I will not look down upon you...

Much.

I know that going to bed tonight will not include sleeplessness - I am far too exhausted for that.

Yet excited, too. I think I'll vomit in my dreams…

Home Visits

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The afternoon sun blistered down from a nearly cloud-barren sky as I drove the neighborhoods around my school. Upon reaching the first designated address, I stepped from my weakly air-conditioned vehicle into the sweltering summer heat.

It was time for home visits.

Now, undoubtedly some of you are wondering just what home visits are…well, to put it simply: they are visits to someone’s home.

Yeah, pretty self-explanatory.

I decided to start doing home visits a few years ago when I transferred to a new school. My incoming students (as well as their parents) had absolutely no idea of who I was, and I could think of no better way to introduce myself than to personally swing by. This way I could let the kids know just who I was, tell them how excited I was to have them in my class, and drop off their first two homework assignments of the school year—due the first day.

I already can tell what you’re probably thinking. Teachinfourth, you really give homework during the summer? Before the year even begins? The answer I give to that question is a hearty, “You betcha.”

As I see it, being required to do homework before school starts sets the standard for the rest of the year, and gives the students a basic idea of what to expect in the days ahead. No only that, many of the students are bored after three or four weeks of vacation, so homework is a way of fixing this little predicament.

Okay, the assignments are fun, too. After all, I don’t have a heart completely made of ice.

Home visits can be—like I said earlier—a lot of fun; however, you never can be too sure just what it is you’re going to get in regard to parents (most of whom I’ve never met) or students who are—more often than not—surprised to see you at their house…after all, teachers belong at the school, seeing them someplace else is usually cause for something like a brain aneurysm.

I approached the door of my student’s home and knocked soundly. A moment later, the door cracked open and I immediately recognized ‘Joey,’ one of the boys who’d be in my class this year. He looked sheepishly through the crack in the door, and upon seeing me, a look of recognition flashed across his face, followed by a glaze of excitement.

I let him know that I was coming around for a short visit to meet with he and his parents, and to drop off his first homework assignments. I asked if they had a few minutes of time.

Joey’s eyes widened a little, and he stammered for a second before admitting, “I’m not wearing any clothes right now, Mr. Z.”

How does one respond to something like this? After all, I know that when somebody comes by my house and I’m not dressed, I usually put something on before answering the door—or I don’t answer the door at all. Of course, maybe he wasn’t ready for the day because it was simply too early—one o’clock in the afternoon can be such an early hour for some people, or perhaps it was just too hot to get dressed.

From the interior of the house Joey’s father told him to go and put something on. The boy turned and walked down the hall, inadvertently causing the door to swing inward, revealing him walking down the hall wearing nothing more than a pair of Fruit of the Loom.

And this, my friends, was just the beginning.

It was nearly 4 hours later that I finally completed my last call, and slumped down in my car with a migraine beginning to pulse in my skull. The visits were fun, the day was long, and I had met with 20 of 26 students and/or their parents. My mind careened through the varied reactions I’d received on doorsteps including everything from bewilderment, awe, and pure unadulterated excitement as groups of students and their friends shrieked like they were attendees at a Justin Bieber concert.

Home visits, just like those Christmas presents from your eccentric Aunt Rhonda, make you realize that you just never know quite what you’re going to get.

P.S. If you’d like to do one of the class’ assignments, you can view that here.

Image garnered from: http://www.examiner.com

Indecision and Essentials

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I went out to purchase school supplies today.

I meandered through the shelves at the local retailer—those burgeoning with the items that seemed to spell August; additionally, they served as a bittersweet reminder that vacation was nearing a close, and home visits would soon be in order—perhaps tomorrow.

Why is it that I seem to get so excited when shopping for school supplies?

I thought about buying a lunchbox today. Really. I was reading another blog early out, and what the author said reminded me of a lunchbox I had when I was a kid…I hadn’t thought about that thing in a score of years. I found myself feeling somewhat sentimental, but passed by the Eclipse, Transformer, and High School Musical lunchboxes without so much as a second glance.

I would not be tempted today. I’d just buy the essentials for school, and then bug out. No sense in making irrational purchases, after all.

I began to dig through spiral-bound notebooks, packages of Crayola markers, and multicolored pencil sharpeners. These were all unceremoniously dumped to the cart as I passed down yet another aisle.

Vividly bright three-ring binders seemed to gently whisper my name as I walked between the towering shelves. Packages of purplish glue sticks beckoned to me—hoping that I would add them to my cart. New scissors and hole punchers glistened from behind their shiny plastic—tantalizing me with their sheen.

I quickened my pace and shut my ears to the call of these items. I reset my resolution button, and passed by these items with an upturned nose. There would be no impulse purchases for me today, thank-you-very-much—only school supplies that were essential.

I moved over to another aisle and noticed the small Mead spiral notebook, the type that can be easily carried in a large pocket, or simply in one’s hand. I glanced at the one I carry with me wherever I go. Its pages were chalk full of blogging ideas, reflections and ruminations of life, and important information I didn’t want to forget.

I’ve already filled three of these things to breaking point, and I began to think about how I was already well on my way to filling up the fourth one. I looked at the shiny, obsidian cover. I took it from the shelf and flipped through the blank pages; a proverbial trove of possibility slid through my questing fingers, just waiting for me to fill it.

I set the notebook down and began to walk away. Before I reached the end of the aisle I stopped. I turned. I picked the notebook back up and looked at it again.

No, I told myself. No purchases of things I didn’t need; just school supplies.
I stood there, my resolve weakening by the moment as I held that little spiral in my hands.

That’s when I thought about Joey. Didn’t I need a place to continue writing his antics and exploits? Didn’t I need a place to write the important events going on at school? Why, wouldn’t this be a great opportunity to get a backup notebook in the event that something happens to the one I have now?

After another second or two of indecision, the scale was tipped and I dropped it into my cart; after all, the notebook was an essential.

Hope of America - Year II

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Photos from http://heraldextra.com


A year ago I blogged about my first time taking part in the Hope of America program. In retrospect, it would be a waste of my limited time to repeat this same information all over again – especially when one could simply click here and read it over themselves, see the photos, and find out about the program I was able to take part in.

With this in mind, I will instead refrain from talking about last year’s program, and focus on this year’s instead.

It was amazing.

There is something to be said of taking part in such an event with thousands of others; namely, sharing a love for this wonderful country in which we live.

I wish I could have bottled up the emotion and the feeling that was there this past Wednesday evening – something that words alone could never accurately portray.

They just can’t.

Just know that the Hope of America was fantastic. If you’ve never before gone – and you have the means – I would highly recommend attending next year. I do wish to include two video clips a friend took for me (even after no training on how to work the camera).

Though video cannot do the program justice, it gives you just a taste of what the program was really like.

These were two of my three favorites; just look for the guy in yellow, row two, at 1:26 in the first video. Yeah, it's yours truly...

Expeditions

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I cracked open the door, exposing the contents to light for the first time in nearly two years.

Two years.

The dusty aroma of sand wafted to my nostrils as I pulled the door of the travel trailer open to its full extent. I gazed silently at the camping gear, nestled and safe in its small apartment-like home. The items snugged away before me brought back a rush of vivid memories, fun times, and moments that helped to shape hundreds of students' lives over the past 10 to 15 years. I began to sift about in the weathered storage totes, brimming with old cooking supplies, tents and tarps, and plastic-shrouded night hike poems.

As I pulled these poems from the place where they’d slumbered for the past two years, I remembered the night hike through the goblins. I recalled reading these poems by the light of eerie lanterns while a star explosion took place overhead; the Milky Way spread through the blackness of night like a smearing of fresh butter on burned toast. Looking up at that sky was surreal. Hiking amongst the hoodoos by the light of glow sticks was unforgettable.

I pushed away the thoughts and climbed into the back of the trailer, wishing I’d thought to bring a change of clothes rather than soil the items I usually wore to school. Ah well, the dirt and dust—familiar to me—was a welcome dirtifier of my clothes. I felt a trill of excitement as I rummaged back further into shadowy corners, memories spilling out from each cloud of ancient dust—having been locked away in that storage trailer; protected and shielded from the ravages of time.

The idea of the upcoming trip, though not to the scope of magnitude that it at one time was, still makes me smile though two of my trusty sidekicks won’t be along with me for this one.

This is my adventure.

I leave in 30 minutes.