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.