It's mean, and that makes it wrong.

“We was bad.” Kristopher’s sunken expression reflected the general mood of the cafeteria. He glanced at Harry sitting by himself a few feet away. Harry was one of only three white boys in the entire class, and the heaviest by far. His eyes were red with tears, and he used a chubby fist to wipe his runny nose.

Half-a-dozen of my boys, all black, including Kristopher, stood military-style next to Mrs. Clayton, a neighboring teacher who witnessed the incident. She stood between them and Harry.

“What happened?” I looked at the boys perplexed. Kristopher and Navelle were quiet. Daryl was whimpering, “I din’t DO NUFFIN’!” Toby was playing with his teeth. Frank was laughing and punching Julius in the arm, and Julius was mumbling, “Stop it, Francis! It ain’t funny!” None of them met my gaze. Little Harry started to cry.

“These six were bullying this one,” Mrs. Clayton pointed toHarry. “Called him fat," she whispered. "Said he was stupid. They were ganging up, throwing food at him, the whole nine yards.” My eyes got wide. I didn’t know what to say. “You gotta problem with bullying?” Her question took me off guard. Bullying? In kindergarten? To my shock, I knew the answer.

“Only with my white boys,” I whispered. How could I have missed this? “They only pick on my white boys.”

“Well, you gotta tell ‘em to stop.” Mrs. Clayton shook her head and glanced around at the boys. “Tell ‘em it ain’t okay.”

Tell them it ain’t okay? Of course. Easy for you to say. The solution seemed at once perfectly obvious and completely impossible. How do you convince a child to stop being racist? They don’t even know what it means.

I took a deep breath and lined up the class. My six bullies-in-the-making didn’t say a word.

“Sorry teacher.” Julius’s raspy voice broke the silence. His pair of black chucks squeaked back and forth on the linoleum floor. “We was just playin’.”

I sighed. An hour later the classroom was empty except for me and the six boys. They were in trouble, but most of them didn’t care. Now was my chance to make the consequence meaningful. Now was my chance to talk to them, to tell them it’s not okay to pick on Harry just because he’s fat and white. But what could I say?

I cleared my throat. “Boys, what happened in the cafeteria today…you were picking on Harry. You can’t treat other kids that way.”

“But we was just playin’ around with him,” said Frank.

“Yeah, we was just playin’ with him,” said Julius.

“But Harry wasn’t playing was he?” I stumbled to find the right words. “Harry was crying, wasn’t he? You can’t play that way with kids.”

“Why?” said Frank.

“Because…” I found my voice trailing.

“Because it’s MEAN,” said Kristopher, suddenly exploding out of his chair. Julius’s eyes got wide, as if it were the first time he’d heard such reasoning in his life.

I blinked at Kristopher. “It’s mean.” I said. “That’s right. It’s mean. And that makes it wrong.” It seemed as if truth were dawning upon their faces for the first time, as if no one had ever told them it was wrong to be mean. “How would you like it if everyone ganged up on you instead? How would you like it if everyone called you stupid in front of everybody?”

And just like that they pictured themselves in Harry’s place, pushed and shoved, called stupid, milk poured over their heads.

“Man,” Kristopher said, his bottom lip trembling, his eyes brimming with tears. Daryl and Toby started to cry.

Mrs. Clayton’s admonition in the cafeteria suddenly returned. “Tell ‘em to stop. Tell ‘em it ain’t okay.” Could it really have been that simple? I’d balked at the idea in the cafeteria. It couldn’t be. But this crowd of sobbing five and six year olds told me otherwise.

It’s mean, and that makes it wrong. It really was that simple. How much heartache could we avoid if we simply taught our children to think this way from the start?
from December 6, 2012

A Difference

    I’m going back.

    Bags of luggage and empty shoes rolled down the conveyor belt. I slipped off my Airwalks and tossed them into a container alongside my coat and computer bag. The routine was familiar. The buzz of the airport washed over me.

    I’m going back.

    Ten more children would become a permanent part of my classroom in a week, pushing our size to an impossible 34 kinders. Nothing new. They’d been in my classroom already. I’d survived in the hopes that a new teacher would be hired. Now the change was indefinite. No reinforcements.

    When I joined Teach for America a month before graduating college, I had dreams of making a difference. Now, two days after Thanksgiving, it all seemed like a joke. A difference? Making a fool of myself more like it. I felt as if I’d been dropped in the desert with an empty canteen and three-dozen dehydrated children. My job? Turn sand into water for the next ten months. The pressure made me sick.

    I walked through security in a daze. Reality beat upon my head like a giant mallet driving another fencepost into the ground of “welcome-to-the-real-world.” Months of lonely disappointment echoed in my brain to a bitter and horrifying cadence. “You can’t make any difference. You can’t make any difference. You won’t make any difference.”

    I found a corner of the airport, buried my face in the knees of my jeans, and cried.

   

    Two days later I entered the cafeteria of my school and wanted to puke. Every morning was the same. Chasing kids down, breaking up fights, and consoling tearful children who’d been cussed out by their mamas. Or left standing in the cold for an hour without a coat. Or forced to go to school covered in urine because baby brother peed all over their shirt and grandma didn’t have the time. And I had to teach them.

  

    “I’m sick.” The words came out of my mouth Wednesday morning, and I knew they weren’t true. Not false. I did have a cold. But not true. I was fine. “I think I might need to go fill this prescription at Wal-Mart. I’ll come back if I start feeling better.” What the heck? I’d never told such a deceptive lie in my life.

    An hour later I was on the road, driving away from school, away from kids, away from pain, away from everything. My destination? The farthest Wal-Mart Supercenter I could think of, located on the other side of the city, over 30 miles away, to fill a prescription that I didn’t need for a cold that gave me the sniffles. It didn’t matter that I’d stretched the truth. It didn’t matter that I’d abandoned my kids. It didn’t matter that nobody was teaching them. I was running away, and I knew it.

    Walking through Wal-Mart’s automatic doors and into the pharmacy felt surreal. The quiet hum of normal people going about their normal business shocked my overwhelmed senses like a splash of ice water in the Sahara. I scanned the faces of busy mothers piling on groceries, a grandfather grabbing some extra batteries, friends joking with each other, chatting about the day. Didn’t they know there was a warzone 30 minutes north?

    Feelings are hard to describe when you’re asked to do the impossible and everyone acts like it’s a simple thing. “Oh, you teach kindergarten? How cute.” I wanted to scream. The world was a fog. Panic began to asphyxiate my breath as I finished my ridiculous pharmacy trip, sat down in the driver’s seat of my car empty-handed, and started up the engine. My heart plunged into darkness. I was driving back north. There was no escape. I was going back. They were waiting for me, waiting for that sandy canteen to spout water, and I didn’t know how.

    I turned up the music and blasted the speakers, anything to escape my desperation. Anything to escape. Anything. But as I sped down the expressway clutching the steering wheel in a white-knuckled grip, a voice, barely audible beneath the booming of the stereo and pounding of my heart, whispered softly, “Aren’t you tired? Aren’t you tired of running away?”

    I turned off the blasting music, and silence filled the car. And in the silence I heard my voice yell out in sobbing tones barely recognizable, “GOD FORGIVE ME.” God forgive me for running away. Forgive me for trying to escape. Forgive me for hiding in the boat because I’m afraid to walk on water. Forgive me for my lack of faith. Forgive me.

    Twenty minutes later, I rolled my car into the school parking lot and stared at the playground, where a set of brand new slides and shiny equipment contrasted sharply with our tattered building made in the 1950s. Government money meant we got a brand new playground and Smartboards in every classroom, while state budget cuts meant fewer and fewer teachers for a growing population of children.

    Staring out the window of my car, I began to realize that something was different. I don’t know how, but something changed in that car, between the automatic entry at Wal-Mart and the 60-year-old doors of my school, something that turned the weight of 10,000 bricks into feathers. Something that turned the impossible into a simple matter.

    And my classroom was never the same.

    I turned off the engine, grabbed my bag, and walked through the gate onto the playground. My kids were at recess. A pre-k assistant was watching them in my absence. They noticed my arrival immediately.

    “Teacher! Where’d you go?”

    “I saw yo’ car!”

    “You at a meeting?”

    “Michael been bad!”

    How could I run away? They were kids. They were my kids. But somehow that didn’t seem right anymore. Could I really call them mine? In the energy of the playground I heard a voice whisper, “They’re my kids.”

     In some ways nothing changed. In some ways everything changed. The same kids greeted me in the morning with all their problems, griefs, and challenges. The same empty classroom greeted me in the evening, trashed and torn to pieces, dirty walls pasted with learning objectives never accomplished. But I wasn’t running anymore. I wasn’t escaping a prison camp where my kids were instruments of torture. They weren’t my kids in the first place. They were His. They weren’t my problems. They were my calling. How could I run away from that? I’d be running away from God.

    I turned off the lights to my classroom that evening and said goodnight to the custodian before slamming closed an ancient door that never locked no matter how hard you kicked it. I kicked the door one last time, just to say I tried, then walked through an empty parking lot to my car. Would I ever make a difference? Would I ever see the change that TFA touts? Those horrifying words echoed in my head once again, “You can’t make any difference. You won’t make any difference.”

    But somehow the words had lost their fright between the misery of the morning and the solitude of the night. I kicked my car into drive and headed south. Things were different now. Or perhaps I finally saw how things had always been. How could I have been so blind? A voice hummed beneath the drone of my engine, "God makes all the difference. God makes all the difference. He will make a difference."

compiled from journal entries written November 24th - December 1st

Today's Civil Rights Issue

    The Center for Urban Renewal and Education recently published an article describing education as "today's civil rights issue." The argument is worth considering. Our public school system has become a trap for many low-income students. The money you make determines your neighborhood which determines your school which determines your education which determines the money you make which determines your neighborhood... etc.

"Public school reality today for black kids is one that overwhelmingly keeps them incarcerated in failing, dangerous schools. It's evidence of the indomitable human spirit that, despite horrible circumstances, many poor unmarried black mothers understand the importance of getting their child educated and will do whatever it takes to get their kid into a decent school... And yet when they try, they get convicted, jailed, fined, and sent back to the plantation."

    There are many other issues feeding the cycle of poverty, but this one is too often overlooked. Education was the doorway out of poverty for many generations. Things have changed in recent decades. For those living in low-income neighborhoods, the failing school they are forced to attend only widens the achievement gap and tightens the chains of poverty.

    

Resolutions

    Resolved: To enjoy my kids and remember that they are children.

    Father, I am tired of being a tyrant in my classroom. Make me a leader instead. I am tired of being a disciplinarian. Make me a healer instead. I am tired of dreading my classroom and kids. Make me joyful instead. I am tired of clutching my head in despair, yes, every planning period. Make me hopeful instead. I am tired of being afraid. Make me courageous instead.

from November 12, 2012

She Lost Her Voice!

   I said hello to Jhaide, a student from Ms. Storm's class, while she was getting her backpack in the hallway yesterday. She looked at me with the most horrified expression.
    "WHAT HAPPENED TO YOUR VOICE?!?!" Her squeal communicated a level of terrified amazement.
    I suppressed the urge to laugh and calmly smiled. "I lost it, Jhaide."
    Jhaide's eyes grew big. "You LOST your voice?!?" She gasped, then turned around and ran into her classroom. "Guys! She lost her voice! Listen to her! Listen to her!" Jhaide burst out of the room with a trail of six-year-olds bouncing behind her.
   I turned down the hall to make my escape, but could hear the buzz of little voices behind me. "She lost her voice?" - "Yeah! I heard it too!" - "Where'd it go?" - "I dunno!"
    Technically, I should have told them to be quiet. No yelling in the hallway. I tossed the idea. Just this once. This was far too amusing.
   from October 31, 2012.

To Live is Christ

"For to me to live is Christ and to die is gain."

- Phil. 1:21

    The more I come to know Jesus Christ and the comfort of his saving love, the more acquainted I become with the sufferings of this world. The more I come to know the joy of his salvation, the more impatient I become with this life. The more I come to know the peace of his presence, the more restless I become to enter his rest, away from the constant struggle of living in a fallen world

    Yet somehow the more I struggle with the pains of this world, the sweeter that final rest will become. With every burden I carry, the more aware I become of the strength of his arm that sustains me, bearing burdens that would otherwise crush me. With every fire that burns, the more aware I become of his enveloping peace that grants me safety in the hottest flame. With every storm that I face, the more aware I become of his mighty hand that stays the strongest wave and beckons me to walk on water.

    Lord, what can I say but that it is a privilege to be burdened by the struggles of this life? What can I say but that it is an honor to be refined through the fires of this world? Apart from pain, I would not know you. Apart from hunger, I would not eat your bread. Apart from thirst, I would not drink your water. In my need you reveal yourself. In my weakness I am forced to seek your presence. In my darkest hour, your light becomes a beacon.

    So I thank you for my need. It is in my need that you reveal your sufficiency. 

from October 31, 2012

The End of Myself

    It's impossible for me to explain the kind of stress and pressure this job entails. I could not have imagined what it would be like, even if I went back in time and told myself every single gruesome detail. You just can't understand until you've lived it, until you've experienced it yourself.
    I've spent more lonely nights crying into my pillow than I normally spend in a year, and with the news that Tiffany was leaving us, my heart sank even lower. I could not imagine stuffing my classroom with 31 students.
     "I can't do this, God. I can't do this." The words stumble out in my prayers as desperate pleas for mercy. "God, I can't do this."
    Teaching has brought me to the end of myself. It sounds strange to say this, but I'm glad. I needed this. I needed to be shown my limits. I needed to reach the end of my rope. I needed to learn a painful lesson. A lesson that will stick with me for the rest of my life. When you've gone as far as you can go, God will take you as far as He can go.
    Is there any better place to be than the impossible? Is there any better weight to bear than the unbearable? When I do the possible, I act alone. When I take up the impossible, I act in the power of God. God is at work when things are impossible.

    Lord, let me always be brought to the end of myself that I might know just how far you can take me. Place the unbearable upon my shoulders. Make my life a testimony of your power and not my own. Let me reach the end of my life and look back upon a history of your great works, not mine. Set the impossible before me, and let no question remain that you are the one at work in my life. You. And you alone.
    I can do all things through Christ who strenghthens me. Nothing is too difficult for you. Make your strength perfect in my weakness.
from October 29, 2012 

All Things Are Possible

   Tiffany is being forced to transfer to a different school. Why? According to the district, records show "insufficient certification in the field of early childhood," which means she's certified to teach elementary grades, but not kindergarten. Are they providing a teacher to replace her? Nope. Do her kids have anywhere to go? Nope. Are they worried about this? Nope.
    Didn't they tell you? No teacher at all is better than a teacher who is certified in the wrong grade. Duh.
    This means by the end of the week, Tiffany's 23 kids will be split up into the remaining kindergarten classrooms. The district expects our principal to dig around and find someone else. There's just one problem. There are no more kindergarten teachers in our district. Zero. Nada. Zip. They don't exist. The current plan is to stuff each classroom with 30-plus kids until next semester, when a new wave of early graduates will hopefully hit the market. If we're lucky, we might snag a new teacher. If we're lucky.
 
    Months before I decided to join Teach for America, I had a dream that I will never forget. I saw the frozen bodies of children in a darkened school room, and when I reached out my hand to touch them, they came to life. At the time, I was so buried in applications for jobs in journalism that the dream was inconsequential. But it was so vivid and terrifying that I wrote it down in my journal. It stuck. When, through the most unlikely of scenarios, I was accepted into Teach for America, I remembered.
    Does God still speak to us through dreams? I really don't know. But I do know this. I've never been so certain about something before in my life. Many have suggested that I quit. On numerous occasions. I don't have to put myself through this. I can go back home and find a better job where I can get more than 3 minutes a day to scoff down a sandwich and don't feel stretched to the breaking point every single week.
    But I can't. I can't quit. The idea is so utterly foreign to me that it takes effort to even conceive the possibility. God is with me. I know it. I'm being asked to do the impossible, but it doesn't matter. When I try to think of other options, I can't. There's nothing else I can imagine myself doing right now. This is it. This is right. This is my job. It needs to be done. This is my path. I must walk it.
    I used to find those people frustrating. You know... those people who insist, "You just know," as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. How do you choose the right school, the right spouse or career? How do you make the right decision when all decisions seem equal? "You just know." - How do you know? - "You just know that you know."
    Utterly unhelpful. But I find myself in the same place. I just know. I know that I know.
    The thought is at once liberating and terrifying, comforting yet awful. When we walk in the will of God, we know we can accomplish whatever he sets before us. We can do all things through Christ who strengthens us. But it doesn't make it easy. In fact, I'm terrified. If the rest of the year is like this, I truly don't know how I'll survive. I know that I will survive. I just don't know how.

   Lord, silence the voice of fear in my life and fan into flame the gifts that you have given me by the power of your Holy Spirit to accomplish the task that you have set before me. Other teachers are saying it's impossible. So many kids in a single classroom? Impossible to teach. Impossible. And it is. But your grace is sufficient. Your grace is enough. Make your strength perfect in my weakness. Show the world that you and you alone are God.

    "God gave us not a spirit of fear, but of power and love and self-control."

- 2 Timothy 1:7

from October 28th, 2012

 

Thee Peed Herthelf!

    Aaliyia had an accident this Wednesday, and it was my fault. The poor girl was too scared to ask. I've been cracking down on the kids who take "bathroom breaks" to play in the stalls. It's worked. So well, in fact, that kids who really do need to use the bathroom don't even ask. I felt horrible.
    Aaliyia was in a corner of the classroom for quiet reading time and just stood there, staring at me, dead still, wide-eyed and quiet. Her best friend Gessika noticed shortly after. The only problem? Gessika shouted so loud the whole class could hear her.
    "Teacher! Thee peed herthelf! Aaliyia peed herthelf!"
    "Ewwwwwwwwwwwww!"
    Poor Aaliyia was humiliated. I sent Aaliyia with Gessika to the nurse. They came back five minutes later.
    "The nurthe ithn't here today."
    There was nothing I could do. Not with Aaliyia standing there in dripping pants and 24 other kids whispering, "She peed herself!" all around the classroom.
    I took Aaliyia by the hand. "Aaliyia, you're gonna be fine." She didn't say a word. A puddle of urine still decorated the floor. Her dark eyes stared at me in a mixture of pain and humiliation. "Wait here."
   Everyone was "out" that could have possibly helped. I gathered up the class and took them to PE as fast as possible. When I got back, Aaliyia was still waiting. Her wet pants clung to her legs. She hadn't moved an inch.
    "You're gonna be fine, Aaliyia." She looked anything but fine. I felt awful. "Let's go and get you some new clothes."
    There was only one person in the office. She showed me the clothes closet, and I sifted through to find a pair of yellow shorts, a white t-shirt, and a new pair of underwear. Aaliyia changed her clothes in the girls bathroom and, fifteen minutes later, scuttled off to PE as if nothing had ever happened.
   I picked up the phone in my classroom and dialed Aaliyia's grandmother. She'd be wondering why Aaliyia was coming home with new clothes. What would she say? I prepared myself for an apology. Another strike against "that white teacher."
from October 20th, 2012

I Love You, Teacher

    I snapped this week.   
    It was during dismissal. The hallway was crazy. Kids running wild. Fighting, punching, screaming, shouting. The chaos trickled into my room. Within minutes, my kids had unraveled into a scene of pandemonium.
    I could barely keep tabs on everyone. Parents were coming in and out as they pleased, papers were flying everywhere, and in the midst of everything, the intercom blasted with an announcement that I could barely hear because the noise was deafening.
    I strained at the intercom while kids ran circles around me and Daryl squealed and whined about another kid who was making fun of him. The announcement ended. I'd missed every word. I clenched my fists in anger and screamed.
    "SIDDOWN AND BE QUIET!!!!!!!!!!!"
    The words echoed in my brain. I paused in my rage and blinked at the scene around me. Harry had come back into the room wanting to say goodbye. He had taken me by the legs and squeezed and whispered, "I love you, teacher!" as the words exploded from my mouth. The scene replayed in my head:  
    I'd snapped. Screamed. Harry had jumped at the sound of my rage. The words, "I love you, teacher," were still fresh on his lips. His grandmother was standing behind me. She grabbed Harry by the hand and left the room without a word.
    I blinked and called out breathlessly, "Goodbye, Harry!" But he was gone. I could barely swallow my shame.
from October 20, 2012
    
   

My Mama's in Heaven

 

    Ra'Vae carries an aura about her. She walks into school every morning with a set of braided pig-tails, a Hannah Montana backpack, and a look of fierce intensity. She is the first to help out around the classroom, quick to comfort a hurting child, and the only student who simply tells a rule-breaker "stop being bad" instead of tattling. Ra'Vae is a ring-leader — but in a good way — and her current job is to tie shoes (since almost nobody can).
    On Wednesday Ra'Vae lost it. It was like something snapped. Kicking, screaming, shouting — at me, the kids, anyone and everyone. Talika, her closest friend at school, approached her with a look of concern. "Ra'Vae, why are you crying?"
    Ra'Vae kicked out a chair and howled at the top of her lungs, "GAH!!! STOP LOOKING AT ME!!!"
    I was shocked. Nothing I did would calm her down. I finally sent Ra'Vae out with a pre-k assistant, who hauled Ra'Vae down to another room as Ra'Vae screamed, "I WANT MY MAMA! I WANT MY MAMA!!!!!" the whole way down.
    Ra'Vae didn't join our class again until lunchtime. She greeted me with a smile and a "Hi teacher!" and entered the cafeteria as if nothing had happened. I marveled. How easily children could forget.
    Later that week I gave the kids their homework folders. "Mom and dad will need to help with the assignment," I said, "So make sure you show them your folder."
    Ra'Vae scrunched up her brow and murmured quietly, "My mama's in heaven."
   I stopped short mid-sentence and felt my throat begin to tighten. Ra'Vae didn't have a mama. She was killed only months ago. And daddy was in jail. Her grandma told me so, and I'd forgotten. How could I forget?
    I looked at Ra'Vae and choked out my next words, "I'm sure your grandma can help you out just fine." Ra'Vae nodded.
from September 30, 2012
   

Not a Clue

    Ron throws temper tantrums. Everyday. Screaming, crying, moaning, whining. No days off. I've talked to the mother in hopes that she'll knock some sense into the kid, but nothing has changed. She came early to pick him up on Thursday. My perspective on teaching has never been the same.
    I was wrapping up a story with the kids when the door swung open and the mother charged into the room. Or rather, her four-year-old, twin girls charged into the classroom and she followed closely behind, pleading with them to be quiet. In a matter of seconds her screaming twins turned my classroom into a scene of chaos — a domino effect across the carpet. Whining and running and screaming and slapping kids, they grabbed any and every toy, banged it for a few seconds, then tossed it to the ground before finding something else. The mother stood in the doorway and sighed
    Ron lost it completely when one of the twins slapped his homework to the ground. I pulled Ron aside and bent down to look him in the eye. I was not going to let this boy make a scene.
    "Ron, look at me so I know you're listening. LOOK AT ME." Ron looked at me. "See what you're doing right now? That's called whining. That's exactly what I've been talking about." 
    Ron yanked himself away and within 5 seconds was whining and screaming all over again. What shocked me, however, was what happened next. The mother pulled Ron aside and bent down to look him in the eye, just as I had done.
   "Ron," she said, "Ron, look at me so I know you're listening. LOOK AT ME."
    I was shocked. The mother was imitating me! What did I know about parenting? I was a teacher! I watched as the mother corrected Ryan with my same language, my same tone of voice, and my same gestures. The truth dawned on me in horrible colors. Children were not my only students.
from September 23, 2012

Picture Day

    Wednesday was picture day. The excitement in the air was almost palpable. All the kids had new haircuts and were dressed up in new outfits with new shoes and fancy bling. Up until Wednesday, I'd thought picture day would be fun. I quickly discovered it wasn't. Any change in routine throws everything into chaos, and picture day was chaos. It felt like the first day of school all over again.
    But it seemed like every teacher in the building had a bad day because of pictures, not just me. Ms. Storm came into my room on Thursday, slumped her shoulders and said, "I hate my job."
    It was a twisted comfort to hear that she was just as miserable as me. It's nice to know you're not alone.
    Tiffany on the other hand had a fantastic picture day. She also didn't teach at all. Instead, Ms. Johnson and Ms. Cannons took over her classroom while she filled out paperwork in the office. One of her kids, Raymon, kicked her in the back on Tuesday, then proceeded to punch her in the gut and go for her throat with both his hands. Apparently a kid can actually get suspended for that (though stuff like that's been going on all year with no suspensions to date), so she had all sorts of paperwork to fill out.
    Driving home that night, I told Tiffany I wished a kid would kick me in the back so I could get out of teaching for a day. Tiffany just shook her head.
from September 23, 2012

Gotta Be a Bulldog

    Ms. Cannons is a big, strong, intimidating woman with a soft heart that kids don't see until 3/4 of the school year is over. She walks around with a scowl on her face all day and never smiles. Actually, come to think of it, she does smile, but only when the kids are gone. "Force to be reckoned with" is an understatement. I sometimes find myself straightening up when she rounds the corner.
    She came to class on Wednesday to help finish assessments. I sent the class to do seat work, and (surprise, surprise) they erupted in chatter. I resigned myself to another frustrating 20 minutes, when suddenly Ms. Cannons bellowed from across the room, "Shut it! Nobody talk!" The whole room went silent. You could've heard a pin drop.
    I looked around me in shock. Several kids glanced up at Ms. Cannons with guilty faces then quickly buried their heads in their work. They looked as if her eyes could shoot lasers. I was stunned. My classroom felt like a classroom for the first time since the beginning of the year. Kids were busy at tables, squinting their brows, tracing over letters, and learning.
    I spoke with Ms. Cannons about it Thursday afternoon, and she told me, "Honey, that's just what you gotta do. You give an inch, they'll take a mile. Tell 'em to whisper, they'll be screaming and shouting so much you won't be able to hear yourself think."
    I asked her for advice.
    "Honey, you just gotta be a bulldog. You gotta be a bulldog from day one. 'Cause if you ain't, they'll walk all over you. I'm mean as hell when I first get my kids, but you wanna know something? They love me for it.
    "There's two things every kid wants," she continued. "They wanna feel safe, and they wanna feel loved. You make 'em safe by being a bulldog. And when you keep 'em safe, they'll know that you love 'em."
from September 15, 2012.

Back to Square One

    This week it was back to square one. Even Kristopher was acting up, and he never acts up. Michael started throwing fits again. I told him if he didn't shape up I'd send him to Ms. Isaiah's class. The only problem? He threw himself down on the floor and bawled and screamed and hit and kicked and refused to do anything else. I realized I couldn't send him to Ms. Isaiah like that, so I told him he could stay in the classroom if he behaved. My defeat was quite apparent.
    But Michael was just the tip of the ice burg. The whole class was like that. All week. Total warfare with every student. Mariah was as defiant as she'd ever been, Reuben was throwing tantrums, Horton was kicking and shouting "I hate you" and pushing and throwing furniture all over the room. If he could have thrown the half-moon table, I think he would have, but it was too heavy for him, thank the Lord. The class returned to a state of chaos. Kids running and screaming in the hall, climbing the stalls in the bathroom, crying over who knows what. I woke up at 4:00am every morning and worked until 8:00pm every night. I wanted to die.

    Father, I am more desperate for you than I've ever been in my life. Desperate. But the startling reality is that I've been desperate for you all along. I just didn't know it until now. Difficulty has revealed my desperation. While I pray for things to get better, I also fear the answer to such a prayer. My fear is that I will forget my desperation. My fear is that I will forget how much I need you every second of every minute of every day. Shall I pray for things to get better, then forget you the moment they do?
    Lord, I don't ever want to forget how much I need you. Apart from you I can do nothing. Let me never forget this. Let me know this deep down in my soul, whether things are difficult or things are easy. Imprint this onto the very surface of my heart. I want the steps of my feet to be your steps. I want the work of my hands to be your work. I want the words of my mouth to be your words. Apart from you I can do nothing. Let me never forget this.
written September 9th, 2012.

This means war

    This past week has been a roller coaster of ups and downs. Never have I been so dependent upon the power of prayer. Never have I been so aware of my desperate dependence upon the Lord.
    I entered Monday terrified. I was drained, I was exhausted, and I cried after school for the first time. Tears slipped down my cheeks, and I picked up the phone to dial home, wishing I could just forget any of this ever happened. Over the phone, I admitted to my mother what has been my biggest fear since joining Teach for America. "I don't know if I can do this. I just don't know if I can make it."
    Of course, I did have a more manageable number of kids that day — 24 — but the dynamics of the class hadn't changed. Chaos. True chaos. I spent the entire day putting out fire after fire with absolutely no control. No authority. I couldn't get the kids to do anything. Unless I snarled at them like a half-crazed monster, and even that was becoming increasingly ineffective. One girl remarked while I was dragging another kid to the carpet, "I hate this place." My heart sank.
    By the time I got to the end of Wednesday, I knew something drastic had to change. I packed up my centers and stored the toys in the cabinets. No more playtime. I was in charge, and my kids were coming to school to work. No more shenanigans. As far as I was concerned, my kids wouldn't so much as breathe without permission.
    I grabbed Tiffany (a fellow corps-member), and the two of us lifted our hands to the heavens. We prayed for the miraculous. Our faith was being stretched to its breaking point, but I found myself filled with fresh resolve. I stopped praying for generalities and began praying for specific, measurable requests. I wanted the fighting to stop. I wanted the screaming to stop. I wanted the chaos to stop. I didn't want a single child to even so much as talk without permission. Oh yes, that's measurable.
    The next day I was a tyrant. I marched the kids into the classroom with whip cracking and guns blazing. I put the foot down, the thumb down, the hammer down, the law down. Anything that could be put down, I put down. During recess, half the class was either walking lines or sitting crisscross with hands folded in their lap on the side of the playground. Before recess, the entire class spent 30 minutes walking lines up and down the hallway until I didn't hear a single peep out of anyone. During gym, I sent 4 kids into the motor room, the rest of the class sat in silence while I stared at them in the hallway. During the last hour of the day, I opened our centers for 15 minutes, but sent only 7 kids to play. Everyone else sat in the dark on the carpet. No fun. No games. No nothing. I ended centers and one of the kids on the carpet started to cry. 
    I reprimanded him, and he stopped, whimpering quietly but otherwise fine. I picked up a book and began to read, but the nurse interrupted halfway through, and while she was talking, Coach popped in as well. They talked for several minutes then left. Turning to resume the story, I stopped short and gazed around the room in shock. Every eye was on me. Every hand was folded. Every voice was off. Not a single child had even whispered while I was talking. I looked at the class in dumbfounded silence for a second then whispered breathlessly, "Listen to the class, guys!" They all looked as dumbfounded as I did. "The only voice I hear is mine!"
    I saw Tiffany after dismissal, and we gave each other one big, enormous hug. We did it. We were in charge. No more games. No more playtime. No more fun. I collapsed into a chair in her classroom, and we laughed. We'd gotten our miracle. We were teachers.
from September 2, 2012.

Everyone who exalts himself

    "But the tax collector, standing far off, would not even lift up his eyes to heaven, but beat his breast, saying, 'God be merciful to me, a sinner!' I tell you, this man went down to his house justified, rather than the other. For everyone who exalts himself will be humbled, but the one who humbles himself will be exalted."

Luke 18: 13-14

A dose of reality

   What is there that can be said about the first week of my first year of teaching? What words can express my life over the course of this week? I'm not sure if I know. When I started the week, I had so many hopes and expectations for how the classroom would function, what the kids would be able to do, how I would be perceived by them and their parents. To say that my hopes and dreams have been completely shattered would not be entirely accurate, but lets just say I've been given a pretty sharp dose of reality.

    My week began Monday, and by the end of the day I'd already lost one of my kids. The mother was furious. It turned out the office confused her with somebody else and shipped her over to a neighboring elementary school. I thought I would have a heart attack.

    Our school has taken on kids from three neighboring elementary schools. We weren't ready to take on so many kids. We only have one water fountain in our section of the building that works, and it trickles out so slowly that the kids have to suck at the fountain in order to get anything to drink. The school did not have any idea how many kids would show up in our classrooms, so they shuffled kids in and out and all over the building until our numbers settled down. They told us to expect anywhere from 28 to 40 kids per classroom. In the first three days of school, I had on average about 30 kinders in my room with no assistant and never the same group of kids for more than two hours at a time.  

    The amount of kicking, punching, screaming, cursing, fighting, and everything else that you could imagine that goes on, its a miracle that I could do anything with my kids this week. Going into week 2, I literally have no clue where to begin.
from August 26, 2012