Budget Cuts

Dear American Public,

On behalf of your youth, I'm flipping you the bird.

You totally screwed over my peach kid.

Enjoying the last days of summer vacation, I went to the local farmers' market to grab some peaches.  By coincidence, I went with my father-in-law.  By coincidence, he's from South America.  So it was by coincidence that, in front of the peach stand, I happened to ask him in Spanish if had any cash on him so I could buy us some fruit fodder for a homemade dessert.

"Ooooh...you speak Spanish," said the boy working the stand with two adults, presumably his parents.  "I wish I spoke another language."

I eyeballed the kid and put him somewhere in middle school.  Probably around seventh grade.

"If you really want to, I'm sure you can!"   I told him.  "You've probably got it at your school, don't you?  I'll bet you'll get a good start, there."

"I used to take it," he said.  "But not anymore."

"They cancelled the program," his mother handed me my box of fruit.  "He took Spanish last year, but it's not being offered this year.  Budget cuts."

I raised my eyebrows.

"They cut Spanish?  That's usually the last language to go, since it tends to be so useful."

"It was the last language to go.  Our district has cut everything except core classes.  I'm actually a counselor at the school, and now they're looking at cutting counseling as well."

My mouth dropped open so far that I'm pretty sure I drooled a little.

"They want to cut counseling?"

Peach mom shrugged.  "We live in a retirement community.  Education is not their first priority.  The economy is bad, and schools struggle for money even when it's good.  In our town, everything has gone except the basics."

So, my dear American Public.  Let's do a little exercise called Making Learning Authentic.  It's fancy speak for when teachers apply what seem like abstract concepts to students' daily lives.  If you were in my classroom, I would have you writing this down and ask you to record your reactions, but since I can't hold you accountable from a blog post, I'm operating on the trust system.  Doesn't work very well with teenagers, but I'm sure that you, American Public, knowing the importance of education, would never cheat the system or, heaven forbid, look for shortcuts when it comes to learning.

Kindly answer yes or no to whether you have done any of the following activities in the past week:

1.  Listened to the radio, your ipod, or music of any sort
2.  Watched TV
3.  Gone out to eat
4.  Viewed any kind of artwork (anything on the walls of you home counts)
5.  Had your car, house, or electronics repaired
6.  Had your hair, nails or make-up done
7.  Gone to the movies, a play, concert, or any other type of public entertainment
8.  Worked out

Figured out where I'm going, yet?  If you haven't, I'd dare you to spend a week in my classroom, because you're going to have to learn to think a lot faster than that to make the grade.  If I still have a classroom, that is.  I teach Spanish.  I suppose I could be cut at anytime, as my subject area is apparently unnecessary.

For those of you who are still a little behind, let's make the connections.

Eliminate every single activity (and any related to it) from the above list.

You get up and get in your car to go to work in the morning.  No radio.  No news, no music.  To produce that, you would have to have folks who've taken communications classes.  Sorry - not core classes.  That also eliminates all of your TV watching, by the way.

At work, you can't go out to lunch.  Nor can you take your family out to dinner when you get home.  You can't cheat and order in, either.  That would require culinary know-how.  Food prep?  Not core.

You're going to have to take down all artwork and coordinating decorations in your house, as producing it required courses in art and interior design.  I should also probably tackle your wardrobe, since it includes an education in fashion, sewing and clothing.

All not core.

I could keep on, but I'd be beating a dead horse.  A useless task, as we all know, but then, if you haven't had your agriculture classes, maybe you didn't know...  Oops..Agriculture and farming.  Also not core.

There goes your food supply.

"You're exaggerating," you say to me.  "We're just talking about K-12 education.  All that professional stuff, that comes at the college level anyway.  No eleventh grader is going to design my clothing."

Yeah?  So what do the state universities do when they get their budgets cut?  Expand?  Offer more scholarships?  Produce more contributing members of society?

 You're not really thinking this one through, American Public.

And, by the way, you don't know my eleventh graders.  They could totally design your wardrobe.  And fix your car.  And make you a gourmet dinner.

If you'd just give them half a chance.

But no, let's just stick to the core basics.

And then let's take away their support network.

 Counselors?  A practical place to make budget cuts, since they're not in the classroom.  They only make sure that students' schedules are made to best fit their needs.  That whole meeting graduation requirements nonsense. (I'm sure the teachers have time to take over that responsibility.)  Oh, and they also run those pointless standardized tests.   (Kids could totally sign up to take the ACT elsewhere.)  Then there's the whole social/emotional messy stuff.  Kids running into their office crying.  Bully-prevention.  Suicide watch.  Mandated reporting of abuse and neglect.  Fru-fru.   Fancy frills. It's not education.  It's not teaching.  That's stuff parents should be doing at home, nothing to do with school.  I mean, really.  Who's ever heard of a kid's emotional problems affecting a classroom? Or a school?

Or an entire community?

Kids committing suicide because they're bullied?  Sensationalist press.  A load of crap.  A...
Oh...wait...
Here's to you, Eric Mohat  http://abcnews.go.com/Health/MindMoodNews/story?id=7228335
And you, Carl Joseph Walker-Hoover  http://www.edgeboston.com/index.php?ch=news&sc=&sc3=&id=89757
Phoebe Prince, Lance Lundsten and Tiffani Maxwell.
http://www.care2.com/causes/the-real-mean-girls-15-year-old-girl-commits-suicide-after-intense-bullying.html
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2011/01/18/lance-lundsten-tiffani-maxwell-suicide-bullying_n_810201.html

There's more.  But I don't have the space.

Still, I'm sure it would never happen to your kid, American Public.  That's probably a safe bet.  In fact, Public, you seem like the betting kind.  So tell me,

Would you bet your child's life on it?

You're a lucky bastard, American Public. Because you've got me.  And hundreds of teachers like me.   And I'll make damn sure that even if you screw all of us over, your kid gets what he needs.  What she deserves.

Too damn bad you can't say the same.

Get your head out of your ass, Public.  I don't care what political party you are from, or where your personal beliefs lie.

We all need education.

And we all need each other.

I can teach my kids to move in a foreign country, appreciate other cultures,  learn the subtleties of a new word in a strange tongue.  But who will teach them to draw a profile?  To play the violin, ice a cake or take a picture?

You can cut all the "extra" programs, American Public.  And yet still, if your kid comes to me and wants to learn how to repair a transmission, I'll find her a teacher.  If he comes to me crying, I'll drop everything and listen.  Lucky for you, American Public.

I have only one question:

What happens when you cut me?

Job Description - The Organized and Professional Classroom

(continued from previous entry.)

Perfectly timed with my resolution to rewrite the teacher job description, I received this comment from a new fan on the Singing Pigs Facebook page: (which you can find here...http://www.facebook.com/pages/Singing-Pigs/153134431420908.  Now go like me.  I'm a shy and insecure soul in need of constant affirmation and validation.  Thank you.)

My wife and I are currently reading your blog. Out loud. This will be my first year teaching. I am leaving a massively well paid job with interesting foreign locales....in the US Army. To teach 8th grade science. Yeah...I think having people want to kill me may be easier than this.

Once I finished laughing, I thought I had better set this new buddy of mine straight on a couple of things: 

1.  You are correct.

2.  People will still want to kill you.  Perhaps, oddly enough, more people.  Evil African dictators with tanks and generals?  Bunny rabbits, compared to the Stepford Wife mother with stiletto heels and a grudge.

So while you, friend, can probably survive harsh geographical regions with nothing more than a pocketknife, piece of twine and a tic-tac, the landscape of the classroom is a whole different obstacle course.  And that is why one should never accept a position without careful examination of the...

JOB DESCRIPTION

Job Title: Teacher

Reports to: Principal

Summary:  Forget all the other crap, we're just going to jump right into the nitty-gritty.

Duties and Responsibilities:

I. Responsible for conducting an organized and professional classroom.

Contrary to standard pedagogical theories, maintaining an organized and professional classroom requires a specific but infrequently mentioned skill set. 

     A.  Teacher will rate highly skilled in giving instructions. 

Think you've got that one down?  Alright, then.  Your students are working in small groups.  You need them to put the desks back in rows and go back to their normal seats.  Ready?  Go.

Did you say something along the lines of  "Students, I now need you to please put your desks back in rows, grab your things, and return to your normal seats?"  

Fail.

Complete Sample Job Description instructions for asking students to complete a task:

1.  Alight, kids, I'm going to need your attention in 5...4...3...2...1...

2.  I am going to give you a set of instructions.  

3.  Do not move until I complete the set of instructions.

4.  When I indicate you do so, you are going to pick up your things, put your desks in rows, and return to your normal seats.

5.  When I say "pick up your things, move your desks into rows, and return to your normal seats," this is no way involves any of the following actions:

• talking to your neighbor
• hitting your neighbor (even affectionately)
• otherwise touching or indicating the existence of your neighbor
• taking someone else's belongings
• touching someone else's belongings
• throwing objects
• using the movement as cover to bolt from the room.

6.  You have 10 seconds.

7.  Go.

And moving desks is a reasonably simple task...

     B.  Teacher will be highly skilled in applying above skills to new and unexpected situations.  Teacher will differentiate instructions as per appropriate age and/or maturity level.

Vomit.

Sorry, that wasn't a command.  I actually met a second grade teacher who rated in the "highly skilled" category for dealing with barf.  (Perhaps this is a standard sort of thing for second grade teachers.  I don't really know, as I make it my general duty to avoid that age group.  We frighten each other.)  Kids barf.  A lot.  So she had her first day of school speech down.

"Okay, guys," she would say.  "If you feel like you are going to be sick, the first thing you do is try and make it to the sink."  She would show kids where the little classroom hand-washing sink was located.  "If you think you're not going to make it to the sink, then the next thing you do is look for a trash can."  She would indicate the various trash cans scattered about the room.  "And, as a last resort, if you think you can't make it to a trash can, you cup your hands together like this..."

No, seriously.  She really said that.  Makes sense, if you think about it.  More chunks in the hands equals less chunks on the carpet.  But naaaaasty...

In the interest of differentiation, I have simplified my vomiting instructions for the high school level with the logic that a) they have more experience with vomiting and thus b) they have a more developed immune system.  Still, even at the higher levels, instructions need to remain concise and clear.  

"Alright, kids," I tell them sometime around the beginning of flu season. "I don't do barf.  So if you're feeling even the least bit ill, I don't want you to raise your hand.  Do not ask me to go to the bathroom, do not tell me you don't feel well.  Just hit the door running.  And take the trash can with you."

Done.

     C.  Teacher will clarify behavioral expectations of students and be transparent in consequences for failure to meet said expectations.

Understand that all of these skills build off of one another.  So I will use first floor teachers as the classic example.

If you teach on the first floor of your school (at least at the secondary level) children will be possessed by an inexplicable yet overwhelming desire to climb out of classroom windows.  Perhaps it is the innate biological longing for the African savannah that still lingers in all of us, but on more than one occasion I have seen a student go rogue and bolt through the just-barely-large-enough opening.  Obviously, this is not on the list of Acceptable Classroom Behaviors, but by making one's expectations clear and the consequences transparent, window-bolting (as so many unexpected classroom issues) can be easily resolved.

Take a colleague with whom I shared a room for a number of years.  In the middle of one of her German lessons, a student made for the window and headed for the hills.  Literally.  He went up the hill just outside of the classroom.  Being the master teacher that she is, my colleague went right out the window behind him. It's difficult to give clear instructions if the student is unable to hear you.

"Bobby!"  she bellowed.  "In 3 seconds, I am going to turn around and start running for the school doors.  If you aren't back in your seat before I walk back in that classroom door you are a DEAD MAN."  


Note, if you will, the teaching finesse.  She gave clear instructions (including an expected time limit,) accurately applied her instructions to a new and unexpected situation, while simultaneously making clear her expectations as well as the intended consequences for failure to perform.

Knowing the importance of follow-through, my colleague then turned and ran for the main double doors, booked down the Foreign Language hallway and busted into her room to find Bobby sitting attentively in his seat, having returned in the same manner he left.

Problem solved.


As a note, so far we've covered:   the Army.  Ralphing.  Instructions.  Second grade, windows, the African savannah, German class, threatening students' lives. 


Is that previous blog entry beginning to make a little more sense?

Still, teachers applying for employment must realize that Conducting an Organized and Professional Classroom is only one part of the job.  A successful teaching is much, much more.  Next up:  Developing a Cooperative Partnership with Parents and Students.  

Get excited.

Oh, and as for our new Army buddy - give him some props.  He left a dream job for barfy kids who go AWOL "...because of the Army.  I have spent the past few years trying to teach new soldiers medical laboratory science, and most of them were woefully ill equipped.  I figured I had better go to the source."

Now, really.  How cool is that?

Job Description - The Beginnings

I thought I was going to be clever.

It's the beginning of the year, we're all prepping for the next round of students and taking one last deep breath before the insanity begins.  All the routines, procedures and structures, the drawing of seating charts and the filing of lesson plans almost make teaching look like a real job: one that's organized and logical with reliable systems that produce predictable outcomes.

Predictable and teaching go together like Glenn Beck and Jon Stewart.
Discussing gay marriage.
In a room full of transsexuals.
On Fox News.

"Job Description," I thought.  "I can cleverly tweak a teacher job description to more accurately reflect reality!" Gloating at my own Bright Idea, I set about fiddling with several standard JDs kindly provided by my spare brain (aka Google.)

"Job Title:" I wrote. 

"Teacher," Google informed me. 

"Mediator, bouncer, parent, parent to parents, therapist, judge, content expert, babysitter," I merrily plunked away on my keyboard.

"Reports to:  Principal," Google said.

"...and frequently to mentally unbalanced, know-it-all parents and, occasionally, the overly entitled student pain-in-the-ass.  Sometimes the board of education.  And taxpayers... politicians in election years, the media.  You know what?  Just get used to justifying yourself."

I was on a roll.

DUTIES AND RESPONSIBILITIES

1.  Responsible for conducting an organized and professional classroom (in a small space crammed with thirty mobile Chaos Machines cleverly disguised as mini-humans): 

• Teaches subject area according to curriculum guidelines.
• deals politely and sanely with stone-cold crazy parents who insist curriculum be rewritten according to their own personal/religious/crazytown views.

Then Google stumped me.

"Maintains ongoing curriculum evaluation and development to meet the needs of students," I read.  "Collaborates with other faculty in delivery of appropriate instructional approaches.  Continues intellectual and professional development in primary academic discipline.  Follows policies established by Board of Directors, School District, and State mandated school guidelines."

I glared at the computer screen trying to find a connection between Mr. Snooty Job Description's pretentious words, and the daily mayhem of my professional life.  I couldn't.  So in my usual manner of resolving many a troubling issue, I went to a teacher-sponsored happy hour instead.

"Buttplug!" the conversation began. "Pubic hair!  Wall-ball, forehead, crotch in the face, parents fondling teachers, midgets."

"Alcoholics and anorexia," added someone else, dare the conversation get too lighthearted.

"Crazies.  Batshit crazy, crazytown, helicopters." Everyone agreed.

Confused?  That's because Google's job description is well-intentioned, but entirely meaningless document.  A teacher's daily life is hardly predictable and rarely pretentious, so we're starting from scratch...

Job Description - The Organized and Professional Classroom:
http://pigsong.blogspot.com/2011/08/job-description-organized-and.html

For The New Teachers

You got the job.  Congrats.

Now it's all about surviving your first year.

I'm going to go against the grain here, and say that the first year teaching is not nearly as bad as everyone makes it out to be.

Or rather, it is that bad, but since you have nothing to compare it to, you won't know this, so it will all be good.  The year will be fine.  You will be fine.  You'll get your ass kicked, yes, but then you'll be fine.  And it's in that spirit of fine-dom that I'm throwing the feel-good, namby-pamby nonsense about the first year of teaching out the window, and replacing it with The Real Version.  Those politically correct education books filled with sunshine, glitter and boringly practical tips?  Bullhonky.  You want to survive?  Here's what you do:

1.  Drink heavily.
I mean this in every sense of the word.  Words.  Whatever.  There is probably a group of teachers at your new school that goes out for happy hours.  Join them.  Happy hours are a wonderful resource for 1) de-stressing 2) finding out how a school really works as opposed to what is says in the teacher handbook 3) drinking away your sorrows and 4) making friends with colleagues who are going to save your ass when you're drowning later.  Even if you don't drink for religious/health/recovery reasons, still go.  Numbers 1,2, and 4 will always apply.  But props to you for being able to maintain your sanity without the occasional marg.  I wouldn't even attempt it.

But don't think I'm all about the alcohol.  (Ok, maybe I am, but still...)  You're going to need to drink more than a few Budweisers to get through the year.  I also recommend high early-morning doses of the caffeinated beverage of your choice (if you decide to entire a classroom full of children at 8am without it, that's all on you) and at least three bottles of water a day.  Any idea how much you're going to talk?  Don't take my advice and end up sounding like a chain smoker in the final stages of emphysema.  Whatever floats your boat.

2.  Go ahead and snap.
I don't give a fiddler's fart what the classroom management books say.  At some point, you're going to lose it, and losing it can work wonders.  You can redirect, refocus, calmly wait, circle the room, hold up your hand, speak quietly, ring a bell or use any other number of educator-approved techniques to maintain control, but at some point the kids are going to win.  They have a lot more experience being shitsters than you do teaching, so there's no reason to take it personally.  Use it against them.

An effective psychotic break has less to do with shouting (I said SIT DOWN, get out your BOOKS and READ, now MOVE!!) or choosing the dangerously quiet voice (You know what?  That's it.  We're done.  Why don't you just go ahead and do whatever you want for the rest of the period, since that's what you're going to do anyway...) as it has to do with good timing.    Psychotic breaks have to be few and far between (I absolutely recommend no more than one per semester, keeping it down to one per year for  maximum effectiveness) and they have to come right after you have tried a number of other strategies that have failed miserably.  The kids know you're at the end of the rope, they know they're being little shits and they know every teacher has a breaking point.

It's like a horror movie where the music and camera warn you that you're about to get the poo scared out of you, but knowing that only makes it worse so when Freddy Krueger, Michael Myers or the Boogeyman finally does jump out, your popcorn goes flying into the face of your neighbor.

You are the Boogeyman.

And the kids totally see it coming.

And while making you crack might have seemed like a good idea to them at the time, they'll go home that night and sleep with a nightlight, then spend a couple of days trying to shake the heebie-jeebies every time they walk into your room.  Which guarantees you a brief respite from buttheaded activities.

Mission accomplished.

After a couple of years, you'll refine your talents, so that you catch the earliest of early warning signs, nip the instigators in the bud and psychotic breaks will almost become a thing of the distant past.

But in the meantime, don't worry if you let your devil horns show through.

There's a little horror movie in every public educator.

3.  Blow things off
Bombarded doesn't even begin to describe.

You are going to get so much crap dumped on you, that if you even attempt to take it all seriously, you're going to snap faster than I can crack a Harry Wong joke.  (Ready?  Go:  All new educators need Harry Wong.  Harry Wong's way is hard, but rewarding.  The best tips come from Harry Wong...)  You're toast.

You have to filter, and no administrator, textbook, or student is going tell you how to do that.  That's why I'm here.

The simplest of filters is the "Do I give a rat's ass?" filter.  Works something like this:

Open email.  Read.  Ask yourself "Do I give a rat's ass?"  Answer yes:  add to to-do list.  Answer no:  click delete.

A similar version of this filter can work in staff meetings, professional development days and or hallway conversations.  Mental check-in: Do I give a rat's ass? Yes - pay attention.  No - check out and start planning that night's dinner in your head.

It's the only way to maintain your sanity.

Your job as a first year teacher is to survive, not kill or maim a student, and learn a thing or two.  That's it.  No más.  School Improvement Plans, Leadership Teams, complicated data, in-house politics, calendar meetings, it can all wait.  You're bright.  You've been hired to teach the young minds of America, so you damn well better not be an idiot.  Your brain will pick up on key words that indicate when you might want to pay attention.  "Employee evaluation" "legal duty" and "paycheck" are a few.   Otherwise, just resort to the rat's ass method.  But if you're super uptight, find a buddy.  A laid-back, smartass buddy with a few years under his/her belt and use that person as your ass-checker.  Meaning, take said email to your buddy and ask, "Should I give an rat's ass?" Depending on the answer, follow the aforementioned instructions.

Later in your career, you might find yourself suddenly thinking, "wow...I really would like to consider being on the calendar committee/instructional leadership team/parent teacher association" but for now, just take my word for it.  You don't have time.  Which brings me to my final and most important tip:

4.  Go the f--k home.
Pardon the vulgarity (though I recommend you get used to it) but, seriously.  There will be too much to do, it will never be done, and you should just give up right now on trying to pretend it's manageable.  It's not.  So finish what you can finish, set yourself a time limit (If it's past 5pm, you need to lean in a little closer here, so I can smack you) and Go Home.  Children will not die.  Your colleagues will not hate you. But maybe (just maybe) you'll make it through your first year without burning out.

Always nice, not hating your job.

But worst case scenario, if you get to feeling a little frazzled or questioning your career, shoot me an email:  whenpigssing@gmail.com (Note, please, that's When Pigs Sing not, as many have read, When Pissing.  Similar enough to be annoying.  Amusing enough that I haven't changed it.)  I'll happily taunt you, then settle in and give you the real reasons it's worth sticking that first year out.

Like having a kid from your first class track you down a decade later to say she hopes you're still teaching.

Or finding out that one of your annoying little buggers decided to major in your subject.

Or teaching a kid that then decides to teach kids.

Your students don't know the tough realities and occasional suckiness of a first year teaching.  They're actually going to learn something from you.  And, likelier than not, they're going to remember you.

And that, my friend, is why they pay you the big bucks.  So good luck.

You're going to need it.