The Scholastic Scribe

Teaching to the Test

2012-03-09T08:10:00.004-05:00

As much as I hate to admit it, I "teach to the test" all the time. As an AP English Language teacher, I must cram all kinds of knowledge into my hapless high school cherubs' craniums between early September and mid-May. And, as a teacher of 11th-graders, same kind of drill, only on a much more basic, state-mandated-standardized-test kinda way.

This morning I happened upon a display at my local coffee shop that impressed upon me just how dire the circumstances are in today's classrooms. Across the country, kids as young as 6 are learning the fine art of regurgitating information just so the pencil-pushers who preside over our most precious commodities - our children - can quantify the amount they "learn" each year.

The above snap comes from a display of first grade students. The kids had obviously visited the coffee shop to learn the fine art of customizing a Cup o' Joe. Then they'd practiced the rapidly disappearing art of penning a thank you note, always a good thing.

I'm guessing that the teacher wrote key words and sentences on the board, in order to prompt her class on composing cute missives. I believe, however, that this student's note emphasizes more about the crisis we face in education, rather than his/her penmanship skills or attempts at bonhomie.

Appears that the cherub took a look at the board, then carefully copied at least part of what the teacher had written. No context, no complete sentences, no thoughts rendered. Much like today's American education system, don't you think?

Green Means Go

2012-03-06T19:21:00.003-05:00

Put on My Walkin' Shoes

2012-03-04T10:37:00.008-05:00

I gave up queso for Lent. Yes, to y'all unschooled in the diction of a Tejana, that would be cheese, in all its forms. So, for the next five weeks, I'll be without those delicacies I hold dear to my heart: Tex-Mex, pizza and, of course, nachos.

As part of my Lenten Rehabilitation, as it were, I've also taken up walking. I live about a mile from a well-known run/hike/bike trail. It's an old railroad bed that travels through almost 50 miles of urban/suburban/rural terrain in Northern Virginia, from Arlington to Purcellville. Both Union and Confederate troops commandeered this route toward the beginning of its more than 100-year tenure as one of the preeminent rail lines in the region.

So, this is the routine, should I choose to pursue it: Stroll down to the trail; meander about two miles at a quasi-urgent, heartbeat-raising rate to the "downtown" area of my DC 'Burb. Stop for coffee, then stroll back home through town, taking a more circuitous route.

Supporters of my new regimen are taking bets: Will she give up on the queso or the walking first? Only time will tell. I do know one thing, though. I'll probably be noshing on nachos long before I ever walk those 50 historic miles on my neighborhood trail.

Pacific Prelude

2012-03-01T15:18:00.002-05:00

Stars & Stripes

2012-02-23T21:04:00.002-05:00

Trash Talk

2012-02-21T22:00:00.000-05:00

The Game of Life

2012-02-20T20:10:00.004-05:00

Part of my duties, as an electives teacher, is to recruit new cherubs every year. By the very nature of their existence, electives courses - such as those of the newspaper and yearbook variety, featuring my journalistas - depend on an active grapevine to get butts in the classroom seats for the next school year.

I know I complain about the large numbers in my classes - for example, 42 cherubs in 6th period this year and 36 in 7th - but I shouldn't really carp. Large numbers in an elective means that my job in its current incarnation is safe for one more year, and I won't have to teach Macbeth to seniors who don't give a rip anytime soon.

So it was that I was faced with the ultimate test in my salesmanship abilities last week as our school hosted consecutive opportunities for teachers to showcase their electives classes.

Wednesday featured the schoolwide electives fair, a hunk of time set aside for current kiddos to wander from classroom to classroom, sampling the wares, so to speak. I had a fair number of cherubs in my three sessions, which is a good thing.

Thursday evening, the parents of 8th-graders over at the local middle school came by my table in the cafeteria. I talked up journalism and hope I impressed the old folks enough that they will speak to their soon-to-be-9th-graders about how much fun there is to be had in Room 215.

Friday morning was the ultimate test. My little ol' electives were up against some formidable competition, as 600 8th-graders descended upon the high school to check out tables we'd set up in both gyms. I recruited four of my cherubs, set up a mighty display of newspapers, yearbooks and posters featuring my journalistas eating, hanging out on the couch, eating, and, did I mention eating?

Eighth-graders are still tethered to the mother ship. When we push pizza and frivolity over academics and substance, they tend to go for it. Nevermind that we're shallow. The object is to get the butts in the seats. Once that's accomplished, more serious pursuits couldn't possibly be that far behind.

Oh, Say, Can You See?

2012-02-16T00:01:00.000-05:00

Mama Kat's Prompt #1: Share a Whitney Houston song
that meant something to you.

Super Bowl XXV. The Buffalo Bills (who?) vs. the New York Giants (them?). Our soldiers had marched off to the Persian Gulf to put down Saddam Hussein the first time around.

I was preoccupied with a new baby and a new job. I had just come off maternity leave, had transferred departments in my company, was coping with a 9-to-5 job for the first time since the previous summer.

The lights dimmed. More than 73,000 fans in that Tampa stadium waved tiny American flags. And Whitney Houston opened up her mouth and sang.

Much has been made of the up-tempo jazz chords and the gospel underpinnings of this version of our National Anthem. I was more struck by this young woman's pride for her country and her genuine happiness in the moment.

I don't know who won the game. I do know that I sat with my six-month-old little girl in my lap. And cried. Like a baby.

Smiley Face

2012-02-14T21:05:00.000-05:00

I Heart...

2012-02-14T07:44:00.004-05:00

One could figure this "found" piece of art as lonely longhorn, stranded far from home on an OBX beach. I view it as a love letter to my favorite place, and see the quasi-heart shape in that bloviated bovine's "horns."

On a day of pinks and reds and even fuschias, I'd like to honor the somber brilliance of the beach. As soon as I hit NC 158 South, just past the Virginia line, I know I'm home.

I *heart* the beach. My valentine today is to its bright blues, its powerful cascades of rolling surf, its shades of buff and gray, its infinite particles of sand, which of course paint my heart with wonder at the sunrise, awe at the whipping force of huricane gales, but also at the relative peace in which its waters wash me.

Now that I've scribbled this homely declaration of love, I see how I could have crafted a poem, instead of this collection of slightly disjointed pieces of prose. But verse would not have paid the proper tribute.

I wear my heart, not on my sleeve, but on the crests of the whitecaps that rush to the shore. Happy Valentine's Day.

Moonstruck

2012-02-09T19:55:00.001-05:00

Trash Talk

2012-02-07T21:18:00.003-05:00

Weeds

2012-02-06T20:22:00.005-05:00

I've never seen the Showtime miniseries, although I've been told on more than one occasion that I should. Recent weather, however, has made me feel a little like a middle-aged pot user, if not a dealer.

My neighbor's camellias are blooming. Daffodils are coming up around the 'hood. This little critter popped his head up the other day, daring me to laugh at him.

Room 215 faces almost due south. When the sun comes up at Oh, Dark Thirty, it hangs around, most of the blessed darn day. The combo of a blazing winter sun - a paradox, I realize - and the old-school building heat that won't shut down has encouraged me, on more than one occasion, to wear sleeveless blouses to work.

I have no quarrel with the weather, of late - temps hovering at 60 degrees or above. But I'm hovering on that line between the need to administer assessments (read "tests") of various magnitudes and telling my cherubs to just chill, and sing "Kumbayah."

Global Warming? Anyone?

Beach Baby

2012-02-05T00:01:00.002-05:00

Born
between
blizzards,

you bonded, instead,
with
the sun
and
the sand.

The beach
has
called
your name
since
this snap,
circa 1989.

With Trump
on your
head
and shells
in your
bucket,

you were
always
an apprentice
to the
OBX.

Have some
birthday fun,
Beach Baby.

Your
presents
will be
belated,

but our
love is
not.

Artistic License

2012-02-01T20:09:00.003-05:00

Mama Kat's Prompt #3: What were you like in high school?

My Mom decreed me "diffident." My friends called me "creative." My Nana, although she never employed the word "karma," said she hoped God visited upon me in later years that which I dished out to my family.

High school - where insecure teens have the chance to try on different suits of armor to determine which might fit when they join the jousting in "real" life - proved to be a minimal struggle for me. I was good in the "humanities" - English, History, Languages - and I had a handle on the human element, as well.

Not to give myself props, as my cherubs would say, but in high school I made a subconscious decision to shelve my insecurities and embrace the moment. I tended toward the "free spirit" element, but my best friend was captain of the drill team; I wrote poetry and fell in love more than once with Eric Clapton, but dated the son of a Jewish dentist.

Part of the reason, I think, for my teenage comfort level is that no one told me that I was supposed to be "popular." I was, thankfully, clueless on that score. So I spent minimal moments wondering why what one of my buds termed the "Beautiful People" wanted everyone to love them just a little bit more than everyone else.

High school became a smorgasbord for me - of emotions, of experiences, of, essentially, imminent domain. I claimed the space I occupied at any given moment, and was comfortable enough, I guess, to move on to other territory when I felt like it.

High school is, of course, so much better the second time around. Honestly, I'm unsure a lot the time, but as one of my teacher friends likes to say, "You're older, you're wiser. Just don't let the little people know that you're afraid."

I'm in my 18th year of revisiting my "high school experience." I recently extended my tour of duty for another five years. Don't quite know where I'm headed, but I sure am enjoying the ride.

Room for One More?

2012-01-30T20:19:00.006-05:00

The end of the semester means a couple of things in the World of High School.

First off, we're halfway through the school year. Then, there's the fact that the cherubs have a four-day weekend (Saturday through Tuesday), so that their teachers can get papers graded and grades recorded.

Of course, there's also what I like to call the Focus Factor.

When one is involved in the teaching of electives such as newspaper and yearbook, certain perquisites - for the journalistas, at any rate - are involved. One is the unwritten law that the dispatching of a deadline requires a fiesta.

Food, glorious food.

Not sure if I've mentioned this, but I have 41 cherubs in my yearbook class. They decided to throw themselves a pizza party last week, to celebrate their recent accomplishments. Never mind that their spreads are full of typos, and the editors will probably have to remake the whole dang deal when the proofs come back.

Their reasoning? They worked hard. They're entitled.

Of course, being the pushover that I am, I dutifully collected two bucks apiece from my charges and called Papa John's. If you haven't taken an up close and personal gander at the above snap, that's 11 pizza boxes sitting outside Room 215. Eleven empty pizza boxes. I reckon my kiddos dispatched with the whole shebang in under 90 seconds.

The good news is I spent today getting my house in order and making sure each of my almost 160 cherubs had a grade that reflected their efforts - or lack thereof. Tomorrow, though, comes the insipid inservice. Four hours of alleged "professional development," while deep down inside yearning for a nap.

I know, I'm a schlub. But June seems right around the corner.

Laid Back

2012-01-24T20:30:00.000-05:00

Let It Snow

2012-01-23T20:28:00.004-05:00

While others watched the NFL playoffs on Sunday, the Mister and I watched golf. Well, he watched a tournament, played in arid and balmy Palm Springs, while I graded papers and hoped with great futility for snow.

We Green Bay Packers Backers had nothing much better to do. We had hoped to see San Francisco avenge our honor by playing the role of Giants-slayers. No such luck. Let's just say that nobody we care about is playing in the impending Super Bowl. A good thing, too. I'll be able to catch up on my beauty sleep.

Since the foosball (Kathy Bates, "The Water Boy") is essentially over for the season in our house, I've taken to praying for snow days. My more scientifically inclined cherubs, however, tell me that because of a La Niña pattern off the Pacific Coast, I shouldn't anticipate precipitation of the frozen variety anytime soon. Nothing, at any rate, on the order of the Snowpocalypse of two years ago.

So, I'm left to read Great Gatsby papers written by less-than-enthusiastic AP kiddos, who would rather skim the SparkNotes covering a 185-page classic than actually delve into the literature and enjoy themselves. That, and hope the Snow Gods bless us with some unexpected time off sometime soon.

I'm wearing my lucky snowman socks. Just in case.

obX Marks the Spot!

2012-01-19T20:44:00.002-05:00

It Takes Two

2012-01-17T22:00:00.001-05:00

Please Note

2012-01-17T09:36:00.002-05:00

Found this scribbled missive stuck under the door of Room 215 the other day. Please note: This particular cherub is more than 10 years gone, and he still knows how to use a semicolon.

I'd like to say I receive these testaments all the time. But in the era of e-mail and smart phones, the hastily scratched out note has just about evaporated from my world. What makes this all the more sweet, however, is that this young man - he of the recently awarded Ph.D., no less - took the trouble to visit school late in the afternoon in search of his old English teacher, and left a tribute under her classroom door.

The jury is still out, however, on his handwriting. Wonder if he's considering extending his education and going for an M.D. degree?

The Longest Yards

2012-01-12T00:01:00.000-05:00

Mama Kat's Prompt #1: Write a poem inspired
by the last conversation you had with your child.

When you were six,
you joined a soccer team.
The Red
Hot
Chili Peppers.
You didn't really understand
the game.
You didn't really understand
that soccer is a contact
sport.
You had boundary issues.

When you were seven,
you joined the summer swim
team,
a week after you broke your
jaw.
Remember when Justin
smacked you with the golf
club?
(I think you were trying to kiss him.)
"It was an accident!"
I know.
But your boundaries kept
expanding.

When you were 14,
you joined the high school
field hockey team.
And a ball shot through
the air
at the speed of light.
It ricocheted off your
shin.
That concave scar is still there,
I think.

When you were 18,
you went away to
college.
I didn't cry,
but I cleaned your room,
for weeks.
My sadness lifted only
after I'd made
five
trips to the Salvation Army.
(You always were a pack rat.)

When you were 19,
you dared your friend
Lisa
to swim the most yards
on a winter team
trip.
60,000-plus, all in one
week.

When you were 22,
you entered law school.
"It's hard as hell,"
you muttered.
And came home on break
with a separate suitcase
full of
books.

Now you're almost
25.
You're graduating soon.
You've got a "real"
job,
in the "real"
world.

Your boundaries
disolved.
Just like
many
of my worries
(but never all).

You've covered
the
longest
yards
without help,
but with a lot
of support.

We honor your
journey.

It Takes Two

2012-01-11T08:22:00.002-05:00

Time to Tebow

2012-01-09T19:59:00.003-05:00

Please say a little prayer for me.

Just last week, those in charge of such things added yet another cherub to my already overly stuffed 7th period. This is the Intro to Journalism class. The one with the youngest kids, with the biggest learning curves.

I have 36 of the little buggers in that class now. Did I mention that I only have 34 chairs in Room 215? Before long, I'll be teaching an extension course out in the hallway.

That's not the worst of it, though. My Yearbook class has 41 journalistas in attendance. It takes me 10 minutes to call the roll. Thank goodness the older kids move around - doing interviews, taking photos, wandering the halls aimlessly - or I'd have to throw a few of them out the window.

The 45 kiddos on my school newspaper staff, fortunately, are split up into two different classes. A group of 21 comes in at 9 a.m., followed by a class of 24 at 11 a.m.

And let's not forget the 27 enrolled in my AP English Lang course.

These are all writing-intensive classes. Mentoring, tutoring, teaching and re-teaching are a constant in Room 215. So are hollering (by both the teacher and the students) and excessive giggling (when someone who is sharing a seat falls on the floor).

General mayhem is the rule in my workaday life; never the exception. For those of you who are keeping count, that's 149 of the little buggers cycling through my classroom in an endless parade of adolescence and all its inherent wonderment - and woes.

The good news is that, in my Intro class at least, the 14-year-olds can - and do - often double up, especially when everyone is present. But as it is now, I pray every 7th period that one or two of my students will be absent so that I will have a place for everyone to sit.

The young man who is "Tebowing," above, is one of my seniors. He's been a student of mine since he was one of those scrawny 14-year-olds. At 6-feet-plus and 18 years old, though, I don't think he has the size, nor the inclination, to share anymore. Except, perhaps, his faith - if even in a mocking way.

All Washed Up

2012-01-04T20:28:00.006-05:00

Mama Kat's Prompt #2: Top Trends of 2011 That I Want To Forget

I spent a quiet Christmas - NOT - herding cats, for reals.

La Familia Scribe welcomed one daughter's kitten home for the month, while the other chica - a seasonal volunteer at the local animal shelter - brought her work home with her one afternoon, so to speak. The oldest newest furball is Phoebe, also known as Teen-Teen, an adolescent feline of seven months or so. The baby's name is Susie, also known as Jingles, and she's four months or so. The kittens join our Old Lady, Pepper the Cat, who is nine years young.

I spent Tuesday morning running interference between three bowls, three cats and three competing breakfast agendas. The youngest flitted between bowls, unsure of her place in the kibble hierarchy. The oldest took her time, rumbling a throaty warning every time one of the other two interlopers came too close. The middle one was just right - consuming her ration and allowing me to lock her up in the basement so the others could finish their crunchy repast.

As a woman who now is House Mom to more animals than children, I'm hardly in a position to construct a Top 10 List for 2011, while I'm probably an expert on what I don't want to see again in 2012.

But right now I have to get my beauty rest. I'll be up again tomorrow morning, herding cats - for reals.

The Scholastic Scribe

Teaching to the Test

Green Means Go

Put on My Walkin' Shoes

Pacific Prelude

Stars & Stripes

Trash Talk

The Game of Life

Oh, Say, Can You See?

Smiley Face

I *Heart*...

Moonstruck

Trash Talk

Weeds

Beach Baby

Artistic License

Room for One More?

Laid Back

Let It Snow

obX Marks the Spot!

It Takes Two

Please Note

The Longest Yards

It Takes Two

Time to Tebow

All Washed Up

I Heart...