Chicago Teacher Man

Posse

noreply@blogger.com (appopt) — Sun, 11 Jan 2009 08:51:00 +0000

THIS is what I miss about Chicago:

Remember, D, the kid who had his laptop stolen? I wrote about him, saying that he was special and would amount to great things. So readers of this blog donated something like $1,000, plus a new laptop, to replace the computer, not because they knew me or D, but because they wanted to make a difference in the life of a kid with potential.

Well, I'm happy to say that Devin (I should start calling him by his name) is on his way to reaching that potential. He recently emailed me, saying that he has won the Posse Scholarship, which will pay his tuition for four years at Oberlin College, a private liberal arts school in Ohio, "the school I really wanted to go to."

You can read about Posse on its website, but here's the main point:

The Posse Foundation identifies public high school students with extraordinary academic and leadership potential who may be overlooked by traditional college selection processes. Posse’s partner colleges and universities award Posse Scholars four-year, full-tuition leadership scholarships. These Scholars graduate at a rate of 90 percent and make a visible difference on campus and throughout their professional careers.

Makes me proud to have been a part of Devin's life ...

Forward

noreply@blogger.com (appopt) — Thu, 31 Jul 2008 01:57:00 +0000

OK, I thought I'd try to keep two blogs going. This one for my classroom experiences and the other one for my adventures in India. But when I think about it, that'll be tough. I will be very involved at the school--it's a boarding school, so we're encouraged to take part in all sorts of activities and to hang out with students outside of class as much as possible. Plus, I'll be teaching four AP courses and drama. And ... since I'm up in the mountains with a dynamic bunch of Americans, Canadians, Brits, and Australians (as well as some very incredible locals), someone is always organizing a pot luck or hike or trip into town. Busy busy. Yeah, there will be great stories, but there's no reason to try to keep two blogs going ...

See you at A.M. in India!

D gets the money

noreply@blogger.com (appopt) — Thu, 03 Jul 2008 22:46:00 +0000

A final update on D, my student whose laptop was stolen and then replaced by readers of this blog (click on the label below to follow the entire story): I met with D a couple of days ago to present him with a "scholarship fund" of $1,000. The money, most of it donated by a group of amazing people, will go toward upcoming travel and other expenses relating to his college search. He said he's spending this summer preparing for his senior year (four of his teachers assigned summer work) and visiting various campuses. Plus, at some point, he'll try to relax.

Initially, we thought we'd use half of the money to start up some sort of charity, but with me leaving, that became something of a challenge. So ... yeah ... here he is in front of the school (with a rare smile on his face):

A week in Madison

noreply@blogger.com (appopt) — Mon, 30 Jun 2008 11:43:00 +0000

There's a post I meant to write every day last week, but I never got around to it. It was going to go something like this:

Just got out of my seven-hour lecture on teaching AP English. And when I say lecture, I mean it. I'm at a workshop being run by two UW professors and three experienced high school AP teachers, and all week, they've been talking at us. Standing there and talking. Actually, in the case of one of the profs, sitting in front of us and talking. No sharing of ideas by the participants, no collaborative work, no time to practice new teaching strategies.

It's funny how teachers preach something called "best practices," but when they stand up in front of a group of teachers they do what should never be done to students: lecture lecture lecture, blah blah blah, listen to me pontificate.

You would think it's been a miserable experience, but to be honest, it hasn't.

First of all, in a collection of 40 teachers, there are always at least a couple of really dynamic, brilliant people that have a lot to share during lunch and after class.

Second, forced to sit there, I've taken to perusing the materials, and I must admit to getting very psyched up to teach AP.

Most important, though, is that Madison has the perfect spot to have a beer after class: the terrace behind the Union. It's a collection of colorful metal tables and chairs set up in shade and sun, overlooking the lake where boaters float lazily by. There are loads of students hanging out, but maybe because it's summer, the focus seems to be on grad students, plus professors, tutors, locals with children, and a collection of brain-fried AP teachers. The Union serves great beer--New Glaris, Bell's--and it's cheap. Every day there are scheduled activities: movie nights and live music afternoons. If there is a better place to grab a drink, on a college campus or otherwise, I'd love to hear about it.

Whenever I attend a professional development activity, no matter how bored or frustrated I become, I always try to stay positive and look for that one moment, that one piece of advice that might change my teaching. I don't know if that moment came during the workshop this time, but it certainly did afterwards.

A new home for my kitty?

noreply@blogger.com (appopt) — Tue, 17 Jun 2008 02:35:00 +0000

I craigslisted the following ad about my cat: Typically crazy Siamese cat needs a home. If you want a cat to scare off all of your friends, Chisai might be the one for you!

Detour, part 2

noreply@blogger.com (appopt) — Sat, 14 Jun 2008 14:10:00 +0000

When I returned from Japan nine years ago, I had no concrete plans. But being someone who likes to write five-year plans and then promptly forget them, here's what I thought would happen:

I would either settle down
or stay for a few years and then move on, becoming a lifelong expatriate.

The first point got a push from my dad, who helped me buy a condo near Senn High School, where I had been hired to teach. A couple of years passed, and I was offered the opportunity to teach in the school's International Baccalaureate program. After that, no matter what happened during the rest of the day, I had one period a day with bright, eager, usually motivated students. These kinds of students are a drug to teachers: They listen, ask, challenge, compete, learn.

Eventually, I became a slightly better teacher, and I was able to get "regular" students to respond. Life wasn't bad.

But still, in the middle of every school year I started wishing for something more. I'd look at the world map in my classroom and wonder about the possibilities. The world is big. Life is short.

Meanwhile, my friends were getting married, having children, settling down. I felt torn: I wanted that too, but I also wanted the independence and freedom to bounce around the planet one or two years at a time. This wishy-washiness doomed every relationship I was ever in. Years passed.

So ... flash-forward to this school year. Sometime in December, I decided that this was it. I HAD to move on. I told my principal I wasn't coming back, asked for a letter of recommendation. I told everyone that I was moving to California, either to the sunshine of San Diego or my friends in the Bay Area. One hundred percent guaranteed. I started examining housing and job opportunities.

I soon discovered that this might not be the best year to move to California: Arnold had ordered school districts to cut 10 percent of their budgets, and teachers around the state were losing jobs, searching elsewhere to work. No worries, I thought: I can do something else. A friend of mine is big time in the blogging world, so maybe I could somehow work with him or maybe he could set me up. Other friends are resourceful and generous, so I'd make it.

Then ... something happened on this blog. Because of this blog. Readers started posting really positive comments about me. Readers got together to donate money to one of my students, and they said they wanted to help in part because of the kind of teacher I am. And I realized: I'm not yet a great teacher, but I'm slowly getting there. And I don't want to do anything but teach, to work with teens, to help in whatever way I can.

So ... what could a person in my shoes do? I thought about my dream to bounce around the planet. I thought about a couple of my friends that had gone off to teach at international schools. And so I checked recruitment services that help place teachers at schools around the world.

I discovered it was too late to attend an international school recruitment fair. But one source listed schools that were still hiring. I checked out those schools' website and was intrigued by one. "Well, it's a long shot," I thought, "but if this place hires me, I'm going."

I filled out the application form, sent my resume and letters of recommendation, and hoped. The school replied, sorry, the position has been filled. I responded, thank you, maybe I'd consider working in the residence hall and wait for an English position next year. (This is a boarding school, so they need people to help take care of students outside of school hours.) They interviewed me. And a few days later said that the English position is available after all, what were my intentions?

I'm writing this quickly, with few details, but mostly as a reminder for myself, so I don't know if any of this makes sense to anyone reading. But the bottom line is this: I have been hired to teach high school English at a boarding school in the mountains of India. I leave next month.

Half my new students will be Indian. The other half from all over the world. Yes, they speak English. In fact, the school has an American curriculum, and many of the students end up coming to the U.S. for university; others go on to study in the U.K., Australia, or all over Asia.

Yes, I'll miss Senn and my students, but I'm excited to move on and start a new chapter of my life. And yes, I'll continue blogging, and will post a link on this page when it's ready. Thank you all for reading; I have a few more loose ends to tie up, which I'll do in the coming days.

Detour, part 1

noreply@blogger.com (appopt) — Mon, 09 Jun 2008 22:38:00 +0000

Heard a Jens Lekman song recently that starts with these lyrics:

If I had to choose a moment in time
to take with me into eternity
I would choose this,
this moment with you in my arms.

I don't know if the concept of taking a moment into eternity has religious or cultural significance, but it reminds me of an excellent Japanese movie I saw a while back called After Life. The movie is very simple, and slow-moving, but profound: After people die, they go to a sort of in-between place where they must choose one memory from their lives that will be recorded for them to take with them to heaven, or wherever the afterlife is.

After seeing the movie, then buying the DVD and seeing it again, the concept became a most favored conversation topic for a while: What if you had to choose just one experience from life, and that's the only thing you'd remember for all of eternity? Which experience would you choose?

Hey, actually, maybe you can skip down to the comments, write your memory out, which will then be preserved for the eternal life of the internet. Then, come back to this spot and keep reading.

OK ... done writing (or thinking about) your one eternal memory?

Here's mine:

Almost exactly eleven years ago, back in 1997, I stepped off a plane at the Osaka, Japan, airport. I was alone, with a couple of suitcases of clothes and CDs, waiting to be picked up and taken to my new home. I had recently been hired to teach conversational English in a town called Numazu. I had also recently broken up with a longterm girlfriend, quit a kick-ass job at a small newspaper in Vermont, said sayonara to friends and family, and boarded the plane with little knowledge of what was to come.

Here's how stupid I was (stupid? naive? clueless? whatever word fits best): With me I had no contact information should anything go wrong. I simply relied on my new employer's word that someone would be at the airport to pick me up. Well, you guessed it, no one was there.

After I passed through customs and into the airport, I was bombarded with newness: This place was clean and modern, so much like the country I had just left, but I was hearing announcements in a language I didn't understand, I was looking at signs with squiggly writing, I was seeing lots and lots of Japanese people. This was my first time out of the country, and I wasn't prepared for any of it.

I didn't see anyone looking for me. No sign with my name on it. No one calling my name. As my fellow passengers cleared out, I was left alone. It was evening, maybe 8 p.m., but it was amazing how quickly the place quieted down. No ... one ... left.

"I guess they're late," I thought, and plopped down on my bags. Fifteen minutes later, and still no one. I started feeling tinges of concern. No, wait, those feelings had started on the flight, this was escalating into panic. Yeah, I know, it was only fifteen minutes of waiting, but in that time, so many thoughts crossed my mind: What was I doing here? What was my problem? Why had I decided to drop everything to do this thing? Was I just running away from something or someone? What if no one comes to get me? What am I going to do? I wonder when the next flight back to Chicago is?

I eventually worked up the courage to approach the information desk.

"Um," I said, realizing I hadn't learned a single word of Japanese before coming over. Oh, I had planned to, but just had never gotten around to it. (At the time, I did know that one "Mr. Roboto" song, but had no idea that domo arigato means "thank you very much," even though that's stated very clearly in the song.)

"Can I help you?" the very cute woman at the information desk asked. She spoke English, yes!

"Someone is supposed to meet me," I said, "and they're not here. Did anyone ... call or anything?"

"What is the party's name, please?"

I had no idea. "I don't know," I said.

"No, I'm sorry, I don't think I can help you. Maybe you wait a little longer?"

Like I had a choice.

The next fifteen minutes, the fifteen minutes until someone actually did show up, that's the memory I'd like to take with me to eternity.

In that time, I felt so, I don't know, helpless, confused, scared, hopeless, but at the same time, alive. I know that most people say they feel most alive when they have a near-death experience, or when they scale some incredible mountain, or they watch their first child born. Those things haven't happened to me yet, but this one quarter of an hour at some random airport, I was completely alone. And I had no idea what would happen next. And I had no prospects. No way of surviving, even though I had cash in my pocket. In a lot of ways, I felt I was at a major crossroads in life. If no one came, how would I act? If I couldn't rely on anyone, would I be able to rely on myself?

I have never really felt those things again. The eleven years that have passed since that day have flown by, without a single moment I'd like to take with me to eternity. (Oh, hell, that's wrong in a lot of ways--there have been many, many amazing moments, experiences, days, and even weeks. But nothing that almost caused a complete circuit failure in the thing I call my brain.)

So, yeah. I want to recapture that feeling ...

Lookin' for love

noreply@blogger.com (appopt) — Fri, 06 Jun 2008 03:06:00 +0000

... in all the wrong places.

A billboard in my neighborhood.

Moments in a grading marathon

noreply@blogger.com (appopt) — Tue, 03 Jun 2008 19:30:00 +0000

End-of-year research assignments in hand, I have made the decision to grade them all in one afternoon, in one long grading marathon. Of course I'll need plenty of caffeine. And breaks. I'll try to keep track of it here.

2:30 p.m. It's eighth period, the last class of the day, and a free one for me. I sit in a student desk with a two-foot tall pile of projects. After the third one, I actually almost fall asleep.

3:03 p.m. After school, students trickle in and ask if I've finished grading their work. I yell at them, "Get out!" Then I decide to pack it all up and take it home.

3:24 p.m. I decide I need a good, long nap so that I can grade all night if I have to. I pass out on my couch.

5:25 p.m. I wake up because it's actually cold in my apartment. I close the windows. Turn on the evening news and see that ABC is calling Obama the Democratic nominee.

5:55 p.m. I turn off the news after some story about food dye making children hyper or something. I wish I had some food dye right now. I sit down at my kitchen table with the work. I get up almost immediately to get some chips and salsa. I munch as I glance through a student's work.

6:17 p.m. I've already considered just skimming through the work but am inspired to keep reading by a couple of projects that are actually thoughtful and meaningful. "Wow," I think to myself. "Some of these kids actually worked hard on this stuff."

6:32 p.m. Red flags appear in a poem with this line: "Life is a game of poker it just depends on what we are dealt." No way this girl wrote this. I head over to my computer to see if I can find it.

6:33 p.m. I am distracted by Flickr, which was the last screen on my machine from this morning. I had been uploading photos, so I decide to tag them. Then I discover that I can see which of my Yahoo! contacts also have a Flickr account. I spend 10 minutes looking at pictures by an ex-girlfriend. She has some photos from a trip we took together. I'm not in any of them. I consider deleting photos of her from my Flickr account but decide that would be too much work.

6:49 p.m. I finally Google the line in the poem. Of course I find it. I wonder if I should give the girl a zero on the project, which would kill her grade, possibly result in an F, or if I should just give her an F on this project, which will lower her semester grade by one or so.

7:22 p.m. I'm at my computer. Still. I decide to brew some coffee and get back to the grading.

7:55 p.m. I have gone through 24 projects, and I've just discovered another plagiarized poem. So far that's one out of every twelve. Dozens more to go. Maybe I can explain this project a little. Students researched a prominent American, then created different pieces of writing to represent the person's life. Instead of writing one long (and boring) essay, they could, for example, write a postcard from the person's point of view when something significant happened, or a poem similar to Langston Hughes' "Theme for English B" or a soundtrack to the person's life. Things like that. Then, they had to create similar pieces of writing for themselves, which showed a connection to the person and a view of the future and goals and all that. Don't know if I'm explaining it well, but I have to get back to the stack ...

9:36 p.m. Well, done with the stack of projects. No, I didn't just breeze through them; turns out only 47 were turned in, which is about 50 percent. I'm not too worried about it; there are still a couple of days left in the semester, and most of the others will be turned in late. This is what separates me from the guy I was a few years ago: Back then, the due date would be the last possible day, so the late kids would get the F. Now, I make everything due a day or two before I actually need it, so that the slackers can get their work in, too. Anyway, I'll enter these grades, and get to a second stack: 1,500-word comparative essays.

10:49 p.m. I'm so tired of seeing the same mistake over and over that I start wondering if I taught anything at all this year. Is the school year really over?

11:13 p.m. I decide I'm done but then realize I can't fall asleep because of all the caffeine. I turn on the TV, but it gets annoying after two minutes.

1:19 a.m. I realize I've been tossing and turning for two hours, getting no rest and getting no work done. I turn on a light, pick up the essays, and get back to work.

2:41 a.m. Well, I've read all the essays. Haven't written the best comments. Thing is, on this assessment, I'm not supposed to write on the student essays at all. It's meant to be the students' best work, done entirely by them with some guidance from me. I've gone about halfway, circling errors and putting question marks where things don't make sense.

3:02 a.m. I can't fall asleep. My mind's spinning almost out of control.

6:15 a.m. My alarm startles me awake. I'm exhausted. Today won't be fun. I contemplate calling in sick and getting back to work. But that's not an option a couple of days before finals. I make another pot of coffee. I've just used my last filter. Must remember to buy more later today.

The bad, the good, the great

noreply@blogger.com (appopt) — Tue, 03 Jun 2008 03:44:00 +0000

It's ACT score time. I was really pushing my juniors to get an 18, and some are actually excited about their scores. Just got this email from one of my kids. All of a sudden I'm feeling better about the entire school year (and I guess about life).

Mr. P,

well i have some good news, some bad news, and some GREAT news.

im sure you want the bad news first so here it goes...

I DIDN'T PASS MY ACT EXAM!!!

bummer right...luckily there is also some good news...

I GOT A 17 AND IMPROVED MY SCORE BY 4 POINTS!!!

so close to the 18!!!!...ok now the great news...

IF I IMPROVED BY 4 POINTS THIS TIME, CAN YOU IMAGINE IF I TAKE IT AGAIN AND IMPROVE ANOTHER 4....THAT WOULD BE COOL

all this i did with your help...you were the only teacher in any of my classes that actually gave a damn about kids and their future. Thank you so much for supporting my classmates and me. Thank you for teaching us all the strategies that helped SO MUCH on the test.

IM GOING TO NEED YOU TO PLEASE GIVE ME TUTORING CLASSES AFTER SCHOOL TO TAKE THE ACT AGAIN NEXT YEAR...i know its my senior year and i wasnt supposed to worry about the test but now that i saw such progress i got motivated and i'm determined to get a higher score...

ONCE AGAIN THANK YOU SO SO SO MUCH REALLY...I DONT HAVE WORDS TO THANK YOU ENOUGH!!!

Geometry homework

noreply@blogger.com (appopt) — Fri, 30 May 2008 14:26:00 +0000

"My mother told me to give this to you. I don't know what you're talking about."

So long

noreply@blogger.com (appopt) — Fri, 30 May 2008 03:10:00 +0000

Well, it's been a long and sometimes-eventful school year. Thanks for reading. I think I have one or two loose ends to tie up, then it'll be summer time.

Speaking of ties, a student asked to borrow a tie for some semi-formal event coming up. Must remember to bring one in.
I have a new job. New city. New students. New experiences. Come back in mid-July for more info.
I have been chosen by the seniors to speak at graduation next weekend. Darn them, they must know my fear of public speaking. Maybe next week I'll post my rough draft and see if anyone can help.
Speaking of which, I was at Jewel the other day and ran into a kid I taught two or three years ago. "I'll see you at graduation," he said to me. Apparently he's got a younger sibling graduating this year. "Great," I said, "I guess I'll be saying a few words." He nodded and said, "Yeah, I heard."
D has yet to come up with a plan for the donated money. I'm thinking I'll just put the whole thing into some college savings account for him. After a few glitches, he's got the laptop working. And he's storing it in my locked closet these days.
Two kids who graduated last year stopped by the other day while one of my current juniors was hanging out. One of the now-college freshmen said he loved my class so much that he wrote an essay about it this year. Comments like that make an entire year worthwhile.
A students said something really hilarious the other day, possibly the funniest thing I've heard all year. "I should write that down," I said. But I didn't. And so I forgot what it was. (Darn, I was hoping that if I starting writing about it I'd remember.) Just goes to show why I NEED to post every day ...

Talk talk talk

noreply@blogger.com (appopt) — Wed, 21 May 2008 03:05:00 +0000

I wonder if it was like this when I was a teenager. Been so long that I don't remember. But anyway.

During passing periods, I stand outside my room, welcoming students, monitoring traffic, listening in on conversations. And today it seemed that every conversation I heard was a typical he-said, she-said drama. Kids walking down the hall, pissed off and venting that someone had said something, that someone better mind her own business, that someone said something to someone about something. It was enough to make me want to scream. And it was enough to make me wonder if any kid walking past me had anything at all to think about other than what someone might have said.

It was one of those days. Got worse fifth period when one of my favorite students walked in totally venting about the same thing. "And they were just whispering," I heard her saying. "Why can't they just say it out loud, why do they have to whisper?"

This girl is super bright, usually super motivated, the kind of kid who yells down the hall, "How's my favorite teacher?" and I duck, embarrassed by this awesome kid. But today she sank a level.

"Why do you care?" I asked as I passed her before the bell.

Class started. I was ready. Most kids were ready. But this girl was still whispering to her friends about the kids in the hall that were whispering about her.

"This poem," I said, referring to what I had just read, "is about something important. About something that matters. Not about some stupid little thing someone might have said in the hallway." Yeah, I was looking at Whisper Girl, and she knew it, and she was pissed off about it.

"Why do you have to call me out like that?" she asked.

"Why do you have to care about some idiots in the hall?" I asked.

"Because they annoy the hell out of me," she said. "Just like you!"

The usually-chatty classroom fell silent, waiting to see how I'd respond.

"There's probably a million things I can say right now," I said. "But I'm just going to avoid this confrontation." And I got the class going on something.

A couple of minutes later, I asked Whisper Girl to come over to my desk. I chatted with her for a bit about the assignment she was working on. Then I asked about what had happened in the hallway that had upset her so much. Of course it was just a case of some girls talking about her.

"Why can't they just say it out loud?" she said. "Then we can deal with it." By that she meant, they could fight. About what? Who knows.

I tried appealing to her intelligent side. "You know," I said. "You're bright. You have a future. You're going to college. Why do you want to sink to that level? The level of kids that have nothing better to think about so they just talk about others?"

"I don't know," she said. "I've been trying to ignore it. Really I have. But they just get to you, you know?"

"So you're letting them win?"

We chatted like this for a few minutes. Resolved nothing. Although eventually I had to admit that it does matter what people say. That it's important to be liked. Or, more importantly, to not be hated.

But there was no resolution. And there's no point to this post. Just like there's no point to the crap kids talk about in the hallways, the crap that holds their interest, that gets them so worked up that they're willing to fight it out just to make it go away.

Trying to pay attention

noreply@blogger.com (appopt) — Mon, 19 May 2008 11:10:00 +0000

My favorite librarian posted this video on her blog; it's a seven-minute message about the importance of technology in the classroom. Definitely worth watching (for teachers, at least).

Senioritis

noreply@blogger.com (appopt) — Sat, 17 May 2008 11:12:00 +0000

It's hard to get motivated to do anything these days ...

The weather's slowly getting better.

The students are restlessly staring at the calendar.

I'm tired. Tired of having the same conversation with seniors:
"So, if I come to class every day from now on and do all my work, will I pass?"
"We'll see."
"What if I do all my work? And some extra credit?"
"It's possible you'll pass."
"Possible? I want a guarantee."
"Fine. Let's talk about this tomorrow. In class. OK?"
"OK, I'll be there."
And then the kid is not there the next two days.

Ah, but I guess I'll miss most of it when it's gone. When I'm gone.

Just had an email exchange with the English Department chair at a school I will probably be at next year, and he wrote that one of my responsibilities would be to monitor study hall once a fortnight. The guy is from Ireland or Australia or something. Anyway, my English teacher question of the day is this: Without looking it up, do you know what "fortnight" means?

Connected at the Wii

noreply@blogger.com (appopt) — Wed, 14 May 2008 23:55:00 +0000

Having participated in job interviews recently, and having talked to friends in the business who have participated in job interviews recently, I've come to the conclusion that one of the most important questions a teacher needs to be ready to answer is the one about reaching the student that has fallen behind. We all have them. The kid with bad attendance. The learning disabled kid who can't seem to function in class. The smart kid who sits reading Kafka but refuses to turn in any work.

I finally have an answer on how to reach some of these kids. So, go on, ask me: Chicago Teacher Man, how do you reach the student that has fallen behind and make sure he passes?

Simple. I challenge the kid to a session of Nintendo Wii.

Well, OK, I've only done it once, but it's worked so well that I'm considering buying one of those machines before the end of this school year to make sure every single one of my slackers passes.

A few weeks ago, one of my students started talking about Wii. Having recently played it for the first time, I told him how much cooler it was than I had previously thought. And the thing is, Wii is a lot of fun. Unlike most video games these days, the Wii doesn't require you to memorize a million sequences of button-pushing on the joystick just to serve a tennis ball or swing a baseball bat.

"Tell you what," Wii Boy told me. "I'll bring in my Wii and we can play."

"Bring it on," I said, hoping he would but not really expecting him to.

A couple of days later, on a Friday, he walked into my classroom half an hour before classes started. He had his Wii. So we set it up, hooked it up to my LCD projector, and played for the next 20 minutes. My first period kids came in, baffled.

For the rest of the day, during my free periods, I kept playing. Against the young teacher down the hall who caught on really fast and kicked my butt.

Wii Boy is in my seventh period class, so by the time he came back I was a wee bit tired. After class, he hung around. "What about your eighth period class?" I asked.

"Oh whatever," he said, "I'm failing anyway. What's one more absence?"

"Alright," I said, shutting my door, turning the lights low, and firing up the Wii. For the next 45 minutes, this kid thoroughly killed me at all the Wii sports, plus a sword fighting game. In a way, I guess you can say we bonded. But really, there's more.

Pre-Wii, this kid

either didn't come to class
or slept in class
or goofed off
and never, ever turned in any work
claiming that he hated school
and the only thing he was interested in was alchemy.

Yeah, alchemy.

But in that Wii afternoon, I noticed something interesting. He turned into a very serious teacher, explaining the games and giving me tips and even cheering me on when I got a point. And I thought, damn, why can't I be that kind of teacher, someone who patiently explains and gives tips and congratulates students when they succeed?

After that day, he's shown up. Even turned in work. Seriously. The class had a pretty major personal essay to write, and I knew he wasn't working on it and I knew he wasn't going to try. So I took him aside and figured out a plan. I had seem him doodling, so I suggested he draw the essay as a graphic novel. And he did. It was six pages long, with some interesting details and funny moments.

Lately, he's been talking about bringing in the Wii again. "Don't worry," he told me after class today, "we'll make a Guitar Hero out of you yet."

Thanks, Teach!

Happy day-after Mother's Day

noreply@blogger.com (appopt) — Mon, 12 May 2008 23:13:00 +0000

One thing that annoys me is when late students pound on the door, demanding attention. Of course they know it annoys me, so they do it.

Five minutes into seventh period today, a kid who has had terrible attendance lately decided to knock loudly while shouting something to his buddies down the hall. While I was trying to read a poem to the class.

I walked over, violently pulled the door open, and practically yelled, "Do you have your cell phone?"

"What?" he asked. His cell phone was hanging off a chain around his neck.

"Good, you have it," I said. "Get in the back of the room and call your mother. When she's on the line, hand over the phone so I can tell her about you coming in whenever you feel like it."

"Man, this is my first time late," he said.

"Maybe," I said. "But that's probably because you haven't been here in a week. Now go call your mother."

"No way," he said. "I'm not burning my minutes calling my mom."

I had to laugh. And it broke the tension.

I said, "Fine, today you don't have to. But if you're late tomorrow, or any other day this week, you're calling home."

As he headed to his desk, I said, "Can't believe you won't burn your minutes on your mom."

It was his turn to laugh. "Whoops," he said.

The stupidest email message ever

noreply@blogger.com (appopt) — Mon, 12 May 2008 11:25:00 +0000

I recently wrote this email to a colleague:

Laura,
What is your email address? I want to pass it on to someone, but I have no idea what it is!

No, I'm not a complete idiot. I don't think I am. But, yes, I sent an email to a person asking her what her email address is.

The problem is the email system CPS uses, First Class. When you compose a message, in the "to" field, you type the person's name, either first or last. The system then shows you a list of every person who works for or attends CPS with that name. You click on the name of the person you're trying to send a message to, and the system does the rest. Nowhere does it actually show the person's email address. I've clicked around, made Laura my contact, looked at all information associated with her, and there's no sign of an address.

So I had to send her an email asking for her email address, possibly the stupidest email message ever written. Just another way my employer wastes my time.

Wedding toast

noreply@blogger.com (appopt) — Sat, 10 May 2008 17:17:00 +0000

Hey, it's my sister's wedding day today, so I've got to concentrate on writing a wedding toast. I'm known for making my wedding speeches good but way too long. But whatever, wedding guests are a good crowd, liquored up and in a good mood. I'm so used to being ignored by teenagers that I end up going a little overboard when I have people actually paying attention and laughing along.

Not sure what I'm going to say yet, but I know that I'll end with these two Polish words: Sto lat!

Words help

noreply@blogger.com (appopt) — Fri, 09 May 2008 03:35:00 +0000

As students were gathering up their materials and heading to their next class, I called two girls over to my desk.

"Let me start with a question," I said. "Have I ever helped you out this past year?"

They stood there looking at me.

"Have I ever listened to your problems, tried to help you, anything like that?"

"Sure," one of the girls said. "Like all the time."

"Good," I said. "Because I was wondering if you could do me a favor? You know, since I've helped you out, maybe you can help me out with something?"

They stood there looking at me.

"OK, here's the deal," I said. "Just yesterday, I got an email from one of your classmates. I'm not going to name names, but I'm sure you'll know exactly who I'm talking about. In her email, she didn't name names, but I'm pretty sure I know who she was talking about. Anyway, her message was really sad. She said she felt that certain people were treating her like a piece of trash. That people were mean to her. And here's the thing. This girl, the one that wrote me the email, she's really a sensitive person. And she's actually really hurt by the way she's being treated. And so, I was wondering if you could do me a favor? Can you please stop it? I'm not asking you to be her friend, I'm not asking you to like her, but for me, could you please be nice?"

The two stared straight ahead. They looked like they felt really bad. I was afraid I was going to start crying, so I blamed my moodiness on the Vicodin I was taking, and continued: "I know a little about this girl's home life, and I can understand why she's sensitive. And that's why I don't want to see her hurt at school."

"Yeah, oh my God," one of the girls said. "When she talks about her dad, I get so sad."

"So, can you two do this for me?" I asked. "And here, let me write you a pass. You're late."

Later in the day, one of the girls stopped by on her way to her locker, told me that another girl in their class started crying when she heard about Hug Girl.

I saw Hug Girl after school. "How was your day?" I asked.

"Good," she said very seriously. "I talked to one girl. And she apologized about what happened yesterday. And I apologized. And then we hugged."

I don't know how long it'll last. But I have to say, here's another reason why I love my job and my students. Most of them are willing to listen. To help out. Most of them are actually really sweet and wonderful underneath, and are often unaware of their unintentional cruelty, but when it's pointed out, they can change. Sometimes they just have to be asked.

Words hurt

noreply@blogger.com (appopt) — Wed, 07 May 2008 15:30:00 +0000

Students stop by after school. To finish assignments. To take quizzes. To hang out. To talk about problems.

After the dismissal bell yesterday, a couple of kids were floating around my desk--a guy that wanted to talk about some poems he had written and a girl that often stops by to just chat. I call her Hug Girl because, at the start of the year, she insisted on giving and getting hugs to and from just about everyone. She'd chase the boys in her class just to get a hug. She'd corner teachers and demand a hug before heading for home. She's sensitive and sweet, and she wears her heart on her sleeve. Plus, based on what I saw at report card pick-up, she doesn't get much loving support at home. Still, I finally convinced her that all these hugs were somewhat inappropriate, so we've compromised and now high-five each other at the end of most school days.

Anyway, yesterday I had a 3:30 appointment with the dentist, so I hustled the kids out of my room. "I'll read your poems and talk to you about them tomorrow," I told the poet. "Email me and tell me what's on your mind," I told Hug Girl.

The trip to the dentist turned into a three-and-a-half hour marathon and required loads of anesthetic and then Vicodin. When I got home, there was the near no-hitter by the White Sox to watch, then some blogging and whatnot, and I didn't check my email until after midnight. And there it was, Hug Girl's message, titled: "Talking blah."

I quickly fired off a response. It was the kind of message from a student that demanded an immediate response. I'm not sure if my words could help. Today in class, she said she appreciated what I wrote, but I wonder if there's more I could have said. I asked her if it would be OK for me to share her message on my blog. She said OK.

So, if you've got time, read the following. If you are so moved, leave a comment for Hug Girl. I'll share anything you write with her tomorrow ...

Okay, here's what I wanted to talk to you about:
For some reason half the girls in this class do not like me. I'm not saying everyone should like me and all that la la la, but I feel as if they always think of me as someone bad and worthless off the street.
What did I do? Did I do something wrong? Did I offend someone and not even know it?
These are the very few questions that I ask myself when ever I'm near those girls. I know they don't like me. At all. I can feel it. The only thing that I am doing is being myself. Yes, I admit that I am not perfect and that I am not always nice to others when the mood hits me. But at least I'm honest about who I am and what I do.
I usually don't care what others think about me, but this is the kind of tension I have been feeling for as long as I can remember. I don't feel comfortable with this and every time I say something or do something weird, they would act as if I didn't exist.
This is something I do not understand. They would almost do the exact same thing and laugh as if it was the funniest thing in the world. The bad thing is, they don't even realize it. [A classmate] told me it was probably because they were so used to each other, they don't even think twice about any body else.
Why? I mean, if I don't like someone, I make it known. If I do like someone, I show it as well. There is no need to hide anything. It's not necessary to just stand there and look away as if I'm some piece of trash.
The sad part, is that this kind of behavior has been going on around me since second grade, getting worse with each new year.
The only place that I know that I have friends that do not do this is my ballet school. I have known a lot of them for a very long time. When there is someone new in our class, we welcome them with open arms and adopt them like one of our own. If we have a problem with each other, we show it and tell one another. At least that way, there isn't that backstabbing tension in the room and among us.
I honestly don't know what to do. I sure as hell won't change for anyone but I just want to know why is this?
Thanks a lot for taking your time to read this.

Vote early and often

noreply@blogger.com (appopt) — Wed, 07 May 2008 04:15:00 +0000

Here in Chicago, we're known for stuffing the ballot box. So maybe some of you can help me out. I just learned that Chicago Teacher Man is nominated for the ED in '08 Blogger's Choice Award. You can vote here.

Thanks!

Do I know you?

noreply@blogger.com (appopt) — Wed, 07 May 2008 04:12:00 +0000

I told a student to forge my signature the other day. I mean, I didn't want to sign his permission slip, so why not?

Here's how it happened: A few days ago, a couple of girls I don't know stopped by to ask if they could practice their talent show routine in my classroom before school the next couple of days. I asked them who sent them my way.

"Ms. K," one of the girls said. "She said that you always make yourself available to students."

Thanks, Ms. K, I thought. I do make myself available to students--my students. But they were nice enough, so I said OK. "Write a pass so security will let you up in the morning," I said. They wrote down four names, including one that looked vaguely familiar. "Hang on," I said. "This Donny. Is he a heavyset African-American kid?"

"Yeah," I was told.

"He's supposed to be in my seventh period class. I haven't seen him in months."

Sure enough, though, the next morning Donny showed up. At 7:15 a.m.

"Long time no see," I said. "I thought you dropped out, I don't know, in October."

He just looked at me sheepishly. "Don't try to bust my balls about this," he said.

"Me? Bust your balls? I called your house numerous times. I went looking for you in your other classes. You were nowhere to be found. Now you want to practice a dance routine in my classroom?"

He didn't say much, though he looked angry. At me. I continued: "Is my class that hard? Am I that mean? What can I do to get a kid like you to show up?"

He whined about not realizing how tough junior year would be, how unprepared he had been, but how he'd succeed next year. If I had a laptop every time I heard that, I'd have enough of them to give to every single one of my students that does show up to class.

The group never actually practiced. On the first day, they forgot to bring a CD player. On the second, they showed up too late. But I kept running into the two girls in the hallway during the week, and each time they were super nice. Funny how when you meet certain people you end up running into them all the time, sort of like learning a new vocabulary word and then seeing it everywhere. You realize that the word had always been there, but since you didn't know it, you ignored it.

I ran into Donny a few times, too. In fact, on the day of the talent show, he stopped by my room and asked me to sign him out of seventh period.

"I can't sign that," I said. "I'm not your teacher."

"Come on, Mr. P," he said. "I'm on your roster."

"Dude, you haven't been in class since the first quarter!"

"Please," he said. "If you don't sign it, I can't perform."

"Tell you what," I said. "Forge my signature if you want to perform so bad. I don't care. But there's no way I'm signing that thing. You've blown off class all year, and now you want something so you show up, forget it."

Did he end up forging my signature? I don't know.

Did he perform? No, because the talent show ended up being postponed, according to the principal, "because of unforeseen circumstances."

I should probably report this kid. Write him up. Try to get him to come to class. But with a month left this year, I don't think I'd be doing anyone any favors. Maybe he's got a great future in dance. Or forgery. Whatever it is, he's definitely one that got away from me.

Happy when it rains

noreply@blogger.com (appopt) — Mon, 05 May 2008 02:10:00 +0000

We were driving 40 miles per hour on the interstate in the driving rain, windshield wipers unable to keep up with the downpour, unaware that a tornado watch was in effect, when I asked the three guys in my car, "Is this crazy or what?"

"It's kind of cool," a voice from the backseat said. "Scary drive with great music."

I had the volume almost at maximum, partially to hear the music over the pounding rain, partially to keep my mind off the potential flooded campsite, partially to introduce my students to a range of loud music, from Modest Mouse to Me First and the Gimme Gimmes to the Jesus and Mary Chain.

"How about this?" I asked. "What if I pay for a couple of hotel rooms and we just throw our sleeping bags on the floor and spend the night like that?"

We were off to our annual camping trip, twenty students and their gear piled into two cars and a 15-passenger van. The teacher driving the van is a lot more bad-ass than I am, because when I called her and suggested the hotel, she shrugged me off and said we'd see how the campsite looked.

By the time we arrived, the rain had slowed to a drizzle. We checked around, picked a spot, and returned to the cars for the kids. As soon as we had our gear in hand, the sky opened up one more time, soaking us. Maybe it was a baptism. We sludged our way anyway, and when we arrived at our chosen spot, the rain stopped. By the time we pitched the tents, there were stars above.

The two nights were cold, maybe in the lowers 40s. The day was fine, and without getting into all the details, the trip was an amazing success. Everyone had fun. With 20 teenagers, you'd expect some drama or fights, but there were none. You'd expect some laughs, and there were plenty.

I took some pictures, but I can't show faces, so you can't see any of the good ones, the ones with the amazing smiles. But maybe this will give you an idea of what you can expect if you take a bunch of teenagers camping:

They stayed up until 3, so they tried sleeping in,
until their evil teacher entered the tent:

D makes a new friend:

Scrambling up the dune (going down was hilarious):

Taking in the view from the top
(the lake's the other way, by the way):

Psychedelic pancakes (with M&M's):

There's more I can say (like me purposefully getting four kids lost on the hike back from the dunes, like the late-night storytelling around the fire, like sitting under a tree with one of my students and reviewing the novel we're reading in class, like me finding a tick on my hip a few minutes ago while taking a bath), but I'm exhausted.

Goin' campin'

noreply@blogger.com (appopt) — Fri, 02 May 2008 10:31:00 +0000

It's become an annual retreat of sorts for the past five or six years: Take a bunch of city kids camping. So today after school, I'll be joining about 20 students in what hopefully will be an excellent adventure.

Some of these kids have never been out of the city. Others have never spent a night away from home. Most have never slept in a tent in a horrible thunderstorm on an unseasonably cool night in early May.

With the forecast calling for an 80 percent chance of showers, I'm thinking there is a 100 percent chance of fun and interesting stories. See you on Sunday!