A Shiny New Day

I so love the first day back in school after a break. I can barely sleep the night before as I lay and wonder which students will show up at school: the sleepy ones who aren't accustomed to getting up so early or the rested ones who are too excited to focus on schoolwork.

Today I drove to school and thought of each group. I remembered the years I had to walk desk to desk and grab up kids by the nape of the neck...just to keep them from snoring. I also thought of a return after spring break a couple of years ago. Those students were so distracted I had to fight for attention and eventually gave up.

So today I watched the first wave of students come down the hallway - the sixth graders. Immediately I knew which group had arrived - the sleepy type! They came down the hall in slow motion, like a prepubescent gelatin gradually released from its mold, these kids were sleepwalking out of the gym, down the hallway, and into their homerooms.

Glazed eyes walked by me; I couldn't even grab a hug or get a hello. It was too cute! A sixth grade teacher called for some of us to come look at her class - we peeked in to see twenty-nine little zombies staring straight ahead.

As the day wore on, of course, one by one our students woke up. As I worked with children throughout the day, walking up and down the aisles of the classroom, I noticed my own distraction: my eyes were drawn to the floor. And then I realized - almost every student had on new shoes, gifts from Santa visits during break. New sneakers were everywhere and every color of furry boot you can imagine.

I started thinking about sleepy children in shiny new shoes and got excited about a new year and new possibilities. Happy New Year to teachers and students sleepy and awake. Welcome to a shiny new year!

Teaching Tolerance

This sign, announcing that the weight tolerance for heavy trucks ends here, sits just down the road from my school. I have the urge to mark through it so that it reads "Tolerance Begins Here."

It's happening again. Kristin comes to me to ask if she can change groups. She can't work with Jacob. I ask her what the problem is even though I know: "Jacob stinks," she says.

And although I silently wish that Kristin is speaking metaphorically, I know it's true - Jacob literally smells bad. Despite referrals to the guidance office and the social worker, Jacob carries the distinct odor of poverty - old, hand-me-down clothes; mold and mildew from a house that is rotting where it stands; and second-hand smoke in his hair, which is in constant need of a cut and a bottle of shampoo.

I look to the other side of the room to see Hannah nodding toward Jenny. I can read her lips as she whispers to Caden across the aisle: "Look at her shoes," she says. I walk over and look at Jenny's shoes myself. They aren't a name brand, and Jenny, during what must surely be boredom from always sitting alone, has colored in her once-white shoes with red ink.

Unfortunately, these examples of student behaviors are all too commonplace in our schools. How can I, as a teacher, help my students understand how to be more accepting of others, especially of those who are different socially or academically?

First, we must model acceptance ourselves. When students see teachers, the role models they spend most of their days with, treating each student with the same unconditional understanding and attention, they recognize the importance of treating others equally, the importance of valuing others regardless of where they're from or what they wear.

Also, it is imperative that we have open conversations with our students about how to treat other people. I've noticed that students always pull for the underdog in movies and become angered at how others are treated across the world but will behave just as unfairly to classmates sitting four feet away. I don't hesitate to point this fact out to them, and we have emotional discussions about ways to change our own behaviors.

And last, I use every opportunity I have to point out the amazing talents of the "underdogs" in my classroom. Jacob's artwork, for example, has decorated many book projects and classroom displays. And Jenny's knowledge of books, in particular the Twilight series, is an example for all of my middle school readers.

I don't force students to work in ways that make them uncomfortable. However, I do require that they treat every other student with respect. I make it clear that I will tolerate nothing less. Maybe Jacob can draw me a sign for my classroom - Tolerance Begins Here.

Setting the Record Straight

I love writing, getting my ideas out there...sharing them with somebody, anybody who may find what I have to say interesting. However, I get all prickly when something I have said is taken out of context, or is misinterpreted for the world to see.

It all started innocently enough. A few years ago, I had just begun investigating social networking when I ran across a student's MySpace page. On it, one of my students had written this:

"wut it do i ain't talked 2 u n a minute ever since da last day of skool fo christmas break wut been ^ 2 me nuttin jus sittin @ home ain't gone nuttin 2 do........well i wuz jus stoppin by 2 sho ur page sum luvin get baq @ me when u can"

I was horrified! I was reading this before (B4) I began participating in social networking myself, before I figured out how to text on a teeny keyboard on my phone, before I became cool. So I developed a presentation for my students that eventually found its way around the entire school. I was able to share my ideas on writing with every language arts student in my building that year.

What I did was talk about the history of our language. I went way back to our Greek and Roman roots (pun intended) in language, traveled through old English, middle English, Elizabethan English, and onward to modern times, providing examples along the way. I ended with the MySpace quote, and the students and I had a grand time discussing what effects, if any, this type of abbreviated writing would have on formal writing. I was pretty sure we were doomed. They just laughed at my concern as if they had not a care.

Shortly after, I wrote an article I called "Grammar Interrupted" for Teacher Magazine online. It received lots of "hits" and folks emailed me for awhile, asking questions about my lesson. From there, I was interviewed by Sara Bernard from Edutopia. Her article, "The Zero Thumb Game: How to Tame Texting," came out on May 28, 2008. Ms. Bernard interviewed several teachers and did a great job of summarizing all of our comments. When she mentions my use of the MySpace page for instruction, she says,

"Some English teachers are tapping into their students' own instant messaging style to get their points across. Some, including Cindi Rigsbee, are guiding exercises in text translation: pulling up a MySpace page...and asking students to translate the writing into standard English. Or they ask students to translate passages from classic literature to texting speak to demonstrate their comprehension..."

The key word here is "some." Sara Bernard is not only talking about me. She interviewed several people! She has correctly identified the activity that I did, "pulling up a MySpace page" and thrown in another activity - translating passages from classic literature - which can be attributed to the teachers she refers to as "they." So far so good.

Here's what happened a few weeks ago, a long two years later: I started getting calls and emails from local media as well as from news anchors in New York City. After some investigation I found out that an article had come out in a major newspaper in my state, The Charlotte Observer, naming me in a report about texting. On October 29th, the following was printed in US News and World Report:

"Teachers such as Cindi Rigsbee have asked students to translate passages from classic literature to text-speak..."

Uh-oh...no I didn't!

So when the reporters called me and found out that I didn't actually have students translate from classic literature to text-speak (instead, it was the other way around for me), they weren't interested in interviewing me. That was okay...I had "not a care." Until today...

While searching amazon.com to see if my upcoming book was listed, I found myself in another book, a book by an author I've never heard of - Why can't U teach me 2 read? by Beth Fertig.

"Cindi Rigsbee, a middle school teacher...asked her students to translate lingo-based websites into standard English and to translate classic literature into text-speak."

Okay, now my feelings are hurt. Not only do I not have students translate from classic literature into text-speak, I know that I never would! Why in the world would I ask students to write incorrectly on purpose? Goodness knows they're practicing enough of that! Meanwhile, who is Beth Fertig, and couldn't she have contacted me before mentioning me (and my alleged activity) in her book?

So there are several problems here. One is that what I actually do has been interpreted across four articles until the original meaning has changed. Another is that our "global" access to information means that anyone can get their hands on what is actually a teacher's intellectual property and use it as they wish, even if it's incorrect.

So here I am setting the record straight. If any of you ever see anything about me in print and want to use it in your book, please just ask me. I may have been misquoted, misinterpreted, or misunderstood.

Jus send an email 2 me or sho my pag sum luv.

Think Before You Speak

Teachers have powerful voices. As we struggle to be heard by policy-makers, the community, and others who can impact our profession on a large scale, we are definitely being heard...maybe not by those groups as often as we'd like, but by another group that is even more important - our children.

Recently I watched a class of third graders read together. It was a Halloween story, spooky and scary, and they loved it! They read together, a chorus of ghouls, and on the scary parts, they got louder and louder! There was an energy in the room as they got more and more excited. They started squirming in their seats, wiggling and shouting...it looked as if the room would erupt at any second.

And then the teacher said, "Calm down. If you get out of control, we won't be able to do fun things like this any more. Instead, you'll have to read to yourself."

(Insert here the sound of a needle scratching across a record.)

What?!

Okay, you know what she literally said. But what those kids heard was that if they didn't behave they would have to read for punishment. Punishment? Reading should be a reward as in... "If you walk nicely to the cafeteria for lunch, I'll let you read silently for the rest of the day...the week...the year...!"

I've heard it too many times to count - "Jacob, you can't work nicely in the group. Get a book and sit over there and read."

And what about writing for punishment? Teachers have been assigning the ever-dreaded "sentences" for years.

I will not talk in class.

I will not talk in class.

I will not talk in class.

And we've all seen these writing prompts: Write one full page explaining why you didn't do your homework.

No wonder our students hate to write stories and poetry and reflections. We may as well assign:

I will never like to write.

I will never like to write.

I will never like to write.

Teachers, let's make a commitment to think before we send the message that literacy's not important.

And while we're at it, let's stop making our athletes run laps when they lose a game or run a drill incorrectly at practice. Exercise - another activity we want our children to choose - but they won't if they "hear" it as punishment.

Mama's Birthday, Part II

This is my mother on the day of her bridal shower in 1956.

My Mama was my first teacher, as most mothers are. But mothers in the fifties were stay-at-home, hands-on, just-wait-til-your-Daddy-gets-home kind of mothers. It was great. My Mama taught me how to tie my shoes and how to shop for bargains, how to bake a cake and how to steam cabbage, how to soothe a screaming newborn and how to get that newborn into a great university. My Mama - my first teacher.

Today is Mama's birthday. She's 82 years young. It's a wonderful day, but there have been times in the past four months when I thought this day may not come. My mother has had a rough go of it for awhile - she's fallen about fifteen times, broken her hip, elbow, and back, had one hospital stay and two trips to the rest home.

But today, her birthday, she's doing better. She's strong, her head is clear, and she's walking better than I can remember in awhile. So in honor of my mother, Clara Agnes Moore Cole, I'm digging up an old post entitled Mama's Birthday. This little piece got me a fourth runner up prize in the Carolina Women's Writing Contest - a gift certificate to an organic market. (My Mama grew organic food on her childhood farm before she knew it was cool.)

Read on, those of you who love your mothers. They continue to teach us every day.

Mama enjoys her birthday cake and coffee.

Teaching Joy

I've been spending much of my time lately in a skilled nursing center - a nice euphemism for "rest home" or "old folks home" - what they were called when I was a child, where my mother would take me while selling AVON. Now my mother is a resident. Up until recently I haven't focused much of my attention on the elderly of our community. That's because I've been busy with the other end of the spectrum - prepubescent cherubs - those middle school students I teach.

But since I've spent numerous hours with octogenarians (and older) in the past few months, I've become aware of their importance in our culture, of their stories and experience. I've been particularly drawn to the line of wheelchairs that greet me just as I punch in the security code and enter the facility every day. My mother is never in that line; instead she keeps to herself in her room, except for meals, because she finally, here at the end of her life, has time to read novel after novel uninterrupted. (Well, she is my mother.)

And one glance at the wheelchairs lined up by the door can give me valuable information as I enter: I can tell time by whether or not the inhabitants are sleeping, for example. Each resident requires a mid-morning and mid-afternoon nap. If the wheelchair line is missing altogether, I've arrived at mealtime and know to head to the dining hall.

The lady who sits on the end of the line, Mrs. Bryant, has always caught my eye. She is the most impeccably dressed - always sporting a beautiful scarf or pin to accent her sweater. Mrs. Bryant has thick glasses - I've often wondered if she even sees me as I walk by - but regardless, I always say hello.

Yesterday I finally had an opportunity to talk to her for awhile. My mother was asleep, novel still in her hand, when I arrived. Not wanting to wake her, I sauntered out into the hallway and headed to the "line." Mrs. Bryant was the only resident awake. After I said hello, the nurse called to me from her desk: "Aren't you a teacher? Mrs. Bryant was a teacher, too!"

Mrs. Bryant lit up like the first day of school and started telling me about her early career in Pennsylvania...in 1927! Now, I know I'm not good at math. But I do know this: my mother was born in 1927, and she's 82 years old! So my next question couldn't wait..."how old are you?"

She laughed quietly, and I wondered if my question were inappropriate. But she was proud to answer. "102," she said.

"102 years old?!" I know I seemed shocked, but Mrs. Bryant must be accustomed to that reaction because she continued on..."There are people who can't believe that I loved it so much," she said. "But it was a joy in my life. I had no children of my own. My students were my children."

I asked her what she taught. "Everything," she said. And she continued, "I taught..." She paused. I waited, but she stared ahead for many painful seconds.

"My mind," she said finally. "Sometimes it just goes away." I laughed and told her that mine does that, too. At that point it was apparent that she was tired and was unable to retrieve the words she needed for the conversation. So I told her we'd talk again soon and left for my visit with my mother.

Later that week, there were days in my school when I was weary. But I would think of Mrs. Bryant and push on.

This job, you see...this opportunity to make a difference in the lives of children...it is the joy of my life, too. Thank you, Mrs. Bryant, for paving the way for those of us who are following in your footsteps. It is an honor to know you.

Teacher Bashing and An Overheard Goat

It’s happening again. There’s another Teacher Basher in the crowd. In an airport this time…probably not the best place to confront a total stranger and begin an argument. I mean, they won’t even let me take my Clinique Dramatically Different Moisturizing Lotion through security; do you think they’ll let me stand up at the gate to a plane and yell my position?

I first picked up on his (exceedingly loud) telephone conversation when he said that “history is nothing but memorizing.” I was ready then to present my counterpoint, that in schools today we don’t teach memorization. We teach thinking. I’m not even a history teacher, but I can just hear my colleagues across the country asking their students, “What if we had lost the Revolutionary War? How would we be different?” And then I hear my students answering, “We would all talk like Harry Potter and drink tea in the afternoons. Cool!”

But just as I was forming my remarks in my mind, the overly loud phone conversationalist said this: “It’s just because the teacher is bad. Face it. It’s a public school. Teachers are bad in public schools. If you’re lucky you’ll come across a couple of good ones. I had a few good ones in school. But most are bad.”

I choked on my airport “you have to check in way too early” breakfast muffin and listened. He continued so long that I considered handing him a thesaurus so that he could look up some alternatives for the word “bad.” Michael Jackson fan, I guess. Or a goat (baaa…aaa…ddd…)

Not a teacher fan.

Interestingly, I’m in this airport because I’m returning home from a teacher conference, a State Teacher of the Year conference, in fact, where I have spent the week exchanging ideas, laughter, and tears with the best and brightest, as well as some of the most inspiring and motivated, teachers across the country.

So here I sit faced with a dilemma. I have things to say about teachers. I have strong opinions about the phrase “bad teachers.” But to stand up and attempt a conversation with this man, this total stranger, when I am alone in this airport, would most likely be futile and would give him more fuel to add to his fire, to add to his negative opinion of teachers.

So I make a vow to myself to work harder at changing the public’s perception of teachers. And although I can make presentations to educator groups, stand in front of thousands, shout from the mountaintops (or at least across the blog-o-sphere), I think the place I can make the most difference is in my very own classroom. I need to make sure that none of my students’ parents ever refer to me in a conversation that echoes across an airport.

That would be baaa...aaa…ddd.