Other People's Children

This week my baby boy needed me. Okay, he's not a baby. He's 24. But he'll always be my baby and the baby of the family - the youngest after three girls. This week he had a zillion issues - physical, emotional, financial, and career oriented. He just plain needed me. So I left school after finding someone to cover my classes and then drove three hours to him. All I did was pay his water bill, buy him some lunch and groceries (it was four in the afternoon, and he hadn't eaten all day), and give him some gas money. Then we hung out a little, and I drove back home. No big deal - I felt better and he felt better; he just needed a mama fix. My husband said things like "He's 24. He can take care of himself" and so on. Men don't get it.

The next day at school was a little rough. I was tired, having arrived back home at midnight the night before, and as another teacher said, "The sap is rising." Middle school children can smell Spring Break and are exhibiting the fidgetiness and conflicts that are reserved for this time of the year. Two days this week eighth graders had violent fights that left teachers and students shaken, and one day when they didn't fight, they ate their lunches watching seventh graders fight outside the cafeteria windows.

Meanwhile, in the little world that is my classroom, I'm trying everything to calm my students so that they can actually read two lines (it is a reading class, after all) and not walk around the room. I threatened my last class yesterday with cough syrup. I think I was kidding.

Anyway, this story is mostly about my student Justin. Boy, can he be nasty. He's rambunctious and can't stay in his seat; apparently his pencil is never sharp enough. Walking to the pencil sharpener or trash can doesn't present a problem for most students; however, Justin has to smack three people on the way and three people on the way back. I really believe he counts - "SMACK - that's one, SMACK - that's two, SMACK - that's three." And although he can be very endearing when he wants to be, he can also snap at a moment's notice and growl, snarl, and talk back to any authority figure who is within earshot. He can turn a pretty nice day into one of those I'm-stressed-why-did-I-pick-this-career day. My former principal called this type of student "the thorn in your side." Justin's an entire thorn bush on most days.

Yesterday we were scheduled to have a conference with Justin's mother. Justin warned me, "She's coming to cuss you out." I was ready. I had documentation in my hand when I entered the conference room. I had written down every nasty thing he had said in two weeks. I had his binder and his journal. I had stacks of pictures he'd drawn while I was teaching. As it turned out, his mother was late, and I had more time to think about the attack that was coming. Justin's other teachers and I sat around that table and waited....some of us drumming our fingers impatiently. The longer we sat, the more nervous we felt. "You think she's mad?" someone asked. "But we didn't do anything wrong," someone else chimed in. Yea, but what has Justin told her? we thought.

She walked in seconds later. I caught her eye and smiled. She didn't return the favor. She sat down and began "explaining" her problems to us. We had not contacted her as often as we should have considering the conflicts we were having with Justin. She explained that she couldn't deal with his behaviors if she was unaware of them. Our principal promised to call her in the event that there were incidents that required her attention. Then each teacher talked about their experiences with her son.

As my turn to speak came, I looked over at him sitting alone at another table, and then I glanced back as his mother. He's her baby, I thought. I imagined her kissing him goodnight, Justin with the soapy post-bath smell, and the snarls on his tongue just memories of the school day. I opened my mouth to speak and quietly balled up the documentation I was holding in my hand. I started with "He has the funniest laugh," and went on from there.

His mother looked at me, tears in her eyes, and said, "I'm sorry I came in so mad."

I returned with, "You don't need to apologize for caring about your child. I understand."

And I do. Lisa Delpit tells us about being sensitive to others in her book Other People's Children. We teach other people's babies, and from now on when that thorn starts jabbing me in the side, I'll picture my students sleeping as their loving mothers stand beside their beds.

And I'll think about my baby three hours away and hope that someone else's mother is being nice to him.

Am I Just Too Old to Crank It?

I read with interest an article in the current NEA Today magazine. The title, "Teachers Crank That Soulja Boy," as well as the entire article, reminded me of, well, me. It talks about how teachers who are learning this dance are "connecting with students" and giving students "the opportunity to teach for a change." My philosophy of education - relationships with children - was referenced in black and white.

It was in the After School program that I first saw the Soulja Boy routine. After students worked for an hour, they were given the opportunity to break into groups and do non-academic activities. My group chose to dance. A short-in-stature-but-big-on-personality sixth grader, Montez, taught me the steps. I hadn't heard the song. So that night I looked it up on YouTube. (Everything's on YouTube.) Catchy song, I thought. Cute little dance. I was hooked!

I began "cranking" it all over the place. If my students answered correctly, they'd all shout, "Do the Soulja Boy!" I'd crank it in front of the classroom. At the school dance in the fall, I was out there cranking it with the best of them. I even downloaded the "Soulja Boy Instructional Video" for the After School Program so that we all could crank it.

Then at Christmas my son came home. My son is a 24 year old actor who's a whiz at pop culture. It's part of his business actually. I was very excited to show him how cool I am. Minutes after he got home, I started cranking.

He looked at me strangely. "Mother," he said. "Do you know what that song means?" Of course I did. I told him that "Soulja Boy" is a dance, and when we do it, we're "cranking that Soulja Boy." He laughed and then told me that there was no way he had the nerve to explain the real meaning to me. He suggested that I look it up on urbandictionary.com.

What I read was horrifying. I can't even figure out a way to explain what it means to "Superman," one of the repeated lyrics in the song. There is no nice way to say it. It's profane, it's disgusting, and it's not appropriate for the pre-teens that I teach. At the very least, it's only potentially appropriate for two consenting adults.

I wanted to cry when I thought about the times I thought I was "cool" performing it in front of my classroom. I have since stopped doing the Soulja Boy dance. I have dropped all references to it, and if the students ask me about it, I tell them that it's not appropriate. They always snicker - they actually know what the lyrics mean!

I wrote NEA today to tell them about my experience. I ended with "In the future, I'll investigate the products that I promote."

I'll never listen to the song or do the dance again. And I'll do everything in my power to keep lyrics like that out of the hands of minors in this sex-saturated society.

Crank THAT, Soulja Boy.

Springtime Memory

It's not spring. In fact, there's a "winter weather advisory" today. But I can see some buttercups outside my classroom window (William Wordsworth would say "a host of daffodils") and those mean spring. Every spring I begin having the same thoughts...thoughts of Brian....

It all began in 2001 when I sent an email to my stepdaughter, Heather, who had graduated from high school with Brian in 1996 and her husband, Chad, who was in the Marines at the time. It went like this:

One of the joys of teaching is that everywhere you go for the rest of your life, you run into someone you taught, a relative of someone you taught, or someone who knows someone you taught. This morning I was having breakfast with a friend when I recognized the waitress as Letitia, the sister of my former student Brian.

Brian was in my seventh grade language arts class in the 1990-1991 school year. I had him 4th period. How do I remember that? Because I had the entire junior varsity football team 4th period! I told Letitia that on game days, the players would wear their jerseys to school, and the entire room would turn red.

Brian was a good-looking guy and a talented football player. Schoolwork was not his favorite activity, but he did it, knowing that I would talk to "coach" if he didn't. He did an average job on that work, but he played football like a hero...with a passion that most seventh graders haven't yet found. He was also polite and had a smile that never left his face. No matter how hard I was on him...for forgetting his homework, for talking about football instead of doing classwork, for begging me daily to take the class outside so the boys could throw a football around, he would sit and grin at me. On the days that he would wear me down, and we would go outside after lunch, he was a natural leader, breaking everyone into teams and calling plays.

Letitia broke into my thoughts, saying, "Brian is in the Marines now."

Do you know how that feels? Someone reaches into your memory, pulls out a seventh grader, and makes him a man.

"They can't break him," she said. "But they're trying."

I thought, "Nope, they won't break him. They'll try, but he'll just grin..."

Then I thought back to my 4th period class of 1991. There, in the back, looking bored, and counting down the minutes to the football game, sits Brian Anderson, future Marine.

In April of 2003 (the beginning of spring), I found a copy of that email and added the following:

Today I was given news that hit me straight in the gut. Brian, the Marine they wouldn't "break," was killed last Wednesday outside of the Iraqi city of Nasiriyah. I think of all the cliches - he loved what he was doing, everyone who knew him is proud, the world will be an emptier place without him, and so on.

But mostly, I think of that grin...and when I look back across that 4th period class, the last desk, in the middle row, is empty.

This will be our fifth spring without Brian Anderson. But I have learned something important. Now I look at my seventh graders not so much for the lanky legged, giggling kids they are now...but for what they will be someday.

Rest in Peace, Brian.

Jesse and Mary, Quite Contrary

I remember when students didn't talk to me. I would teach until my throat ached...explaining how to determine rhyme scheme and how to write in iambic pentameter, but they wouldn't say a word - to me. Oh, they would talk plenty to each other about all things teenager. But I was just Charlie Brown's teacher waa-waa-waa-ing in front of the room.

Now it seems that someone has directed middle school students to talk to their teachers. "Stand up for yourself!" someone said. "Express your opinions!" said another. "Argue if you have to!" was thrown in, too. So this is how I spend my days....explaining, justifying, and reasoning...to preteens who still sleep with stuffed animals.

Here's how my class went this morning:

"Did you bring us any candy for Valentine's Day? Why not? It's only three days away. And we've been good, and when we're good you have to give us something."

Little extortionists.

My next class delivered all of my favorite expressions - they're my favorite because I have a quick comeback.

Student - "That's not fair."
Me - "Fair is a weather condition and an event that comes to the county in the fall."

Student - "This is boring."
Me - "I'm not here to entertain you; I'm here to educate you."

...which brings me to my problem today. Teachers have done such a good job of making learning fun, that the little blackmailers refuse to work if it isn't. Here's my afternoon with Jesse:

First of all, let me say...I thought the students would love it – a FUN Valentine puzzle. Word puzzles are great in a remedial reading class - they build vocabulary! The students were to do simple subtraction, look at the answer, and match the number to a letter in the alphabet. It was a code that would become a Valentine message of love. Jesse approached my desk where I was conferencing with another student.

“What am I supposed to do with this?” he demanded.

“It’s a little math puzzle…”

He interrupted me.

“I hate math!” he proclaimed to the world.

“Jesse,” I pleaded. “It’s simple subtraction. Just do the problem and match the answer…”

“I hate math!” he whined louder.

“Okay, look. Don’t think of it as math. Think of it as breaking a code. When you figure it out, you’ll have a message.”

Jesse turned on his heels, threw his chin in the air, and yelled at the world…

“Is the message ‘I HATE MATH!!?’”

I thought back to my own sixth grade class and how my teacher would give assignments. We would do them without question, without confrontation, without complaint.

Oh, for the good old days.

Just then, Mary brought a stuffed Valentine dog over to my desk. "I can see that Jesse's giving you a problem. You can sleep with this tonight." She started to walk away but stopped and turned toward me. "But if you mess it up, you'll have to get me another one."

Good grief.

Mrs. Rigsbee, Git Yer Gun!

I used to think I was smart - street smart that is. I worked in an inner city school with kids who taught me what was what on the streets. I knew which neighborhoods I couldn't drive through at night, I knew where the drug deals went down, and I knew the colors, signs, and handshakes of four different gangs. Nothing surprised me.

I've changed schools now. I'm in the country, and I love it. Our student, Filemon, lives next to the school, and no one has taught his roosters that they only are supposed to crow in the morning. So they cock-a-doodle-do all day long. It's nice background music for my reading class.

Last year we had a guest speaker come to talk to our student body about organic food. I watched as the same kids who couldn't name a state in the USA that started with "A" (they said Africa and Australia) jumped up and down in their seats when the speaker asked them what they could do to make sure their crops were healthy year after year. ("Well, you could try crop rotation," they said.) Hmmmm. Who woulda thought of that?

Another thing that I've noticed: we have numerous boys in our school who wear hunting camouflage. I'm talking pants, jackets, hats...the whole deal...to school! Are they planning on bagging the big one between first and second period? We even have several students named Hunter. And not because it's a popular name, they tell me. Because that's what they are.

Today I grew a couple more brain cells because of my student Bradley. When my first period class entered the room, I noticed they all had gum (who gave out gum in homeroom, you guys?) I dutifully told them to spit it out. They all, obedient gum chewers, walked one by one to the trash can...except Bradley.

"Bradley, I told you to spit out the gum," I warned.

"I don't have gum," he replied.

"Bradley, I see it. It's bright green." I was proud. I had evidence!

"It's not gum," he said.

Okay, I'll bite. "What is it?" I asked.

He was very excited to share. "It's a turkey call." (The entire class nodded.)

"A what?!"

Bradley repeated what he had said, only he did it by making a noise that sounded like what I heard the night my cat Fluffy had kittens. I must've looked confused because the remainder of the class all spoke together, "It's a turkey call."

Then he started gobbling. Straight up gobbling as in "Gobble, gobble - it's Thanksgiving."

Finally, I caught on.

"Bradley," I said. "All of the turkeys in those woods out there are going to hear you and come scrambling to get in this room." I thought that would stop him. Not a chance.

"I hope they do!" He jumped up and ran over to the window. "I'll grab one and break its neck and...."

"Whoa, stop there! I can't stand it," I pleaded.

I continued to try to teach, periodically interrupted by a gobble here, a gobble there, a ....

Well, you get it.

At the end of the class, Bradley told me that he was being signed out early. He was going shopping - for more turkey calls.

As he left my room, he turned around and gobbled at me. Another student interpreted.

"He said, 'Mrs. Rigsbee is the best teacher ever!'" Christian said.

In turkeyspeak. Heaven help me.

Kacheena

I love teaching.

That’s what I was saying to myself as I walked into Harris Teeter this morning. Then I realized that what I really meant was that I love that I have been a teacher for so long. I’m finally at that point in my career that I run into former students periodically. It’s like having moving memories - photographs that live, breathe, and smile like those Harry Potter has.

I pulled into the parking space and immediately felt eyes on me. I looked left and saw the familiar fuzzy hair and toothy grin. For a moment, it felt odd – seeing a seventh grader sitting in the driver’s seat of a car. Then I remembered: she’s not twelve anymore.

Kacheena.

I used to sing her name to the tune of the 1960’s song Corinna, Corinna by Ray Peterson. Kacheena, Kacheena. She had no idea where I got the tune. And as we stood there in the parking lot, she had no idea how important she had been to my life as a teacher.

Kacheena was one of my two “focus students” when I went through the National Board Certification process. Little snapshots of memories jumped around in my head – an essay she wrote about snow, a project she did on the book Freak, the Mighty, but mostly I thought about the day I videotaped for my National Board entry and how 3.2 seconds before the camera began rolling, I was crying…

My school was in the middle of a huge renovation that year. Each wing of the building was completely gutted, one at a time. Teachers and students on that wing were temporarily sent to trailers until their new classrooms were finished. And that’s where we were on the day of the taping.

If you’ve gone through the nerve-wracking experience of taping for National Boards, you know about the preparation for that day. For me, I had struggled to make sure that everything was in place. I had checked every plug, battery, and microphone. I had frontloaded my students with all of the prior knowledge they needed for our group discussion. But when I arrived at my classroom that morning, there were problems.

First, I walked out to that trailer and saw what appeared to be yellow crime scene tape around the platform at the bottom of the ramp that my students would need to enter my room. (There was no crime…just construction.) I knew that I’d have to lead them through weeds and trash (it was, after all, a construction site) so that they could enter through a back door to the trailer, a door they’d never used before. I was afraid that this small change would throw my students – adolescents don’t always adapt well to variations from the norm…

But they did great! They entered the room, sat down quietly, glanced over at the camera, and waited. I gave instructions and passed out materials. At the last minute, three of my students decided they did not want to be videotaped. Even though they had signed permission forms, they had suddenly developed stage fright. I was a little rattled, but soon moved the students out of the view of the camera and prepared to begin.

We were on go! And then…just as the videographer pressed “record,” the trailer began shaking violently. Someone said, “Earthquake.” Someone screamed. (It may have been me.) It was not, in fact, an earthquake. It was a jackhammer.

A jackhammer was breaking up the concrete platform at the bottom of my trailer ramp. The videographer pressed “Stop.” My chin began to tremble. My eyes were stinging. I stood frozen and looked at the floor. The videographer (also known as a tutor in my classroom) walked outside to ask Mr. Jackhammer-er to postpone his hammering for thirty minutes. I wiped my eyes.

Kacheena took control. She quieted the students, told them to be ready for the discussion when taping resumed, and then handed me a tissue.

“It’s okay,” she said. “We’re ready.”

My tutor came in (the back door), saying that Mr. Jackhammer-er had taken a break. We taped, successfully, for the next thirty minutes.

Today I looked at 16 year old Kacheena and thought about 12 year old Kacheena. As I walked away, she called out, “I miss you, Mrs. Rigsbee!” I returned the sentiment, walked toward the store, and thought, “Kacheena, Kacheena…I miss you, too…” to the tune of Ray Peterson’s song.

Struggling Teachers

I was a struggling teacher once. Twenty years ago…and then yesterday, during my first period class. And several times in between. The difference between the way I dealt with the struggle as an inexperienced teacher and the way I dealt with it yesterday is considerable. To me, it’s all about relationships.

In 1987 I began teaching a class of eighth graders in February. They were quick to tell me that they had “run four teachers off already.” That class made me realize something that has become a mantra throughout the course of my professional life: “If you make them the enemy, they will win.” Those eighth graders were the enemy that year. Each day was a battle, and if I was able to drag my weary body out of the school every afternoon, having only cried once, I considered myself a winner. The next year, and every year after that, I did what was necessary to build relationships with my students.

I started small, throwing out compliments here and there. I soon found out that if I told a girl she had pretty hair or that she had on a nice outfit, she was a little more attentive when I was teaching. And the boys? I noticed that if I told them they were athletic, they didn’t only listen, they made sure their friends did, too. It was difficult with some students, but I managed to find one nice thing to say to every single student, every single day.

Soon I wasn’t only telling the boys they were athletic, I was attending their ballgames and making sure to comment on their performance the next day. I found their parents in the stands and made only positive remarks about their children. As tempting as it was to say, “He never brings a pencil to class,” that just wasn’t the place. And all of that praise? The students knew all about it when they got to my class the next day.

As the years went by, I found it easier to recognize the positive characteristics that each and every student brought to me. One student I taught a couple of years ago came in angry every day. He would turn my homeroom upside down ranting and raving about his bus driver. He never owned a pencil that I didn’t give him, and during class he drew orange stick people. One day I told him that he drew the most beautiful orange people I had ever seen. (I now am the proud owner of thousands of Orange People Pictures.) That was a turning point for us. After that, he gave me the best work he could, every day. Later that year, I saw an Orange People Picture in my school district’s art display at my local mall. I cried right in front of the exhibit.

Now, in the middle of all the stress of high stakes testing and all of the instructional demands that are placed on us, I can feel my blood pressure lowering when I see my students coming down the hall to me. Those goofy middle school kids are my family during the day, and they know we’re in it together. Our class motto is “Whatever It Takes.” We’ll do whatever it takes to be successful, together, like a family. That motto is hanging on the front wall of my classroom. Right beside it is my message to my students: “I believe in you.” And they know I do.

Oh, I did struggle yesterday. I watched as a grumpy and not-quite-awake seventh grader attempted to disrupt the learning of others. A grumpy and not-quite-awake teacher almost made a seventh grader the enemy. Instead I walked over to him, spoke calmly, and wrapped my arm around his shoulder. In three seconds he was grinning, and we were all back to work.

Whatever it takes. That’s my advice to all of us who struggle.