The Last Day of School

I drove home on Wednesday for the 189th* and final time this school year, never to return to my school. Grad school calls, and I can't say I'm not looking forward to returning to life from the other side of the teacher's podium. I'd thought for months about what this particular drive would feel like, and was surprised to find myself in a more somber and reflective mood than I'd anticipated. As I drove, I considered that I'd spent the better part of two years trying to impart knowledge to a bunch of 9- and 10-year olds, and had rarely considered what I'd learned from them.

I realized that they are probably a lot sweeter than I typically give them credit for, especially in this blog. So much of their outward hostility and aggression to me is really just a defense mechanism; a hardened approach likely crafted from a childhood's worth of betrayal from other adults. On the first day after standardized testing ended, I brought in the movie "Finding Nemo" to watch with the kids. "I ain't watchin that!" Jermica had sniffed. "That's a kid's movie!" Undeterred, I popped in the DVD, and was startled to see Jermica quietly crying at the film's conclusion, when little Nemo was finally reunited with his father.

I discovered that they are also extremely difficult to impress, and that the humility that this engenders in their teachers is definitely a good thing. They don't care where you've been in the world, or what college you attended, or how fast you ran in your 10k race. Throughout this school year, I'd taken a former student named Daivion to a local driving range about once a week after school, in an effort to serve as a positive role model and hopefully teach him a little about golf in the process. This spring, Daivion was watching as I knocked a ball into the cup from nearly 150 yards away. It was a miraculous shot, one that would probably have had me shouting expletives in celebration and ordering drinks for everyone in the clubhouse, were I not so intent on being a good mentor. I extended an outstretched palm to Daivion, who looked at it incredulously. "Isn't that just what you're supposed to do?" he shrugged, before resuming his practice.

My classroom is empty now. The faded photos of my family's dog I'd kept posted behind my desk, the Hannah Montana valentine I received from N'Dea, and even the old classroom aquarium have all been thrown away. I wrote in my first post that the point of this blog was not to glorify the teaching profession, but find myself writing in my last post that there may be no job which enables you to learn more about yourself than teaching. It's been exhilarating and demanding, frustrating and enlightening. You should try it sometime. 

*Teachers tend to count these kind of things. 

A Graduation Ceremony

By the time June rolls around, teachers at my school sort of look and act like zombies. We stumble around with vacant stares from sunken eyes. We talk to each other about our students in the same distant, haunted way that Vietnam vets might discuss the Tet Offensive. Even our collective sense of fashion and grooming habits have deteriorated noticeably.* This morning, however, we all bore witness to a ceremony that - if only momentarily - shook us from our cranky cynicism and restored proud smiles to our weary faces.

Every spring, our school's community gathers in the auditorium for the "Fifth Grade Moving-On Ceremony." It is an event for which girls appear in beautiful new dresses, with freshly manicured nails and intricately constructed hairstyles. The boys, on the other hand, can reliably be counted on to wander the hallways like stray dogs in the minutes before the ceremony in grotesquely oversized hand-me-down dress shirts, begging the nearest older passerby to tie their necktie for them. I was looking forward to the assembly, if for no reason other than it would allow me a break from what had become a mind-numbingly monotonous daily routine in our classroom.**

The auditorium was bustling with the graduating students' families when I arrived with my class, but all talking ceased when the fifth-graders began walking down the aisles toward the stage to "Pomp and Circumstance." They each looked supremely confident and mature, and I couldn't help but marvel at how long it seemed since so many of them were in my classroom last year. Ayana, one of my former students, led off the event with an astonishing a capella rendition of the National Anthem - no less impressive and unexpected than Napoleon Dynamite's dance - that earned a standing ovation.

After a few students had taken turns reading poems they had written for the occasion, the principal took the stage to call students by name to receive their elementary school diplomas. I rarely cry*** but it definitely got a little dusty in that auditorium as those names were read. It was one of those transcendent scenes of personal elation and professional fulfillment that I suspect not every job affords, and it reminded me of why I got myself into this business in the first place.

*Seriously, I have a beard right now, and you do NOT want to see any photos of it. It looks like I have mange.

**Once standardized testing ends in early June, teachers in my district are encouraged to find creative and ostensibly instructive ways to fill eight school days. All we really do on these days is alternate between watching a movie in class and taking an extended recess. I recently ran out of suitable movies from my personal collection to show the kids, and had to ask the students to bring their own movies to school. This was not a good idea. "Dead or Alive," which Ezekiel unpacked this morning, stands out as the most inappropriate of them all. I managed to track down its cover to share with you, and I suspect that you will be just as shocked as I was to learn that this movie is not, in fact, a porn.

***My sister would dispute this, having seen me cry upon viewing the wedding scenes of both Uncle Jesse and Aunt Becky in Full House AND Zack and Kelly in Saved by the Bell, but that's clearly irrelevant. Anyone with a functioning heart would weep buckets at the montages in those episodes. But I digress.

College Is Possible Day

Every year, my school hosts "College Is Possible" day, in which college students and recent graduates visit each classroom to talk about their schools and hopefully generate some enthusiasm among the students for a post-high school education. Last year, the four speakers in my classroom attended UVA, UNC, Princeton, and Georgetown. I was considerably more impressed by this than my students were; I distinctly remember Tye'Quan* yelling "NO!" when a speaker asked the class if anyone knew what the Ivy League was. This year, my school district did a better job of soliciting speakers from schools that are, um, more relatable for my students. 

Our first visitor announced her presence by step-dancing through the doorway and shouting some chant about her sorority. When she had finished stomping and clapping, she informed the kids that she attended Clark Atlanta University, and would soon be driving a BMW and earning $60,000 a year as a fashion merchandising major. I immediately gave her the old stinkeye, but my students were smitten. They listened with rapt attention as she described the pleasures afforded by a career in fashion, and gasped when she revealed that she once danced with rapper Ludacris in an Atlanta nightclub. When it came time for her to leave, Robert raised his hand (for the first time all year, I should point out) and asked if he could call her. She gave him a coy wink and said "I'm on Myspace, sweetie." At this point I was ready to slam my head, karate-style, through a nearby desk. It would get worse.

Next up was a clearly hungover communications major from Hampton University, who began his lecture by rolling up his shirt sleeve to display a brand on his arm bearing the letters of his fraternity. During his subsequent presentation, he professed an interest in horoscopes, and asked if any students knew their astrological signs. Tye'Naisha immediately sprang out of her seat and proudly declared "I'm a Cancer!" From behind my desk, I silently nodded in affirmation.

Our third and final guest attended Norfolk State, and did a fine job of relating how important it is to earn good grades throughout a scholastic career before opening up the floor to questions. Iyana raised her hand and asked, in all earnestness, what the consequences would be if one were to get pregnant while in college. Several boys snickered at this, but all the girls in the class leaned forward in their seats to hear her response. Flustered, the poor speaker looked to me for help, but I threw up my hands in resignation. She stammered out a helpful and nonjudgmental response and meekly left the room. With some time to kill because of her abbreviated presentation, I stood before the class and asked if anyone had any questions about my time in college.** When no one raised a hand, I turned around and started writing Math problems on the whiteboard, to a chorus of groans.

*Tye'Naisha's older brother. Other than a tendency to steal things from my desk, he was pretty manageable.

**I've already written about the occasional necessity of lying to my students, and fully expected to tell a few whoppers at this point. My kids are typically more interested in my personal life, and often ask me things like "What did you do this weekend?" and "Does you drink?" I always respond with something like "Do I LOOK like I drink?! I stayed in and planned fun lessons for you, and went to the library for a little while on Saturday! Now get back to work!"

An Ambitious Idea

In season three of The Wire, a police major decides to clean up Baltimore's Western district by designating a few blocks of derelict and abandoned rowhouses as a "free zone" in which drug dealing is condoned by the officers who patrol the area. With the dealers off the street corners, the district's crime rate plummets and it soon becomes safe to walk outside in neighborhoods long dominated by street gangs. The free zone, or "Hamsterdam" as it becomes known, devolves into a surreal haven for junkies and drunks, triggering the age-old ethical dilemma: Do the ends justify the means?*

With Hamsterdam in mind, I recently set about reorganizing the desks in my classroom in a way that I hoped would give my class their best chance to pass our rapidly approaching, all-important standardized tests. In recent weeks, Tye'Naisha** had been passing notes during class with her friends Iyana and Le'Chandra*** at a conspicuously high rate, and the trio's collective behavior had deteriorated over that timeframe from "somewhat tolerable" to "unrepentantly obnoxious." Despite their conduct, they are unquestionably three of the smartest girls in the fourth grade, and at absolutely no risk of failing their upcoming exams. 

When the girls entered my classroom on Wednesday morning, I escorted them to their new seats and explained my idea. Previously, I had the girls sitting as far apart from one another as the boundaries of my classroom would allow; an ostensibly wise plan that really just resulted in them shouting at one another from across the room during my lessons and walking further across the classroom to deliver notes than they would otherwise. According to the new arrangement, however, the girls would all be sitting together, in a corner of the classroom and facing away from the other students. I had bought them a box of crayons, drawing paper, and prepared a variety of crossword puzzles and word games and explained that they had my permission to work on them during my lessons on the one condition that they remain seated and quiet. 

So far, the idea has been a resounding success. The girls remain quietly occupied with their drawings and games, while other students in dire need of review benefit from a considerably calmer classroom environment. I confess to feeling some ethical compunctions, but suspect that this is an unavoidable byproduct of an educational system placing too much importance on standardized testing. I also suspect that this newfound serenity might not last; the girls have taken to calling themselves "The Corner Girls," a nickname I discovered on Friday afternoon, where it had been written with a permanent marker on the wall above Tye'Naisha's desk.

*Of course, the major's plan was not approved by the police commissioner, who shuts down Hamsterdam as soon as he learns of it. The major is summarily fired, sort of like I would be if my school's administration ever caught wind of this blog.

**The unanimous selection for the 2009 Cagawall Fridays MVP award. I feel like I should make her some sort of trophy for this. Suggestions are, of course, welcome.

***In two years of teaching at my school, I have taught only one female student whose name did not have three syllables and end in "A". This is not to suggest that these kids' parents are uncreative when it comes to naming babies; in fact, some have proven delightfully innovative in this department. I know of a second grader whose parents apparently thought it a good idea to name their adorable daughter "Lil'Meal." There is a Sevyn in third grade; I can only presume her parents are big Mickey Mantle fans. In a nearby school, there are twins named Lemonjello and Orangejello. There are four children at my school whose names are pronounced "Unique," which is of course ironic in itself, but even more intriguing is the fact that one spells his name "Eunich." 

An Academic Competition

I generally approach each ostensibly enjoyable field trip, guest speaker, or special event with a combination of cautious optimism and abject terror, having been humiliated too many times in these circumstances to embrace them as opportunities for entertainment. Last year's visit from an elderly representative of Monticello, who was supposed to deliver an hour-long presentation but left in tears after five minutes to jeers of "Get out of here, white woman!" comes to mind immediately. Our field trip to Jamestown this past fall, when Velquisha stole a checkerboard from inside one of the replica ships and Montee got in a fight with a kid from another school, will be an equally difficult memory to erase. I'd been looking forward to Friday's Mind Games competition, however, with unrestrained enthusiasm in the ten weeks since volunteering to coach my school's team.

Mind Games, you see, is an annual district-wide event where schools send their best and brightest to compete in a series of academic challenges. My school's team was culled from our program for gifted students, and the six fourth and fifth graders for which I was responsible were not only smart but motivated, respectful, and - most importantly - malleable. Given that I spend roughly seven hours a day working with kids who seemingly make it a point to test my patience on a daily basis, the opportunity to coach students actually willing to listen to me and follow my instructions was irresistible. From our first after-school practice, I made it my mission to not only organize a competitive team but also instill in my young charges a unique brand of showmanship, which we unveiled and executed in flawless fashion at the competition.

We arrived at the competition about 45 minutes before the scheduled start time of 10:00, each wearing our 2009 Mind Games shirts we'd designed for the occasion. We had arrived early by design, as in order to carry out our first bit of flair we needed to be the first team there. After greeting the Mind Games staffers and having our team photo taken, we strode to our assigned table and enjoyed a brunch of juice boxes and donuts. All talking stopped, however, when the first group of our competitors arrived. As rehearsed, my kids leaned back in their chairs, crossed their arms, jutted out their chins, looked appraisingly at the newcomers, and did their best to project an aura of confident authority.* They maintained their poses until the last team came through the door some fifteen minutes later. I'm still not sure whether their stares did anything to intimidate the other teams - who had become accustomed to trouncing my school in recent Mind Games competitions, and whose primary response had been to point at us and snicker - but in those fifteen minutes they demonstrated unflinching solidarity, and I couldn't have been prouder.

Because each coach had to monitor another school's team during the competition, I was unable to watch the team complete their challenges, but kept tabs from across the gymnasium floor via a series of thumbs-ups and thumbs-downs with Aisha between each event. I did have a clear view of the kids, however, as the head judge read off the answers to the analogies and general knowledge questions after those rounds had ended, and was thrilled to see us adhere to one of my strictest and most-repeated stipulations for our conduct that morning; namely, that there should be absolutely no reaction to anything said by the judge between rounds. For example, upon hearing that the answer to Question #1 was "B - Tornado," every team but one responded with loud and excruciatingly annoying "Yessssssss!!"es, spastic fist pumps, and clumsily executed high fives. My team, by contrast, merely nodded and smiled at each other in satisfaction after learning of their correct answers.

When the competition ended and coaches were allowed to rejoin their teams, I made sure to let them know how pleased I was with how they'd performed, and that the final results shouldn't matter to us. All of that changed, however, when the judge announced that we had won fifth place, and the kids immediately lost the composure they'd carefully cultivated all morning. The school's team had never done so well at a Mind Games competition, and this exceeded even my highest hopes. After staying long enough to fulfill the last of my rules of conduct - clapping and cheering for every team the judge mentioned - we headed back to our school, ribbons in hand. 

*This was easier for some than others. Alaina, for example, had a mouth, chin, and nose absolutely caked with powdered sugar from her donut.

The Aquarium Incident

"Comedy," as the axiom goes, "equals tragedy plus time." Having taught several students dealing with profoundly unfunny problems, however, I submit that there are some aspects of their tragedy that could never be transformed into humor: Velquisha's house burning down, for example. Or the eviction of Michael's family from their apartment. Or the incarceration of any number of my students' parents. In the case of my classroom aquarium, however, it only took two months for me to accept that there might be some comedic value to what initially appeared to be a completely unamusing situation.

Resting unsteadily atop a dilapidated bookcase crammed with a variety of neglected books, in an unswept corner of the room I'd designated (in more innocent and ambitious days) as our "classroom library," is an aquarium. It used to be the home of three goldfish, which I let various students name and feed on a weekly basis.* At this point of the school year, the fish are long dead, but I've kept the aquarium running, having found the sound of trickling water to be something of a calming influence in an otherwise hectic environment. Today the aquarium is a watery graveyard of broken pencils, arrowhead erasers, and other assorted detritus that the kids drop in when my back is turned. It is also a home to a family of cockroaches that crawl along its walls, by which my students are remarkably - and perhaps tellingly - unbothered. 

One afternoon this February, Xavyer was keeping himself occupied during a Social Studies lesson by taking apart a marker. Given that he was going about this business in a very surreptitious manner, I was unable to see exactly how he managed to remove the marker's stem of red ink from its plastic tube, but suffice to say he has a bright future as a mechanical engineer. As I turned around to write something about the Virginia Declaration of Rights on the whiteboard, I detected a patter of footsteps to and from the aquarium. I paused in time to see Xavyer scampering back to his seat, but by then it was too late. I watched with horror as the water turned a steadily deepening shade of red. Within minutes, the tank was filled with a liquid that looked, to the class's delight, exactly like blood. Compounding this problem was a surprise visit later that afternoon from my school's principal, who was less than thrilled by what she saw in the corner, and told me as such in her office later that day. She was graciously forgiving, however, and often jokes with me now about the "aquarium incident." 

*My behavior monitoring system (in teaching parlance, the "classroom management device") consists of a sheet of blue felt affixed to a closet door, on which laminated paper fish, each bearing the name of a student and a square of Velcro, move up and down across six levels, depending on that student's behavior. Students may move up the board (swim) after successfully completing a homework assignment or demonstrating appropriate conduct in the classroom, but are considerably more likely to be moved down the  board (sink) for things like throwing spitballs or yelling at me. The three best-behaved students at the end of the week earned the privilege of not only taking turns feeding the fish the next week, but giving a fish the name of their choice. By a comfortable margin, the most common fish name was "Souljafish." Other memorable names included "Big Killah" and "Fishy the Crackhead." These, mind you, were names dreamt up by my best-behaved students.

A Trip to the Theater

If the five seasons of The Wire taught me anything, it's that there is no character as reviled (not even you, Policeman) in inner-city neighborhoods as the Snitch.* To residents of these neighborhoods, snitching is unjustifiable under any circumstances, and results in - at best - the complete ostracization of the Snitch from the rest of the community.** Though typically used in reference to one who provides police with information, the term "snitching" can be heard frequently in my classroom as well. For example, I recently asked Jermica, who sits next to my desk in the classroom, if she knew anything about the whereabouts of a missing bag of lollipops I had stored there to reward well-behaving students at the end of the week. "Mr. Martin, you know I ain't no snitch!" was her response. I left it at that.

All of which brings us to this morning's field trip, where we headed downtown to see a play called "The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere." Somewhat shockingly, my students had never heard of the play's protagonist, and as such were unaware of the reasons why he is considered an American hero. We were the first school to arrive at the theater, and were ushered into the first few rows of seats. The kids were excited but well-behaved as they waited for the play to begin. Ever vigilant, I walked the aisles adjacent to my fourth graders, arms crossed and unsmiling, clenching a list of parents' phone numbers I had brought for the sole purpose of intimidating unruly students into good behavior. I never once needed the list, and as the play began and the kids were uniformly captivated by the action taking place mere feet in front of them, I remember thinking "Maybe this won't be a complete humiliation after all." (At this point, all three of my faithful readers should see where this is headed.)

The behavior remained outstanding as the performance drew to a close; two of my students even took a nap.*** The trouble began, however, as Paul Revere mounted his horse to spread the word of how the British troops were assembling. As Paul rode through the Massachusetts countryside, alerting fellow patriots that the Redcoats were crossing the Charles River, I detected excited whispering from the direction of Alonte, Montee, and Izeah a few seats over. I leaned forward and directed a withering glare at them, and all was quiet again until the end of the performance. At the play's conclusion, each actor stepped forward individually and bowed in acknowledgement of the crowd's applause. When it came time for the actor who portrayed Paul to take his bow, he was greeted by a near-unanimous cheer of approval from the few hundred students in attendance, with the notable and very audible exception of Alonte, Montee, and Izeah, who shouted boos at the man from a few feet away. Face flushed with anger and embarrassment, I managed to silence them and walked all three up the aisle and into the theater's lobby, where I asked what reason they could possibly have for booing a man who had just spent over an hour trying to educate and entertain them. They looked puzzled. "Why would I cheer for him?" Montee asked. Quivering with anger, I implored him to explain himself. Pausing a few seconds, Montee finally spoke with such innocence and sincerity that I lost all anger and broke down in laughter. "Paul Revere a snitch!" he declared.

*Slang for an informant. If you can't realistically request the next two weeks off work for "urgent personal business" to watch The Wire in its entirety, then at least do yourself a favor and watch this fascinating interview if you doubt me on this assertion.

**For you English majors, a comparison can be made here to The Scarlet Letter's Hester Prynne, if you permit yourself to envision her in decidedly less Puritanical surroundings. And with the name La'Hestra.

***Given that these students were not in the very first row of seats, I was completely fine with this. Any teacher who tells you that they would rather have two of their students wide awake than silently asleep during a play in a darkened theater is lying to you.