Circle the Wagons!

I recently had the opportunity to watch a video entitled Inside/Out, a 52 minute documentary that features prison inmates promoting the importance of education in contrast to the consequences of dropping out of school. The message is compelling, and I found myself welling up with tears several times. The educators and community members who made up the audience with me were emotionally moved as well; the documentary is powerful and thought provoking.(http://www.mattiecstewart.org/)

Personally, I have made no secret of the fact that my father was a junior high dropout. Over the years I've heard glamorous stories of him quitting school to support his large family - going to work delivering milk to rural North Carolina porches. However, when I envision my teenaged father, I think that he was probably pretty happy just to be out of school. One of my earliest memories is of the Student Data Sheet that I brought home every year on the first day of school. One of the required fields was always "highest grade completed by parents." Every year my mother would guess at the highest grade my father had attended. He was secretive about that part of his life. But later, as he fought bone marrow cancer, he would periodically be well enough to answer the nurse's intake questions at Duke Hospital. Once I heard the question, "What was the highest grade you completed in school?" And then his answer, "Seventh grade."

I trembled beside his hospital bed. Seventh Grade! I teach seventh grade! And as I stood there and thought about my students and the fact that not one of them is ready to be out on the streets, I realized that my father was most likely not ready either...

Again, the documentary makes an excellent case for staying in school, but I'm afraid the message was preaching to the choir. Those of us who were horrified by the lives of the prisoners on that screen are most likely not the type of people who would ever be incarcerated. The students I have who I consider at-risk for dropping out, however, are desensitized to this type of life. I hear it daily: "I have to go visit my daddy in jail" or "My uncle was put back in lock-up last night." These sidebars are common circumstance during our classroom discussions. This documentary is not going to "scare straight" my students. In fact, some of my kids have more shock value in their day to day lives than was depicted on the video.

A point the video attempted to make, and I'm paraphrasing here, is that those who drop out of school become illiterate citizens. The message seems to be "If you drop out of school you won't be able to read and write." However, I believe the opposite: those who struggle with reading and writing in school are more likely to turn to a lifestyle that puts them at-risk for jail. Clearly, the students I teach who just don't "get" the work are the students who have attendance and/or discipline problems. These same kids are the ones who are weary from the struggle and who eventually give up as soon as they are of legal age.

The documentary didn't mention one variable that I believe is important to dropout prevention. Students must feel that they are part of a community, a school family. The "outsiders," those without a group to share interests; these are the students we lose. Sometimes we lose them to school violence; other times they just leave and drift on the streets. Either way, we've set our communities up for a continuation of the cycle of poverty, a cycle that we must work tirelessly to break.

So will Inside/Out keep our kids in school? I believe that many students who are at-risk to drop out will think "I've heard this all before. What does this have to do with me?" But if this video changes the direction of just one student, it's worth it.

It's more important that we encircle our children with all the resources available. We have to call in tutors, counselors, social workers, mentors, and especially loving teachers who refuse to give up on kids. Circle the wagons around them, folks, and block the exits! Go at it like their lives depend on it...because they do.

Independence Day

Martina McBride has some lyrics that are pretty powerful, and they're on my mind today:

Let freedom ring
Let the white dove sing
Let the whole world know that today is the day of reckoning
Let the weak be strong
Let the right be wrong
Roll the stone away
Let the guilty pay
It's Independence Day

I'm not sure why I keep humming the tune to this particular song, aside from the date and the fact that I'm here at the coast for our "Fourth of July" family observance (aka - vacation.) But it's making me think about our forefathers, the meaning of the word "freedom," our soldiers who are fighting for ours, and various and sundry derivations as my mind jumps tracks every few seconds to take another direction.

However, I have keyed in to one thought - is there some type of freedom I personally would like to celebrate? Is there some part of my life from which I need to be free? Now I'm thinking. Let's see, is it my husband? No, he's cooking my breakfast; better keep him. How about my kids? They sure do cause me a great deal of worry: are they buckled in? Are they driving in a storm? Are they being stalked by psychos? Can they pay their phone bills? Can they use their phones to call their mama?! But, no, I'd like to keep them, too. They, of course, are my "IV to the vein" source for joy. Oh, but the animals! My dog just this morning threw up half a pound of undigested bacon. I didn't even know she snatched it from the counter. But post regurgitation, just look at her, all tail wagging and spotty tongue hanging out. Guess I'll keep the pets, too.

Really when I look at my life as a whole, and I think about all the stresses, I realize there is just one thing that I'd rather live without...one thing that would tempt me to break a city ordinance and shoot off fireworks in my yard. I only want independence from this one thing:

Standardized Testing.

Those two words look rather innocent sitting there, but I can tell you that they are the bane of my existence as a teacher. I can't erase the image of the nineteen eighth graders I tested a few years ago, sitting with number 2 pencils in hand, tears streaming quietly down their cheeks. That one test, on one day, meant the difference between going on to high school with their friends or enduring one more day in middle school as 16 year olds. I remember a kindergartener telling her mother, "School was really quiet today. The big kids were taking the E-I-E-I-O's." (Our state tests are called End of Grade Tests - EOG's) If only those tests were as simple as Old McDonald's song.

Just a few weeks ago, I tested for 13 days straight. There were the original tests, then the makeups, then the "special setting" tests, then the makeups for those, then the makeups for the makeups...it went on and on. Meanwhile, there were things I could have been telling my students, stories to share that went untold, relationships to build that will have to wait. But each test was given, each score tallied, and now as I sit on the shore of the Atlantic and look at water that brought my distant relatives over from England, my students sit in summer school which will end in yet another attempt to pass a test.

Independence Day for me? An announcement that testing as we know it has changed. A decree that students will be judged by products of work, surveys of dispositions, folders of writing samples, examples of growth over time...instead of one day of bubbling.

In 1778, General George Washington celebrated Indepedence Day with an extra ration of rum for his soldiers. I'd settle for some of our school cafeteria's peach cobbler. And the chance to be the creative, inspiring teacher that I want to be. My students deserve that.

Let freedom ring
Let the white dove sing
Let the world know that today is the day of reckoning...

Raising Wee Willie Winkie

I realize, more than my children may think, that being a mom means being a Teacher of the Year every day for...hmmm...twenty six years so far for me. A mother is the ultimate teacher; I know because mine is still trying to teach me.

Me: I don't know, Mama, my air conditioning is just not working well.
Mama: Have you changed your filters lately?
Me: They have to be changed?!

I think about the things I've tried to teach my children along the way, and I think about the way they've turned out. I wonder if those two components (me teaching while they learn) meet anywhere in the same zip code. My stepdaughters, Heather and Erin, have turned into mothers themselves, and have adopted my opinion that there is no greater call. They adore their children as I adored mine, and they are doing the best they can for them just as I did. My daughter, Kelli, the 26 year old professional cheerleader, turned into a talented dancer somewhere between crawling on my dance studio floor when she was six months old, pointing to dust bunnies and saying, "Dir-do, dir-do" and being named a captain on the TopCats squad, cheerleaders for the Carolina Panthers.

But then there's Will. Is there any part of that boy that slightly resembles me? Can a mother actually teach a boy anything important? Our family has lamented on many occasions that poor Will barely had a chance in our house. First, he was the only male, at age three, living in a single parent home. Then, after the "family blending wedding," he was the only male, along with four women, when his stepdad was on 24 hour shifts at the fire station. We all remember "the attack of the bras" that scared Will to screams when he stepped out of the shower one night. The girls were just trying to dry some lingerie on the shower rod...

I always worried that I couldn't teach him well. I had a heck of a time with the potty training adventure. Then I struggled with anything hands-on. See, Will's hands-on required left handed emphasis, and mine required right. Try to teach a left hander to tie a shoe, snap a finger, swing a golf club - the list goes on and on. Will was the comedian, the class clown, the entertainment in our family (and in his classes, much to his teachers' dismay.)

Fast forward 24 years. Today I delivered my Wee Willie Winkie (runs through the town, upstairs and downstairs in his nightgown...Will's nickname when he was a baby) to a jet plane. He is now in the city, NYC, to continue to pursue his career in acting. His mother, the teacher, is not in fact an actor...unless you count the daily performances in front of seventh graders. His mother, the teacher, would NEVER move 500 miles from home to a big, scary place with nowhere to live and no substantial bank account.

But I did teach Will all about dreams. He knows that I believe in going after them, even if it means taking a few (many?) risks. Even if it means leaving everything you know to learn new things and meet new people.

In the car on the way to the airport, it hit me that Will and I may not be so different after all. As he blasted the radio so loudly I couldn't think...while excitedly sharing songs he loves that I've never heard of, I realized this: of all of my children, he's the one who gets the lyrics instead of just hearing the music.

I think of myself at 24. I was dancing and cheering like Kelli. I had already brought my first baby home from the hospital like Heather and Erin. But I had poetry inside of me like Will. I just chose to quietly put mine on paper while his is placed under a spotlight for thousands to see.

Break a leg, Will. And remember...I'm here, 500 miles away, just changing the filters...

Poverty or Bad Parenting?

Our last novel this year is Crispin, The Cross of Lead by Avi. Set in the Middle Ages, Crispin is hunted by assasins after the death of his mother and finds a friend in a wayward juggler named Bear.

This time of year I always feel like I live in the Middle Ages. The princesses aren't talking to the peasants, and, in fact, they haven't all year. But the "peasants" seem to loom a little larger during the pre-summer last days of school; they're on my mind, and I'm losing sleep. The reason lies in two words: field trips.

It is apparent if you're paying attention on any school day who the "haves" and "have nots" are. The more affluent students line up in the a la carte lunch line, purchasing from a variety of tasty snacks - pizza sticks, subs, cheese fries, and so on. The others announce their lunch numbers without shame to the cashier while holding their styrofoam trays of mystery meat and green beans.

"Only one milk. Too bad - we're out of chocolate."

These are the goings-on of a normal day in a school; students have accepted who they are and usually don't try to hide the fact that they receive free lunch.

A field trip day is different, though, and not having money is painful for some kids. There will be gift shops and opportunities to purchase treats, and let's not forget that the trip itself costs money. ("Bring your $10.00 with your permission slip.") So last week I asked my sixth graders if I would see them all on the trip to the museum the next day. Tommy was the only student who remained quiet, out of character for him for sure.

"Tommy," I said. "Why aren't you going?"

"I don't have the money," he answered with his eyes lowered. I proceeded to tell him that we never let that keep a student from going, and I walked to the phone right then and called his homeroom teacher. She told me to send him straight to her for a form and then asked about Joe, another student in my class who hadn't turned one in. As it happened, he wasn't at school that day so we weren't sure what his status was.

I sent Tommy, and he soon returned with the form. He then told me that his teacher had called Joe's house while he was in her classroom. I asked what the outcome was, but he didn't know. Off he skipped to participate in middle school antics with his classmates.

The next morning I was making my bagged lunch for the trip. Just in case I packed an extra PB& J, extra chips, and cookies. Then I drove to school just in time for my morning duty in the library. It wasn't long before Tommy stepped through the door. He looked miserable.

"Did you bring your form?" I asked, sure that he forgot it because of the look on his face.

"Yes," he answered, still as forlorn as the day before.

"Then what's wrong?" I asked. He looked over his shoulder, then back at me.

"I don't have lunch," he said. And then..."My Grandma ate my sandwich this morning because she was mad at me. She tried to make up by handing me a banana, but I was mad then so I just went to the bus stop."

I laughed in an effort to cover my shock. "Well, I guess it's good I packed extra." He smiled and walked out, skipping.

Tommy wasn't the only one without lunch that day. But luckily our cafeteria manager made several bagged lunches for the students who receive free lunch.

Okay, so put yourself in sixth grade. You don't have a lunch, but the "lunchbox kids" sitting beside you are pulling out their Hostess Cupcakes, juice boxes, and deli-sliced sandwiches. Are you going to get up and walk over to that cooler and take a "free lunch" bag (which, by the way, is a white bag - it won't even blend in with the brown bags that some students brought)?

So I sat there at a museum picnic table and thought about the injustice of poverty. I reflected back to my own daughter's fifth grade field trip to Washington, D.C. I was a chaperone, and we were to meet the bus at 6 AM. So Kelli and I, both equally excited and hyperactive, ran into the 24 hour grocery store on the way to the school and snatched up all the snacks, drinks, and candy our basket would hold. Once on the bus, I could barely fit on the seat with our "stash" beside me. I was still daydreaming about the importance of sending children on field trips with food when Tommy's homeroom teacher came over to my picnic table and began telling me about her conversation with Joe's parents the day before.

The conversation went like this:

Teacher: I didn't receive Joe's permission form, and he's absent today. Is he planning to go?
Mom: Joe's father and I are separated. I only see him on the weekends. You'll have to call his dad. But I can tell you, he's out of work so I doubt he had the money to pay.

Next conversation:

Teacher: This is Joe's teacher. I'm calling about the field trip.
Dad: Did Joe show up at school today?
Teacher: No, he's not here.
Dad: Oh. I guess he decided not to go. (Me: What?!!)
Teacher: Well, is he going on the field trip tomorrow?
Dad: I don't know. I'll have to ask him if he wants to go.

The story continues: I did see Joe on the field trip. He was wandering around at the picnic tables during lunch. I asked him if he was going to eat, and he said, "I'm not hungry." Interpretation: "I'm not going to pick up one of those white lunch bags."

This situation has caused me to lose sleep again. What kind of parent would eat a child's lunch and send him on a field trip with nothing? What kind of parent wouldn't know whether or not his son went to school? (I thought he was "out of work." Where was this "parent" all day?) And next, do we ask our children if they want to participate in their educations?

As I lay awake for the umpteenth time in my career, I thought back to one of my favorite students, Dee. He's in a group home now. Finally, his behavior was too much for his social worker to deal with. For me...his mother is "too much" to deal with. You see, Dee's told me on numerous occasions that his mother takes money from him to buy drugs. And his grandmother takes money from her to buy her own drugs. Once Dee was suspended from the bus, and I knew that he would miss our field trip to the zoo because no one would bring him to school on that day. I called his mother and told her that I would pick him up. He waited for me at a nearby church because he didn't want me to see his house. When I got there, I had an extra biscuit for him.

"Did you eat breakfast?" I asked.

"No," he answered. "My Mama's still asleep."

"Did she fix your lunch or give you money to buy lunch?"

"No, she's busy. She has five children with five different men. You know, Mrs. Rigsbee, even I know that just ain't right."

That night I asked myself what kind of mother would send her child on a field trip with no breakfast and no lunch? How did she think he would eat? Is this a question of poverty or poor parenting or both? And how do we end it?

Dee called me on Mother's Day. I haven't taught him in four years. The message went like this: "Mrs. Rigsbee, this is Dee. I just called to wish you happy Mother's Day. Call me back."

Dee, I'm not your mother. But in so many ways, I wish I were. And although I want to single handedly wipe out poverty and ensure that all my students' parents are good parents, I know I can't do it alone. So I have to settle for doing what I can, one PB&J at a time.

But I have to tell you - it hurts my heart.

Proposals and Pudding

Testing is over, at least most of it. We still have makeups and some special tests to give, but for the most part we have lived to tell the story. That's what I'm going to attempt to do...tell the story...but so much of it is indescribable. And some of it is "you had to be there" while other parts are "you won't believe me anyway."

I'll start with Monday, the day before testing. There was an electric frenzy in the building - last minute trainings (teachers who give the tests are called administrators - that's ironic, isn't it? - and teachers who monitor the classrooms are called proctors; all of these folks have to attend a formal training.) So everyone's getting their testing lists, and while most teachers test their own homerooms, teachers without homerooms test students who are pulled for modifications. That would be me. So the school was abuzz with questions and names and procedures never ending.

Meanwhile, a new teacher on my hall had been walking around for two weeks with a diamond ring in his pocket. He had bounced proposal ideas off of all of us, and we were just as excited as he was. So on this day, he told us that "tonight's the night." He was ready to pop the question. All of a sudden there was a different buzz in the team room, a nice departure from our pre-testing chaos. Just as the day ended he said to me, "I'm so nervous. My stomach is fluttering. I feel sick."

"Matt," I said. "You know she's going to say 'yes.' What are you worried about?"

"What?" He looked puzzled. "Oh, not that! I'm nervous about the test tomorrow." Then..."Ohmigosh, I forgot my engagement!!!"

My brain is a screaming alliteration - "The toll that testing takes on teachers..."

Now to Tuesday, the first day of testing. I was assigned to read aloud math (as I've said before, this is an oxymoron.) I was extremely stressed about this duty as I am the most language artsy teacher anyone has ever seen. I'm just not quite as comfortable crossing over into other disciplines. Ask me to teach science, and we'll do science vocabulary words and write science fiction stories. So "reading math" did not make me happy. But I worked hard to get it done so I could find Matt and ask him about the previous night. Finally, I ran into him in the hallway. "So, how did it go?" I asked.

"Okay, I guess," he said.

"Okay?!!" I screamed. "Didn't she cry and get all excited?"

He replied, "Oh, man. I was talking about the test again."

As it turns out, he had postponed the question until he could get his stomach to settle.

On to Wednesday. On this day, I administered the reading test. This one I didn't have to read aloud; I merely had to walk in a perfect monitoring circle for three hours, four if they needed it. As the students arrived, I noticed one who looked like she was crying. Keep in mind that I didn't know these students very well. They were other people's students, and I was the "modifications administrator." So I walked over to her and asked her if she was okay. She nodded that she was. I said, "Are you just tired?" She nodded again. I continued to administer, and things were going well; I was walking a nicely worn path into the tile of my classroom. Then the same "tired" student raised her hand during the test and asked for a tissue. I looked toward her and saw...what...what was that? I saw a firetruck-red, baseball-size swollen, something-was-wrong eyeball.

What in the world? I thought. Did someone slug her in the eye when I was monitoring on the other side of the room? I walked over quietly, handed her a tissue, and bent over to get a closer look.

"I took it out," she said and nodded toward the top of her desk.

I looked in the direction of her nod and saw something metal...a screw? a nail? a tack? It took several seconds to figure it out. It was an eyebrow ring, well, not a ring, but a stud. This student had pulled the thing out of her eyebrow and left a flaming red, oozing, wound. She continued to test while I tried to decide if the constant crying and dabbing were interfering with her testing (or anyone else's.)

I sent my proctor (the students called her the "prompter") to get someone of high authority. She returned with the Assistant Principal who returned later with the nurse. By this time Miss I-pierced-my-own-eyebrow-and-probably-have-a-staph-infection had finished her test. She left the room without further incident. I stayed in the room with the image of flaming ooze stuck in my head.

On Thursday, Matt came to school with news of his engagement. What a wonderful day! Nothing could possibly go wrong as I administered the science test. I gathered all the students into my room and placed my "Testing" sign on the door. As I turned to close it, a boy I had tested earlier in the week tried to get in. I told him that I wasn't testing him on this day, but he commenced to yelling at his friends in my room over my shoulder. I touched him on the arm. "You need to leave," I said quietly.

"Owwww!" he yelled.

"What?" I asked. "I barely touched you."

To my horror, he lifted up his shirt to reveal a newly pierced nipple. Coincidentally, his friend was walking by my door, and he, too, lifted up his shirt to show me his newest body piercing. Two exhibitionist eighth graders - now I'm really ready to test. This time I was to read aloud again. I passed out the materials, snuggled into my reading chair and read the first question. Immediately, I heard screaming eighth graders. I didn't know what they were screaming; I just knew something was wrong. I looked for anything unusual - a bee in the room or aliens landing on the football field, but finally I was able to tune into their voices, and I realized they all were screaming, "That's the wrong question!!!"

It was soon obvious that my read aloud book was different from their test books. I called the authorities (who'd had quite enough with my room) and asked for backup - or the right test. We sat for fifteen minutes doing absolutely nothing while every other student in the school tested. There was a deafening silence in the building. At the fifteen minute mark, I called again. "Do you understand," I said to the poor receptionist in the front office, "that we are NOT testing?" We waited fifteen more minutes. Finally, after thirty painful minutes, the Assistant Principal and the testing coordinator showed up at my door.

"They're bringing you another test from the Central Office," they said together. The Central Office? I thought. That's clear in another TOWN!!!"

So we waited some more, and by the time we received the test, and I read it aloud, it was WELL past lunch time. Now...me and eating (okay, I know it's "eating and I" but as an English teacher I tell my students that I periodically use nonstandard English usage for emphasis)...so...me and eating go WAY back! I was starving. I ran into the team room, grabbed my lunch, and basically swallowed it whole like my dog Jasmine does when you throw her a treat. Finally fed, I ran into the hall to meet my next class. The Assistant Principal approached me, and at this point, I can't even believe she's still speaking to me, but she quietly said, "What's that on your shirt?" I looked down and saw a blob of brown just above my second button. Defying gravity, it was just sitting there, all blob-ish, looking like it had no intention of falling to the ground. An inch in diameter, it looked like, well, think of any brown blob you've ever seen...

"Ummm," I said to her. "That's pudding. I guess I didn't eat it all." Then to distract her I said, "I really thought this day would turn out better. Have you heard about Matt's engagement?"

I washed my shirt quickly in the Ladies Room, then bumped into the other Assistant Principal while I was rubbing my now brown spread-out-blob on my chest. He and I engaged in a stimulating conversation about pudding, when all of a sudden a piercing alarm rang out throughout the building. I saw the look of concern on the AP's face. I heard the principal come across the walkie talkie frantically repeating, "Everyone stay in the building." I translated this statement to "We are executing a lockdown!"

I sprinted like a track star down the hall to the nearest classroom, Matt's, and slammed his door. "We can't leave the building!" I yelled. I then ran over and began jerking the blinds closed. Matt looked confused as a hysterical teacher ran about his room, properly performing lockdown procedure. Before he could speak, the receptionist came over the intercom. "Mr. Johnson has asked that no one leave the building."

Matt started laughing. "He means that we don't have to evacuate. It's just an alarm problem."

"Huh?" I dropped my hands from the blinds. "Oh," I said, lowering my face in shame. "I knew that."

Now here's my proposal: how about we stop allowing standardized testing to make us so stupid? It's just a thought....

Watching Wheelbarrows

I remember reading a William Carlos Williams poem in my junior high literature book. Not sure of its meaning, I accepted it for the literary magic that it must be - so simple, but certainly full of symbolism that I couldn't yet master. It's called "The Red Wheelbarrow."

so much depends
upon

a red wheel
barrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
chickens


Having survived my days as an English major in college, I now know that this poem has been interpreted as depicting the shape of a wheelbarrow and is either a simple description of something Mr. Williams saw out his window....or is symbolic of a sick girl who is "glazed" by the tears of her family. Either way, the beginning of this work of literature has been stuck in my audio memory this week...the "voice in my head" repetitively singing...

so much depends, so much depends, so much depends...

The countdown is over. It is here. This is testing week in our school. And my poem is a little different from its inspiration:

so much depends

on a #2 pencil

and a correctly

filled bubble

while not turning

the page

when the page

says "stop."

so much depends...

What's on the line here anyway? What does depend on this test? For my students, passing it means no retakes, no summer school, no remediation classes next year (at least not at the start of school,) no reason to feel shame, and many other "no's." For teachers, having their students pass this test means not having to slump down in the faculty meeting chair while the principal is disaggregating the data class by class. For principals, it means no superiors are breathing heavily down their freshly pressed collars. For district personnel, it means no scrambling to turn a school around before federal sanctions take over. So much depends...

I wish we could just look out our windows at the red wheelbarrows. Maybe next week...after the test.

Teaching and Dreaming

I haven't written in awhile. I've had quite a busy couple of weeks - a few interviews, first with a selection committee - then with a television station, a radio station, and some teacher newsletters. As it turns out, I have been honored with a title: North Carolina Teacher of the Year. And that honor has caused quite a whirlwind in my otherwise "normal" life (well, at least as normal as a middle school teacher's life can be.)

The first day after the announcement I received over 200 emails and phone calls. The entire student body at my school, along with every faculty member, every custodian, and every member of the cafeteria staff, lined the halls of my school and screamed like a rock star was in the building. Then the flowers came. I now have a fresh arrangement in every room of my house. After those were delivered, gifts started pouring in - I have certificates for manicures, pedicures, massages, books - it is all quite overwhelming. And here's why...

I have a little voice in my head (actually, it's not little; it's extremely LOUD.) It keeps repeating...a la the Mike Myers movie from the early nineties: "You're not worthy...You're not worthy." And since the announcement, I've been having nightmares: I'm teaching and my students won't listen. They won't sit down, and they won't do any work. They wander aimlessly around my classroom, seemingly oblivious to my attempts at instruction.

In one dream, it's early morning, and I'm getting ready to go to school. My assistant principal is in my bathroom reprimanding me because I'm running late. (I'm struggling to put my makeup on...) "You're going to be late for school," she says, "and I'm going to place a letter in your personnel file!"

Then in real life, I lost a student the day I returned to school. I was out for three days for the selection process, and the day I returned I brought sausage biscuits to my classes. I do this periodically when my students deserve a treat or whenever I’m hungry, which is often. Anyway, I was telling my student Jamal that I had spoken to the principal about the possibility of him being pulled from my class one day a week to go to PE. He loves PE so the deal is that he gives me his best effort the other four days and he can go to the gym on Friday. (I was explaining this information to him on a Thursday!) I also explained that I needed to clear this idea with his mother and with the PE teacher, but I didn’t see any problem. I continued passing out biscuits and then I started my lesson. I’m just teaching away, happy as a bird, as my mother-in-law says, and then it hit me.

“Where’s Jamal?” I asked the class. In unison, they replied, “He went to PE.”

“Wait,” I said. “You’re telling me that he just up and walked out of this classroom and I didn’t even see him?”

Darryl was chewing – “Guess so…” he mumbled.

So here I am, the newly named North Carolina Teacher of the Year, and I lost a student on my first day back. And for those of you who aren’t teachers, there were many other problems with this scenario. First, I hadn’t cleared this plan with Jamal’s mother. Now, suffice it to say, Jamal’s mother does not play. One day I emailed her about a teeny tiny behavior problem. I swear I had just pushed the “send” button on my computer when my classroom door flew open. There she was, Jamal’s mother, marching in my room. “I’ll just sit here in the back,” she said. The rest of that period was perfect. Another problem with Jamal just heading to the gym like that was that I had not cleared it with the gym teacher. So teachers, how would you feel if a student just bounced into your room one day and said, “I’m in your class now; Mrs. So and So said so." This type of thing does not make for good colleagial relations.

As soon as class was over, I ran, I didn’t walk, I RAN to the gym. I explained, 90 miles an hour, that I didn’t know Jamal had left and he wasn’t supposed to, etc. etc. The PE teacher said, “Well, I thought this was kind of out of character for you” Translation – don’t do that again. No, actually he was very nice, and we have a great relationship so he trusted that he didn’t have all the information. However, I haven’t spoken with Jamal’s mama yet…

At any rate, as honored as I am about this amazing opportunity I have been given, my little voice will most likely remind me often of my mistakes. And I'll answer back that, more than anything, I just want to make a difference in my profession in the next year.

And I want a good night's sleep.