A Teenager's Adult

I saw this sign for the first time in my 6th grade health class:

Teenagers!  

Tired of being harassed by your parents?

Act now!  

Move out, get a job, and pay your own bills

 while you still know everything!

What a stupid sign.  

The fact that some twenty-plus years later I still remember where I first saw that sign indicates  just how stupid it is.

I don't think I know everything, I remember thinking.  But I get that it's supposed to be funny because teenagers supposedly think they know everything.  I'm not a teenager yet, but when I am I'll still know I don't know everything.  Nobody knows everything. What a stupid sign.

Its stupidity compounded, of course, by the fact that it was attached to a teacher's desk who was supposed to be creating relationships with the very students he was insulting.  Even at age eleven, I didn't miss that little irony.

6th Grade Health Teacher!

Tired of teaching teenagers?

Act now!

Quit, go back to school, and get a job

Where someone appreciates your sense of humor!

In what world would it be ok for an employee of a company to have a similar sign hanging from his desk?

Clients!

Tired of using our services?

Act now!

Cut your contract, take your business, and go find someone better

While you still think you can!

Coming from one of its most avid users, there are (shockingly) places where sarcasm doesn't belong.

This blog post, however, is not one of those.

So this one's for you, kids.  I'm going to bat for the teenagers.  You listen to me good, and should you have any overly uptight, rule-following, killjoy adults in your lives have them sit their little booties down.

We need to chat.

Why Teenagers Know Everything, 
 And Adults Would Do Well To Learn From Them

Above all, my dear teenagers, you are fun.

Ever had to sit through an adult meeting?  Let me give you a piece of advice.

Don't.

They're boring as crap.

Here's what adults do in meetings:  sit, nod, pretend to pay attention, take notes, play on their phones, then use the snotty excuse that since they're "responsible adults" they have the right to play on their phones, because adults would never do such a thing if it weren't urgently important.  They're lying.  Half of them are on facebook.  The other half are checking their email, because they're bored.  Just like you would be doing (and sometimes are) in your classes if teachers weren't so nazi strict on anti-cell phone use.  The real truth?  Half the adults you know would die if they had to sit through a seven hour school day without access to their crackberries, iphones, tablets or devices of choice.  You, teenagers, aren't that weak.  You make your own fun.  Half of you figure out how to work your devices in the most subtle of treasonous ways (under your desk, while pretending to pull a folder out of your backpack, in a hoodie pocket or acting like you're just "entering homework due dates") but the best of you...the best of you don't need internet.  Life is fun regardless.  You draw random genitalia on desks, notebooks, and sometimes your homework.  You listen carefully for any sexual double entendre, then snicker when your teacher innocently states that an invading army came and went.  The following picture would make half of you pee yourself with unbridled, joyous laughter:

Weather_Warm_Front.JPG

Of course, the other (more innocent) half of you would be completely lost, which would result in silent confusion, whispered clarifications, and awkward three-minutes-too-late giggles.  Which would only exacerbate the original instigators, thus leaving me with absolutely no control of my classroom...but that'd be ok, because I would be trying to cover my own hilarity at a weatherman penis by tsk-tsking you while simultaneously hoping no one sees my shoulders shaking from the humor.

Life is fun.  You know that.  It's why you try and crawl out my classroom windows.  It's why you show up to class 10 minutes late with grass stains and a frisbee and tell me some long and involved story about being captured by elves and unable to escape "...so sorry I'm late, Teach!"  

You have hit that perfect balance between carefree childhood and boring responsible adulthood that gives you the best of both worlds.  And I'd rather spend a day in your world - who am I kidding - I'd rather spend my whole career in your world, than an hour in an adult meeting where people chuckle at a "joke" about data.  Give me your entendre-filled responses with a sneaky grin, your silent-reading-is-a-full-contact-sport take on life. You sit all day, seven hours a day and study academics.  Often, in dry and uninteresting classrooms. (Despite my choice of a profession, I'm not going to pretend that all teachers are rock stars.  Or that all teachers are all rock stars, every day.) You sit through lessons on Biology, Geography, Language and Literature, some of which interests you and a large portion of which probably doesn't.  But you still get through it.

And you laugh.  And build artistic sculptures out of the file folders, stapler and three-hole punch on my desk.  Which always makes me smile.  Even as I grumble taking it apart for the thirtieth time to try and find my scissors buried somewhere underneath.  Kudos to you.  I wish more people appreciated your creativity with office supplies, although when they don't that doesn't seem to be a major concern for you.  You see right through their pompous, condescending adult snobbery.  And, to my delight, you then call those pompous adults on their nonsense.  Because in addition to being fun, my dear teenagers, you see everything.

And you have no filter.

Now don't get too egotistical on me, teenagers.  You might see everything, but that doesn't mean you know everything.  No one really knows everything, but we all know that's ok.  Who really cares what the square root of 743 is?  Or what it's actually like to pass through a black hole?  No, knowledge isn't everything.  But perspective can be.

And nobody in this world has perspective like a teenager's.  You've just got to trust that there are adults out there who want to see it.

"Jen," I ask.  "Why did you refuse to do everything I asked you to in class today?"
"This class sucks."
"Really?  Why does this class suck?"
"Because."
"Because why?"
"Because you tell me what to do."
"I tell you what to do.  And you hate being told what to do."
"Yeah."
"Sucks to be at the mercy of someone else..."
"Yeah.  Authority sucks."
"Authority sucks?  Lemme guess...you don't think anybody's better than you, so nobody should be able to tell you what to do."
"Yeah.  I have a problem with authority."

Yeah, Jen?  So do I.  Especially when I think "authority" consists of a bunch of idiots.  And teenagers don't tolerate idiots.  So good for you.  I've seen you call out more idiots than I care to count.  Oh, my dear teens, you are brutal when you want to be.  But always, ever, only brutally honest.

"You've got to behave in Mr. Smith's class, John."
"Why?"
"Because he's you're teacher."
"Yeah, but he doesn't like kids, so why should I do anything he says?"

You know what, Johnny?  You're right.  But my job and my responsibilities demand that I give a long explanation as to why you still need to behave for Mr. Smith.  So I will.  And afterwards, I'll feel a little disappointed in myself for having towed the party line.  Because you're right.  Mr. Smith doesn't like kids.  And you see that.  You see everything.

And those of us that know you, know you speak the truth.  Too much of the truth, sometimes for our reserved politically correct tastes.  It's hard, once you get past the teen years, to shake that veil of propriety and call it like it is.  But I'd like to be a little more like you, teens. Maybe a little less rough around the edges, admittedly, but more like you.

I'd like to call a teacher out when he/she sucked it up big time.   Because even in college, grad school, and after, teachers still totally suck it up.

I'd like to cry at lunch over a simple misunderstanding, yell at my parents when they make me mad, or drop everything for my friends when they need me, even if that means skipping class and getting in trouble for it later.  You see people as they are, and you react as you are.

No sugar coating, euphemisms, or toning-down necessary, thank you very much.

Which is why, teenagers, it means so much to those of us who know you know everything when you throw us a bone.  We've hit the age of self-mastery, of responsibility, of boring repression.  Even those of us on the spunkier end of the spectrum will admit we don't live quite like we did as teens.  And even on our best days, we can learn from you.

Silly string is fun.
Propriety is not.

Friends, even the dramatic ones, are everything.
Idiots are not.

Call it like you see it.
Why waste your time pretending otherwise?

When I want the truth, teenagers, screw adult friends.

When I want the truth, I will always come to you.  Because you will always give it to me straight.  Painfully straight, yes, but without the oily veil of fake kindness.  And, once I get over the sting of that truth, I will always be grateful to you.

"Tell me, guys.  Was yesterday a really bad class?"
"You want the truth?
"Yes."
"You won't get mad?"
"No."
"Even if it's not appropriate?"
"No...I don't think so."
"You were kind of a bitch."

Yeah.  That's what I thought.  And of course you, teenagers, picked up on it.  And though I might have to give you the obligatory chat about curbing your language even among people you trust, I get it.  I totally get it.

I was a bitch.

But the fact that you considered it worth your time to tell me that will give me some faith in myself.  Because teenagers choose their adults carefully.  And it's always an honor to be a teenager's adult.

So thanks for your faith in me, teenagers.  You've taught me a lot.

And the greatest gift in my life will be if you let me continue being your adult.

So tell the idiots to shove it and go build a tower out of office supplies.

I, in the meantime, will be waiting with the elves and a frisbee for the next round of fun.

Breathe

From Post Winter Break Plans

It's not usually life or death.

For that matter, it usually isn't even bodily harm or maiming.  Generally, teaching's just a lot of grading and whining.

Unless, of course, a student catches on fire.  Or decides to eat glass on a dare.  Or sticks a penny in an electrical socket -- episodes that serve as rare but spunky surprises in addition to the more standard broken bones of the PE department, chemical burns of the science, and, of course, the kids who come neatly packaged with peanut allergies and epipens.  Or diabetes and insulin.  Or asthma and inhalers or...

Oh, crap.  I'm sorry.  Did I just stress you out?  It's alright.  Don't freak.  It really isn't usually about life and death.  But it is, indeed, a fine balance.

And teachers suck at balance.

I'll give you a visual.  Here's a an old-school* scale:

(*please note clever school pun in education blog)

On one side of the scale kindly put "teacher sanity."  Now, on the other side, put "daily lessons, lesson planning, grading, behavior management, special ed, contact home, professional development, relationships, curriculum writing, RtI, differentiation" and any other daily topic/responsibility that strikes your fancy.  I often like to top it with the metaphorical partridge in pear tree, just to make it look nice.

Done? Not quite.  Now multiply that side of the scale by number of students you have.

Yay!  Ready for a balanced, soothing, change-the-world day at work?

Right.  I know.

Breathe.

And welcome to the calmer, less frequently seen side of Singing Pigs.

Aw, hell.  Who am I kidding?  I'm still a snarky snot.  But I'm a snarky snot who does a reasonably good job of maintaining balance.  You save-the-world types?  You're cruisin' for a bruisin'.  You can't save the world while carrying the weight of it on your shoulders.  All that's gonna get you is a bad back and a nasty crick in your neck.  You know, that really annoying crick when you think you've gotten a good night's sleep, but really you slept all sideways and now your neck is killing you and nobody believes you because it's not a visible injury.  That kind of a crick.

Save that bull for the lawmakers who merrily save the world by cutting education budgets and assigning tests with a neat swish of their pen.  Swish!  New standardized test!  Swoosh!  Teacher performance pay!

There.  That oughta do it.  World saved.  So now you teachers can lean back and start worrying about your own sanity, thanks to your friendly local public education policy.

Yikes...That was a bit of a rant, there. Seems I forgot to breathe.

Or rather, this blog is my most effective breath taken.  Converts frustrations into humor.  Provides me with perspective.  Entertains (for god knows only what purpose) other crazies like me.

But you...how are you breathing these days?

What are you doing in that moment when your desk is covered in papers, students are asking for grades, you've got a group of kids failing, just caught a couple cheating and are pretty sure at least two families are aiming to have you fired?

Save the Wold By Saving Your Sanity:

Rule 1:  Lock Your Damn Door

An open-door policy is good.  Students need safe spaces to just be.  Spaces where they know they can go to vent, seek out advice, cry, study, or just sit and think.  So now, let's flip that on it's head:

Teachers are the main resource for students.  In order for teachers to work most effectively, teachers need to be in a good state of mind.  They need space where they know they can vent, seek out advice, work...

Figured out where I'm going with this one, my dear overachievers?

I'm an open-door kinda gal.  Most days, I unlock my door when I get to school at the ass-crack of dawn, and leave it unlocked until I grab my coat to leave.  But sometimes, oh sometimes, I lock that door, pull that shade and I'll be damned if I'm answering anybody's calls.  You got a key?  You can come in.  Otherwise, best to just let sleeping dogs lie.

And I'm a sleeping dog of the female persuasion...

If you're stressed, you're kids will pick up on it.   You'll stress them out because, as I've mentioned before, students are professional energy suckers, you won't get anything done, you'll both be miserable and behind and..

Just Lock Your Damn Door.  Give yourself permission.

And breathe.

It helps to train your kids, though.  When is your door going to be locked?  When will it be open?  What does this mean?  I forgot that little detail and that didn't go over so well.

Rattle.  Rattle Rattle.  Rattlerattlerattle.  THUMP THUMP THUMP!!

Thing is, if kids aren't used to your door being locked, they operate under the "The More Obnoxious I Am the Faster She Will Give Me Attention" theory.

"IF MY DOOR IS LOCKED THEN YOU SHOULD KNOW IT'S FOR A VALID REASON!! STOP YOUR BANGING THIS INSTANT!!!"

That last part was me totally losing it.  Something likely to happen with students banging on my door when I'm already in a fragile state of mind.  Of course, it's also something that then requires an apology and explanation.

"Ok, guys," I told them later that morning when I'd downed a thermos of coffee and they had recovered from the unexpected browbeating.  "Here's how it works.  Door is unlocked, you may come in.  Door is locked, Sra. is on the edge of a nervous breakdown and trust me, you wouldn't want to be in that room anyway.  So don't bang on the door.  It might cost you a limb."

Two weeks later I had an early-morning meeting with my principal.  Due to the confidential nature of the meeting, I locked the door.  When I I went to open it to let him leave two minutes before the tardy bell rang, my entire class was waiting quietly outside.  I held the door open for them to come in.  Nobody moved.

"Um...Sra.?" One freakishly well-behaved girl piped up.  "Before we come in...can you just tell us...?"

"What's up Jasmine?"

"Are you on the edge of a nervous breakdown?"

Frightening students.  Reason #1 to make sure you breathe.

Rule 2: Go For A Walk

Yep.  You're going to ignore me on this one.  But it's still worth a shot.

In the middle of your busiest moment, at that very second that you are no doubt, absolutely, unbelievable drowning, toss up your hands, drop everything, and leave.

Not forever.  No worries.  As pleasant as it would be sometimes, there's no escaping reality.  But teachers' brains suffer from a common environmentally-induced quirk.

The busier we get, the longer our to-do list gets.  The longer our to-do list gets, the faster we think things need to be done.  The faster we think things need to be done, the more urgent we think the entire list is.  The more urgent we think the list is, the busier we get and the busier we get...

It's not life or death, folks.

Tell the to-do list to shove it up its metaphorical margin.

And leave.  Then walk.

A brief list of research supporting walking and the brain:

http://bps-research-digest.blogspot.com/2010/06/memory-performance-boosted-while.html

http://sportsmedicine.about.com/od/tipsandtricks/a/midday_exercise.htm

http://www.npr.org/2011/02/04/133498136/growing-a-bigger-brain-is-a-walk-in-the-park

All totally just copied off the internet and completely unresearched by me.  I'm not trying to sell you on the research.  I'm just telling you what will happen.  But first the rules:

1.  You must have a minimally substantial walk.  Under 5 solid minutes doesn't count.

2.  You must continue said walking until your brain actually, even the tiniest bit, starts to slow down.

3.  Once your brain starts to slow down, you may return to your classroom, if you so choose.  (You might just say "to hell with it!" and keep walking.  It feels that good.)

4.  With your freshly walked brain, look at your list and scrap 2/3 of it.  By which, I mean really prioritize.  Quite possibly using Rule #3, but we'll get there in a minute.

What will happen:

1.  You will walk, but your brain will be annoyed with you creating an inner dialogue something along the lines of, "Hey!  Hey, yeah, you!  The one walking.  Get your ass back to the classroom.  What the hell are you doing?  You have 85tests200emailsthree studentswhoneedtutoringnolessonplansyouDONOTHAVETIMETOBEWALKING!!!"

2.  You will find it seriously difficult to ignore your brain trash-talking you and you will have an overwhelming desire to run back to desk, apologize to your insulted to-do list, and make amends by adding three more items to it, just to show your love.

3.  However, if you continue walking, your brain will be unable to maintain above smack-talk.  Inner dialogue will slowly transform into something like "You have 85tests200emailsthreestudentswhoneed...ooooh... new carpet in the lobby...tutoringnolessonplans...aw, there goes one of my favorite kids...YOUDONOT...mmm... tacos for dinner tonight."  

4.  When random distracted thoughts outnumber brain trash-talking, you will return to your desk and, upon inspecting to-do list, functionally be able to prioritize.  And trash the rest. Which we'll get to in a second.  But first, one more study on walking:

http://www.webmd.com/brain/news/20090508/walking-backward-may-sharpen-thinking

Apparently walking backwards makes your thinking sharper.  Hey, I'm not telling...just planting a little seed there.  If you're having a really off day, you could always give it a try.  And send me a video of your little backwards stroll.  Which I would never post on my blog...

Rule #3:  Take it to The Extreme

I talk to myself.  Hell, I have whole imaginary conversations with myself.   And others.  In my brain.  I've got a whole little alternate universe of full-blown interactions that never happened.  Even with myself.

Confusing?

Yeah, well, that's about how well your brain is functioning when you're in the middle of a Gaaaaaa! I can't possibly finish all of this! moment.  So after your little walk, grab your to-do list and sit down for a come-to-Jesus chat with your Trash Talking Brain.  Simply by having cleared your head, you ought to be able to knock some of the sillier items off the to-do list.

"Really, Brain?  Really?  You had to put 'clean whiteboard' on the list this week when I just collected a five paragraph essay?"  Your brain, still slightly distracted from it's little foray out into the non-classroom world will barely put up a fuss.  "Seemed like a good idea at the time.  Ok...maybe not urgent...oooh...pretty flowers..."

Obnoxious little bugger that it is, though, the Trash Talking Brain will quickly realize its disadvantage and regroup.  "Ha!  You got the whiteboard crossed off but now you're stuck on grading papers, finding tutors and writing lesson plans.  SUCKA!  You're still stressed out.  I win.  Na na na boo boo..."

Don't engage.  Nobody ever out-taunts the Trash Talking Brain.  Just beat it at its own game.

Me:  "Gosh, Brain.  You're right.  Let's see here...grading, tutors and lesson plans...What can I eliminate here?"

Brain (gleefully):  "Nothing!  It all has to be done!  Today!  You're screwed!  Brains rule, Balance drools!"

Me:  "So what's the worst thing that could happen if I didn't get my grading done today.  Or even this week?"

Brain:  "The kids wouldn't get their work back!"

Me:  "And if they didn't get their work back this week?"

Brain:  "They'd freak out!  And you'd get a reputation as a slow grader!  And those points wouldn't be in the gradebook!  And they or their parents might email you asking when it will be in and..."

Me:  "So, what you're saying is that worst-case scenario grading doesn't get in today, or even this week, the kids might think I grade slow.  And I might have to shoot off a couple of emails with an estimated finish date."

Brain:  "Yeah!  Slacker!  NEENER NEENER NEENER!  Thhhhhhbpt! (Nose-thumbing)

Me: "I can live with that."

Brain:  "Whaaa...?"

Me:  Gotcha.

Brain:  "[expletive!]...oooh...can we really have tacos for dinner tonight?"

Take the tutoring example to the extreme, however.  If I don't find a kid a peer tutor, he or she might fall even further behind.  She falls further behind, it's harder to catch up.  He doesn't catch up, he fails.  She fails, messes with her schedule next year.  And graduation?

Oh!  Would you look at that?  I think I just found my priority.

We humans frequently operate on fear.  Take fear out of the equation, and things become much clearer.  A parent wrote you a nasty email?  So what?  You'll answer it and handle any resulting fallout as it comes.  You then have to meet with a principal and the family?  So what?  You'll do it, then go home and be on your comfy couch for five times longer than that meeting lasts.

Take it to the extreme.  Very few things will kill you.  Unless one of your worst case scenarios ends in "spontaneous combustion," "e coli," or "a river full of crocodiles," tell your Brain to shove it.

Go for a walk.  Smell the roses.

Breathe.

Be Nice

 I'm a ridiculously thoughtful person.

Startled?

No, really.  I think a lot.  I occasionally also think nice things.  In between the "Wait...did you really just say that out loud?" and the "oh my word, you are insane!" thoughts, I am completely capable of being a sweetheart.  A darling.  A lovely pleasure to be around.

Depending, of course, on your definition of "sweetheart."

I'll admit it.  Strong emotion makes me excessively uncomfortable.  I will be the first person to crack a joke when someone bursts into tears (out of a desire to lighten the mood, not out of insensitivity - though admittedly it's not a great tactic), I show disdain for anything that can even be remotely labeled as cheesy, I avoid hearts, roses, the color pink and I would prefer you didn't touch me unless it's to give me a high-five or challenge me to arm wrestle.  If you ever hear me utter the words "Oh, sweetie pie, how are you doing today, honey?" you should immediately have me admitted to the hospital, because I'm probably suffering from brain cancer.

But I am nice.

In my own special way.

You can't survive the education world if you're a pessimist.  Which is not to say there aren't pessimists in the education world.  There are.  And they suck.  Because they're miserable and, out of their own miserable-ness they feel the obligation to make everyone else around them miserable.  Party poopers.

( Random fact of the day:  did you know that the word for party pooper in Spanish is aguafiestas?  Agua = water, fiesta = party.  Thus the party pooper is the one who waters down the party.  As fascinatingly practical of a description as this is, I much prefer the fecal version of the English speakers.  C'mon.  Admit it.  The visual of someone actually pooping on  a party does much more to get the meaning across.)

Since we've already discussed the Singing Pigs Laws of Teaching in a couple of previous posts,  let's get some of the SPLOT basics straight:

1.  Education involves an obscenely high number of people and personalities.

2.  Many of said people and personalities will annoy you.

3.  Education involves obscenely mind-numbing bureaucracy run by people who have no idea what they're doing.

4.  Much of said bureaucracy will annoy you.

So get over it already.  And learn to make the best of it.  Or else you're screwed.

My father, (when he wasn't reminding me that "donkeys don't got to school because nobody likes a smartass") was a huge fan of the "you catch more bees with honey" adage.  Perhaps my father's affection for these two particular expressions tells you a bit about my teenage years.  Or perhaps he was just right.  On one count, anyhow.  I have discovered, thankfully, that there is a rather large number of people with a soft spot toward smartasses.  I like to call these people "friends."

Regardless.  If you're going to survive, you're going to have to see the bright side of things.  And if you're going to see the bright side of things, you're going to have to be nice.  If you're nice, you will have a better day.  Semester.  Year.  I promise.  And the coolest thing about the Being Nice category of  4 Ways to Make Second Semester Better That Don’t Involve Boring Crap Like Reviewing Standards and Benchmarks or Analyzing Data is that you should see almost instant results.

Now, really.  How often does that happen in teaching?  

And here's the other cool thing about Being Nice:

It's not just about the kids, this time.  

Being Nice Lesson 1:  Write a nice email home.

I spend a shitton of time writing emails home.  Most go something like this:

Dear Parent,

My name is Teach, and I'm your student's Spanish teacher.  Blah blah blah reasons I'm glad your child is in my class blah blah student's strong points  blah buuuut blah blah blah your child is failing/has cheated/punched another kid/otherwise misbehaved blah blah blah steps taken blah expect this won't happen again blah blah I have faith in your student.

Thank you for your support,

Teach

But in general, I just let the good kids slide by unnoticed.  After all, they're not the ones pantsing each other in the hallways or drawing hairy genitalia on desks.  Or starting fights.  Or cursing at teachers.  Or  ...

But I complain because I only get emails from the crazy parents.  Never the nice ones...so maybe the only parents who ever hear from me are the parents of the...  Damn you, hypocrisy!  All right.  Fine.  I can sit my booty down and write one out-of-the-blue nice teacher email each month to parents of a student who deserves it.

Funny thing.  Being nice usually provokes being nice in return.  Almost every nice parent email I have sent home has provoked an equally nice thank-you note.  These people have put a lot of blood, sweat and groundings into raising their children.  They do, occasionally, like to hear that the midnight feedings and trips to the ER were worth it.

But take it one step further.  

What if you sent a nice email home to the parent of a royal pain-in-the-butt?

I once had a mother start out parent-teacher conferences without an introduction.

"Hi!" I greeted the next parent in line brightly.

"I know my kid's an ass," she sat down exasperatedly, "so why don't you just lay it on me."  Well, ma'am... that would first require knowing who your son is.  Oh...right...

Yep.  Her son could be an ass.  But generally, he was fine for me.  So I let both her (and him) know it.  I saw her five months later at the next round of conferences.  She cried. Her son had asked her for the first time in his life if he could buy a teacher a gift card for Christmas.  

And I got free coffee out of the deal.

Bees with honey.  Teachers with coffee.  Nice with nice.

Being Nice Lesson 2:  Write a Thank You Note To A Colleague

Who saves your ass?

I won't sugar coat it.  Some of us work in more functional schools than others.  And even in the generally functional schools, there's usually someone who irritates the tar out of you.  (Why, hello snooty AP teacher who organizes his seating chart by ability level then refuses to speak to the "lower" half of the room!  You are a jackass!)  But on the flip side of that, even in the most dysfunctional schools, I'd bet there is someone who makes you think, "Gee, it's so pleasant not to feel the urge to cringe when I see you coming!"

Do the both of you a favor.  Write that person an honest-to-god note.  No just shouting "ohmigodthankyousomuch!" as you rush back into your room with the copies they made you because you forgot that you hadn't prepared the test you were giving today.  Sit.  Write. For real.

And don't forget your administrators.  They're too easy to gripe about because they're the bosses.  But really - they get to deal with angry parents, students, teachers and the school board/superintendent/budget cuts.  They do hiring, firing, data, standardized tests and improvement plans.  In their free time, they're supposed to cultivate relationships with teachers, students and parents.  And the school board/superintendent....and here we go again.  They may not be perfect, but really...do you want that job?

F--k no, you don't.

So when they do something right, do you let them know you appreciate it?  Or just kind of ignore the good and bitch about the bad?

No complaining about your colleagues being buttheads to you if you're a butthead to them.  Or even just a passive non-entity.

And what if you sent a colleague you can't stand a thank-you note?

It could blow your mind.

Being Nice Lesson 3:  Yeah.  The kids.  No shit, Sherlock.

Since in the end it's the kids we're there for, we'll end with them.  The theme, however, is the same.  

Step 1:

1.  Take a handful of kids you really struggle with.

2.  Find something good in all of them.

3.  Write them a nice note about their good parts.

4.  Observe drastic change.

Now, with "drastic change" don't go all crazy on me.  Your misbehaving, foul-mouthed, unengaged  sleeper in the back row is not suddenly going to start turning in his homework with little hearts dotting the i's.  But here is what I will guarantee you, 100%.  One day after getting that note, something, some little thing will change.  And if you notice that change and give him a nod for it, it will continue.  And if you continue believing in that kid, he'll continue growing.

That's drastic.

And kind of makes your heart all warm and fuzzy.

Which, if you're me, makes you kind of uncomfortable and itchy.  Stupid sugary bright side of education.  Gooey rainbows and unicorns.  Argh!  Sincere emotion!  Barf!

Oooh...what's this?  A thank you note in my inbox?

Dear Teach,

You smell like poo.

Love, 

Colleague

Why, it's perfect...Thank god for colleagues who totally make my day.

Get Excited

From Post Winter Break Plans 

Remember that one professor you had?

Mine was a German professor.  Two of them, actually.  (And yes.  I studied German before becoming a Spanish teacher.  We all have to find our own paths.  Don't judge.)

The first German professor was a nervous wreck.  Literally.  The year after I left he was forced to take a leave of absence due to a nervous breakdown.  (I, for one, thought people stopped having nervous breakdowns after the turn of the century, or so.  I also somehow associate them with Victorian lace and pale women in massive skirts waving themselves with fans, not mousey German professors with an obsessive affection for sweater vests.)

While sweet enough, he taught pronunciation by endlessly repeating the alphabet, (repeating - not singing,) read all our literary texts out loud, and cut every class fifteen minutes short because he couldn't make it through a ninety-minute class without a cigarette break.

The second German professor in question actually stopped my intermediate level course in the middle of a lesson to tell us, "If I ever don't show up for class one day, you'll probably find me facedown in a rowboat on the lake, with a bottle of Jack Daniels and slit wrists from having to live in the hellhole that is this town."

The moral of the story?

These professors were not excited.  Oh, and:

1.  You're going to want to avoid my alma mater if you're studying German.

2.  Don't be that professor.

Fact:  Teenagers (all children, for that matter) are energy-suckers.  Meaning, whatever energy you're giving off in class that day, they will suck out and mimic back at you.  If you're not excited about what you're teaching, heaven help you, neither are they.  Not only that, but...

Fact:  Teenage energy suckers will exponentially deflate your exerted energy levels.  Meaning that even if you are exhibiting excitement, teenagers will tone it down about ten notches.  Thus, if you are not excited about the day's material, teenagers will display full-on REM sleep.  If, however, you ride a pony while carrying a Chihuahua on your head and sing your entire lesson - they might sit up and take notes.  If you're lucky.

The catch, and I totally get it, is that we all have to teach boring crap.  Adjective vs. adverbial clauses in the subjunctive mood?  Hold me back, folks.  I think I just wet myself from excitement. Oh...wait.  No, I didn't.

So why should we expect our kids to?

Still, if you want your kids to be engaged, they have to know you love what you do.  Even when it's ugly.  Or adverbial.  So you are just going to have to get excited about those clauses.  Or sentence diagramming.  Or whatever it is that all you math and science people do that's boring.  (Insert obvious humanities-lover snark comment about math and science here.)

And this is why we pick up on the 4 Ways to Make Second Semester Better That Don’t Involve Boring Crap Like Reviewing Standards and Benchmarks or Analyzing Data list with Getting Excited.

1.  Simplest Way to Get Excited Second Semester:  I'm going to blow your mind with the obvious, kiddos.  

Start with the most exciting aspect of the upcoming unit.

That's right.  Throw calendars, curriculum maps and caution to the wind.  Begin your new semester with something that might, maybe actually capture their attention.  It'll be well worth the small amount of content juggling it requires.  

There are limitations.  Obviously  I can't be doing labs if I haven't covered the safety regulations.  But within the realm of what is teachable in that unit, pick the most fun.  If I absolutely, undoubtedly, obligatorily have to begin with vocabulary, then I'm going to pick the most interesting chunk of vocabulary from that unit to teach first.  And then, knowing me, I'm going to...

2.  Do Something Bizarre With the Content:  Since I frequently taunt math and science classes due to a series of unfortunately boring childhood experiences in and a completely inexcusable yet deeply rooted aversion to those areas, I'll reign in my bias and give a shout out.  I spent my math career (all three seconds of it) working problems at my desk or, if my teacher was in a scandalous mood, I might get to go up to the board and write in real, live chalk!

Perhaps this is why I was overcome by jealous rage when one of my math colleagues sent a flash mob to my class.  A math class did a flash mob.  With music and dancing and stuff.  I want to be in that math class, dammit!  Why did I get stuck with chalk dust and textbooks half my weight?

The short story is that this particular teacher somehow had students convert formulas they were working on into dance steps.  The long story is...well, I don't know the long story because it wasn't my class.  But should the opportunity ever present itself, I will happily thieve the lesson plan for all you math teachers out there so you can figure it out for yourselves.

That's some pretty heavy-handed getting excited.  But I'm sure you can think of something outside the box, too.  Get creative.  However, if you're being pathetically lazy and waiting for me to do the work for you...okaaaaay.  Two strategies for doing something a little bizarre:

A.  Make them sing it.  

In my department, we have standard songs we use to teach irregular verbs.  But when my kids are being boring bums, I'll randomly make them sing anything.  "Here's 10 words of vocab.  In groups, set to a melody everyone will know.  Perform."  We'll often make the singing into a competition where each group performs, the class votes on the best, and then we use that song to memorize/review the material covered in it for the rest of the that unit.  Lady Gaga does the verbs with prepositions?  Now your kids are paying attention.  Plus, there's a crapton of research out there on how setting words to music help you remember things better.  I would cite it, but don't really feel like going to all that work.  So case in point - how many cheesy eighties songs can you  still (embarassingly) belt out from memory?

See?  Told you so.  You creepy, closet Wham! lover, you.

B.  Write personal ads for it.

Works great for the mind-numbingly boring.  "If ________ had to write a personal ad for its/him/her self, what would that ad look like?"  (Insert a minimum requirement of content relationships they must cover, if you wish.) You'll pee yourself reading these.   Besides the obvious connections to some subject areas (think proton, electron) the most fun can be had giving the kiddos something you really don't see the"datable" side of.  The Louisiana Purchase?  Federalist Paper #10? Try them.  Students will come up with nonsense you wouldn't believe.  That's actually quite good.  I might, however, recommend skipping this little activity if you teach health.  A sincere piece of advice from a small mishap involving a version of this activity where I had students create characters who then wrote personal ads.  Clappy the Clown "preferred geographic regions of the moist and damp variety.  I'm a more big-city kind of guy, (I often hang out in San Francisco) but don't mind spending time with small-town girls with no real means of entertainment, or even the occasional farm animal..."  

I'll leave the discipline referral on that one to your imagination.

But truly, if you have nothing, absolutely nothing that you can think of to get excited about...

3.  Ask your kids

Throw them all index cards.  Say "Here's what we have to cover.  What is the most insanely fun, exciting, if-I-really-stinkin'-have-to-learn-this-I-would-prefer-fun way you can think of that we could cover this material?"  If you want, let them brainstorm with partners.  Ask every kid, every class, of every section you teach.  Collect the notecards.  Read.  Most probably won't be all that good (the kids, after all aren't trained in teaching or learning strategies) but every time you do it, you'll get a handful of ideas that might actually work.  Or at least enough of a prompt that your creative brain will take over, and next thing you know, you'll be doing your own version of #2.  (Aaaaand, I just said #2.  Which made me think of poop, then snicker.)

And after you do #2, you will neatly package up your idea (the activity, not the poop) and send it to me (whenpigssing@gmail.com), so that I may then steal it for my own nefarious purposes.  I mean, seriously, folks.  How long do you think I can keep coming up with ideas for you without a little help?  What do you think I am, your performing monkey?

Why, actually, yes I am.  And I'm riding a donkey with a Chihuahua on my head.

So get excited.