How Well Has My Education Prepared Me for the Classroom?

(**Please note, the names have been changed to protect the innocent and my butt since I have to tread very carefully when writing about the DOE).

     
 Let’s get something straight. Nothing prepares you for the actual experience of being a classroom teacher except for the actual experience of working in a classroom day in and out and lugging home volumes of teacher’s guides and student work to grade, night after night. There is nothing like learning how to manage thirty different little minds with different learning styles and thirty little distinctive personalities. You may read volumes of books about education theory 101, Piaget and the different stages of how students acquire and process knowledge. But the bottom line is nobody teaches you how to manage a classroom, how to comfort a child when he or she is bullied. Nobody teaches you how to be fair and not just call on the students who always have the so-called “right answers.” Nobody tells you how to give every student in your class a chance to participate and make each child feel like he or she is a valued member of your classroom. Nobody teaches you how you need to be a parent figure to a child whose family is experiencing crisis or how to be a parent figure to a parent who is experiencing a time of crisis.  Nobody teaches you how to keep a child from causing severe bodily or psychological harm to himself, herself or to another child. Nobody teaches you how to be politically correct and even when you do not necessarily agree with your colleagues; you must appear united with them to the school community.

I remember my first year of teaching third grade. It was a class I was not even supposed to have. But a teacher fell on a wet lunchroom floor, ended up with a broken leg and they needed a replacement ASAP! (Fortunately, I got the position since this was the school I student taught at and had already earned my stripes as a long term substitute who never balked at any assignment thrown her way—kindergarten, special ed, sixth grade--whatever). Despite being greener than green and not knowing the difference between a geoboard and a blackboard—still not sure that I do—I got the call.

I was lucky that the former principal and new boss-who was the assistant principal liked me. Despite having little education background, I was a sports reporter at the time, who covered the New York Mets for a variety of magazines and small, daily newspapers. In fact, I even brought the Shea Stadium bat boys to school the year before when subbing. They brought along tons of goodies including autographed baseballs. That got me in good standing and I was the first call when the third grade teacher slipped, stumbled and fell.

This was such a challenging group of students—many of who had severe behavior issues as well as learning difficulties—not surprising since the two usually go hand in hand. It featured one John Wells (yes—the John Wells--that is a fictitious name for my infamous third grader who was gunned down by police outside a night club) and who at the time was one angry young man who did not like school. Every day was a challenge to keep him focused, interested and help him manage anger issues so he would not get into a physical altercation with a classmate.  (John did have super, supportive parents who worked with me to try and help John harness his anger and assist him with his academic difficulties).

There was no shortage of classmates who could provoke John including Jay—another angry young man whose father was in prison. Jay was bright but could not stay focused.  I would try to reason with Jay, keep reminding him how smart he was and how much he could do if he could just stay on task. That worked for about ten minutes until Antonio or some one else would start distracting him and he would get into the tenth argument and near fisticuffs of the day. Jay would often taunt John, as would others. They would feed off of each other and we basically had kids arguing all day and a lot of chaos ensuing ala Sweathogs in Mrs. Kotter’s class. (Welcome back to the classroom, Auntie Grizelda!)  Hey, I was not even supposed to be a teacher. I had a journalism-media degree and was supposed to be anchoring the six o’clock news with Ernie Anastos!) No one teaches you what do in that situation.

I had an African American child named Frank who was dumped in my class at the beginning of the year since he was new to the school. He became the class clown and would get into as much trouble as the other boys. Of course, he would. Frank was so incredibly smart, knew more than every one else in his class and was bored out of his mind. He needed a quicker paced learning environment and more intense-enriching work. Nobody bothered checking his records. If they would have, they would have noticed how bright this kid was.  They should have looked at his reading and math scores. It was obvious he did not belong with the rest of us. I loved Frank because he was a bright light in a class of let’s say, a lot of poorly lit bulbs. It pained me to have to ask for him to go to the top class next door. But that’s what I did! Fortunately, the principal was a doll, a jovial, Mr. mini Santa Claus—who happened to be Jewish, felt my pain of having a classroom filled with Sweathogs and moved Frank next door, to the top class, where he belonged. The other problem was the teacher next door was a BITCH. There is no other way to say it. She only liked smart, well-behaved children and would belittle any child who was not perfect in her eyes.  I was afraid of her, too. She made me cry on a few occasions so I can only imagine what is was like for the poor child in her class who dared to utter a word out of turn, when not called upon.

Ms. Next Door was a part time nightclub singer who probably would have done everybody a favor, if she pursued that Barbara Cook route, full time. It was obvious she did not want to be in school. She was the type of teacher the union has to protect but you know damn well, should be out of the classroom like yesterday’s trash.

That is another thing you do not learn in school—how to deal with difficult colleagues. I would later encounter older teachers who were mean to me and deliberately tried to sabotage class shows just because I had spunk, energy and creativity. But at this early stage, there was just my very bitchy, next-door neighbor who did not like any child who was not perfect. In fact, she tossed Daniel, an adorable, impish bright boy with attention deficit disorder into my class. She could not handle his fidgeting and outbursts. It did not matter that he was smart. Apparently, the mother requested it since her child was put down by the teacher, one time too many. I had to learn how not to say anything bad to her or about her to the parents. If I would hear a parent complain, I would just have to smile and say something like, “Yes, I understand. I am sure you had good reasons for feeling your child is being treated unfairly. But every teacher has his or her own way of dealing and disciplining.” Yada, yada, yada.

The class had only 19 students but every child was extremely needy. The girls were lovely but except for one little girl named Angie, a little boy named Heller, Phi, the PTA President’s son who was diabetic, bright but a huge behavior problem and Frank, the class was needier than the Waltons at Christmas time. Oh and by the way, nobody teaches you how to deal with having the PTA president’s kid in your class, either. You have to be very careful how you deal with all parents but especially those on the executive board. I was very lucky since Tina, Phil's mom liked me. We bonded on an overnight trip to Caumsett State Park in Long Island. (That was quite an experience during my first year. And thankfully, I did not lose a kid in the woods!)  Tina even had me over to her house for lunch at the end of the school year. So did Daniel's mom, come to think of it. And thankfully, I made it through the first year without ever referring to any of the kids (at least to their parents) as Washington, Epstein, Horshack or Barbarino.

Another situation nobody every prepares you for is that you have to stand up for your colleagues, even if they are some of the laziest pieces of work. Poor Penny. She was the sweetest little thing who loved to clean the teacher’s desk. Sadly, despite her enthusiasm and good work ethic, she had extreme difficulty with decoding, encoding and figuring out her multiplication tables. Penny was slated to go to resource room everyday—a period a day, five days a week. Unfortunately, we were lucky if she got serviced once or twice a week at best. Mrs. K, the resource teacher was extremely sweet but nearing the end of her career. She had undergone a hysterectomy the year before and who knows? She still may not have been feeling well. Maybe some of those aches and pains prevented her from picking up Penny, John, Divine and the other mandated resource kids. During the first parent teacher conference, Penny's parents expressed extreme concern that she was not being properly serviced. So instead of me saying, “There must be some misunderstanding. There may occasionally be a time when Mrs. K can’t take Jen because she is testing." Or perhaps "the principal needs Mrs. K for another task. But she is being taken regularly,” I committed the ultimate sin of agreeing with them. “I know. I wonder how come she is hardly ever picked up. You’re right!” Uh-oh! Big mistake! After that night, Mrs. K barged into my room. “I have never had any colleague go against me to a parent!” (Or she said something to that effect). Not sure what exactly she said to Penny's parents. But all I know is neither Mrs. K or Penny's parents spoke to me for the rest of the year.

Nope. Nobody in Education 101 told me there’d be days like these. Strange days indeed. And that was just the beginning of the first year of school. I crashed at five thirty every Friday night and would not awaken until at least 8:00 a.m. the following morning. Fortunately, all of my colleagues during my rookie year (except for Ms. Next Door) were extremely kind and supportive. I even had my mentor teacher, Ms. R, who supervised me as a student teacher, there for me. Ms. W., the reading teacher, was a former nun and the sweetest lady on the planet. She would give me extra materials-activities to use with Penny and my struggling readers. She would also speak to the principal on my behalf when she knew I was overwhelmed. This was the year that my mom, the over bearing Jewish parent went from “Did you do your homework?” to “Did you grade your students’ papers?”  This was the first year of every single year that I cried on the last day of school—no matter how challenging the group was. 

Quite a start to a career that has lasted more than 20 years. And to think. I was supposed to be reading the news on TV not reading thirty responses to literature. Oh, well. Life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans.

But the bottom line is this. It has not always been easy. The DOE does not make teachers’ lives easy. I always say to put me in a Knights of Pythias Hall or at a local community center. I will deal with the children and their parents. The DOE (especially under the so-called leadership of Michael Bloomberg) treats us all like we are on a conveyor belt. It’s a business. They just want to turn out cookie cutter teachers who tout the company line. It’s the only system where you actually get rewarded for rising to mediocrity. Do it their way or else! The kids are just numbers. It's all about data and test scores. It reminds me of the Pink Floyd flick, the Wall. The kids are marching off like little soldiers, only to be dropped off into a hot, huge pit—following orders. But I basically enjoy what I do. I love the children I have worked with. I cry like a baby every June when I have to bid them adieu. I am lucky that I get to share with students my enthusiasm for great literature, music and pop culture. We even study old song lyrics, analyzing their content and figurative language, while encouraging students to write their own poems-songs that promote positive messages. We analyze the themes and message of movies. (Teachwithmovies.org is a great resource).

Every year, we put on huge musical productions that receive lots of media coverage including a half page feature in the Daily News and coverage on New York One. We have helped raise thousands of dollars for charity.

One of the best philosophies in life!

 I have always danced and traveled to the beat of a different drum. My motto has always been to follow the lyrics of a song I share with my students called Make Your Own Kind of Music. “Make your own kind of music. Sing your own special song. Make your own kind of music. Even if nobody else sings along.” Be yourself. Here is another from the Sly & the Family Stone tune, Stand that I love to share with the kids.  “Stand. In the end, you’ll still be you. One who has done all the things you set out to do.”

Several years ago, my principal walked into my room. He said, “It’s great that you use music to inspire your students.” He looked up at the Beatles poster on my wall where the lyrics to In My Life were on another sign next to it. “But do you think you can choose something a little more current sometime?” Sure, maybe. At that time, Britney Spears was the new teen flavor of the month. So I responded, “I guess I can look for a couple of new tunes. But Hit Me Baby One More Time is not exactly the kind of message that I think is worth exploring or sharing with the kids.”

Anyway, let us all listen to the color of our dreams. Hope all kids have teachers like Mr. Thackeray, Mrs. B., Mrs. H. Mr. S, and professors Sue and Dr. Harry, who encourage them to follow the lights and sparks in their hearts. May we all embrace our inner John Boys and pursue our passions. Good night, Jim Bob. Good night, Mary Ellen.