Month: January 2017

How much have we dumbed things down for kids? And, worse, how much farther down are we willing to go?
Late start today, so we discussed how our students did recently on their informational essay. It was not funny that some people had little to offer because they didn’t even give their students this assignment. They were the smart ones, btw.
What my regular English classes recently completed can’t really be used for trustworthy data. I have a single class of 32 students who, usually, have more absences in that one class period than all my other periods combined. They had the essay assigned to them–the good students in there, though few, still need to be challenged–and only 12 of the 32 turned it in. What am I supposed to do with that? What I end up doing is rewarding the students who do, and failing the students who don’t. I have no idea what they want me to do, but a message is clear–we will not do our work, especially the tough stuff, so please fail us.
Is that too harsh? Does that make folks uncomfortable? Am I a big bad man for writing such things? Our school wants students to write an informational essay, as do I. Teachers and administrators meet on late starts to discuss such things. It is assigned. I break down the essay as something that, I think, makes it less painful, like it’s no big deal. Students can “communicate” in their “voice” and write about subjects that aren’t always literature-based. Haven’t read the book? You will have every option in the world open to you to pick a topic you can write on. 12 of 32 turn it in. I’m still waiting for the book, or source, or teacher, or administrator that has an answer for making students sit down and do work. They either do or they don’t.
Kids come in at lunch every day because I have two microwaves. One student today had a copy of Huck Finn, which Hemingway once claimed was the greatest American novel ever. My former student, who did not have a copy of the book, said she was not going to read it because it was hard to understand what the guy was saying. Translated: Huck Finn narrates with slang and that’s before-my-time slang. The student with the copy said he had just checked out the book, which is why he was carrying it. He planned to not read it based on how boring the first pages were.
News flash, America. Students don’t read. If you’re lucky, they go online and check out the secondary sources found everywhere. They don’t read, though. And now it’s moved into their writing, their test scores, the circles they run in, and how they speak to adults. What is our solution? To hold them to an even lower standard and only read excerpts from books. Because, after all, if they can’t read a book, maybe they can read part of one.
I walk by classes on campus and students have books open and spend 20 minutes at the start of classes with those books open (I walk by, so I’m not sure if pages turn). These are in the higher-level classes, too. Those kids read for 20 minutes, then teachers have them generate some essential questions, maybe do some low-level plot questions that don’t have students infer anything–which are reasons why they don’t read. English teachers got into teaching for this?
I’m pissed. I don’t mean to offend or put other teachers in a bad light because I don’t have answers here (and maybe what other teachers are doing with similar students is working for them). I am no better because I feel any work that students can complete is better than nothing at all. But, CRAP, it’s brutal out there. As a good teacher, I should make them sit down and force them to do work–you can’t leave the class until you have something tangible. But then I get in trouble when they are late to their next class, or I have to stay after school until they are done.
If any new teachers read this, understand that there are no clear answers. We show up the next day, try our best, and hope that previous failures don’t repeat.

If everyone was as adventurous as they are with food, the world would have some pretty worldly people in it. Breaking something down to the simpleness of food–it’s not that far-fetched. Why wouldn’t that work in any situation?
I don’t believe teachers like trying new things. They already have binders, and packets, and pre-made lessons, and cds that sync up with the daily stuff, old quizzes, old tests, old prompts. We love our stuff. That’s why you should invest in storage facilities. I get it, though, because I have too much stuff AND a storage facility space.
It gets scary enough when the old-time (that is not an age reference) teachers don’t want to change and just keep trotting out the dog-and-pony show, no matter how antiquated it is. What’s worse is when students don’t want to. A movie they’ve never heard of? Heck no! An album that isn’t on the radio’s constant commercial rotation? Nope nope nope. TV shows? What are those? Well, unless you count binge-watching what everyone else is binge-watching. Dude, I just finished the 6th season of Grey’s Anatomy. Don’t tell me what happens in Season 7. No spoilers.
Spoilers ruin surprises. We like surprises. So try something new. That was my assignment to all my classes recently–try something new. My students looked at me like I had another rip in my pants when I suggested such silliness. What? Are you never going to try something new again? Come on. Live on the edge and try a new radio station, walk home a different way, read a book (HA!), watch a movie your parents suggest. The list goes on. It will be presented in class, right down each row, with me asking what they did and, maybe, why; kids will hear what others have done, kids will speak, we’ll laugh, maybe wonder about some people. It should be okay.
I’ve never done this assignment before, so it is my example of trying something new. It may fail miserably, though, which will not be something new.

Today, the mayor came and talked to our kids. Not all of our students at our school–just APN kids and senior Government class ones. He wasn’t that exciting, nor was he boring. He was the mayor of Torrance, coming to North High, to speak to students in the Black Box theater. And since I don’t remember the mayor of Long Beach speaking at my school, this was a pretty big deal. If nothing else, he is the elected official that represents the city of Torrance.
Pat Furey is our mayor, and he talked about a lot of things that mayors probably talk about when dealing with students. There was the city infrastructure, the many hats he wears, what he oversees–some basic facts and figures for the kids. But I always like people’s stories, their chance meetings with destiny that led them to a place in their lives that they didn’t necessarily plan on. Mayor Furey had a pretty good story.
He grew up in Philly, so instead of living off cheesesteak sandwiches or throwing iceballs at Santa Claus during football games, he joined the military at 18. By 20, he was a policeman. He got injured and decided to follow a girl and move to California, where iceballs are not thrown at Santa. There was school at El Camino, work, and later in his life he decided to be a lawyer. I believe he said he passed the bar at age 44 and another series of events led him to be mayor. I realize that’s the short version, but it’s what he said that students needed to hear.
His story is the reminder of all the chance happenings that lead you somewhere, and sometimes you don’t figure out your true calling until much later in life. Many of our students think that lives are already mapped out for them–mainly by their parents’ quest for them to be something that fits the parents’ goals and dreams–and that detours are out of the question, which ends up being completely ridiculous in any reality-based situation.
I started college in the sciences, graduated from Long Beach City College with an A.S. degree (the S stands for Science), entered Long Beach State as an engineering major, but changed that to Business, then finally settled with English. I thought I would write, or do something in the media that didn’t involve advertising, but not a lot of jobs were out there. I substitute taught, went back to school and got my teaching credential, and the rest is history. That’s the short version, too.
My parents saw the ad in the paper for substitute teachers and told me about it. I spent four years at Long Beach Poly High School because I picked up the phone the night before school was to start and asked the girl at the sub desk if my papers were in order for that year. She sent me to Poly for a day that turned into four years. There was a move to Seattle. There was a move back.
The mayor was another good adult reminder that things change, that you have to adapt and adjust to them. Opportunities arise, and though I’ve passed up many so far, I know they will come up again. Tomorrow I will ask students what they liked or learned from the mayor’s speech, and unless I exhaust every breath from them, I doubt they will talk about his path to being mayor.
Luckily, I will remind them that paths are great, and certain roads should be traveled, but sometimes a tree falls across that road and takes you on another route.
People ask, “What will you do when you quit teaching.” One, I’m an ass so I’ll always think of myself as a teacher, in some form or another. Two, who knows? It’s the surprise that keeps us going.
Sadly, traditional high school classroom teaching offers few surprises.

When I was in college, I thought Catch-22 was a great book. I have no idea why I felt that way then, since so much of it involves the ridiculous of war, corporations, power, rules, and the fact that you can never beat the machine. I must have known then that I was to become a teacher and have to play by the rules of others now and again. No big deal, but sometimes, like in Catch-22, the rules and situations get a bit muddled.
One of my favorite parts of the book is when Yossarian has caused enough trouble for the higher-ups and they cut him a deal. It goes a little something like this–
‘What? What must I do?’
Colonel Korn laughed curtly. ‘Like us.’
Yossarian blinked. ‘Like you?’
‘Like us.’
‘Like you?’
‘That’s right,’ said Colonel Korn, nodding, gratified immeasurably by Yossarian’s guileless surprise and bewilderment. ‘Like us. Join us. Be our pal. Say nice things about us here and back in the States. Become one of the boys. Now, that isn’t asking too much, is it?’
‘You just want me to like you? Is that all?’
‘That’s all.’
‘That’s all?’
‘Just find it in your heart to like us.’
Yossarian wanted to laugh confidently when he saw with amazement that Colonel Korn was telling the truth. ‘That isn’t going to be too easy,’ he sneered.

It’s never very easy. To give in to them would be a betrayal of self. Sure, he would get what he wanted, but then there’s those pesky things like words, principles, values. They still mean some things to people, right?
Yesterday I was disappointed, bothered, and tired of having to jump through the same hoop that has me coming out at the end I just jumped through. I made amends with myself and others as best I could, and tried to move forward. It’s a problem many of us have in this world, and I always try not to fall under its spell, but sometimes you get disappointed/bothered/tired when others have it better than you and your merit is questioned.
There’s always a catch. I am happy that I was reminded of who I am. It only took a few words yesterday (by a Green Bay Packer fan, no less) to snap me back to reality, to the person I am. You know me–that old teacher out there in the perimeter where there are no stars. That guy who wants things done in a fair manner, where everyone benefits in the long run. That guy that will stick it out until things are fixed.
There is always fixing to do, but that isn’t going to be too easy.

Today was a late start that should have never started. It felt bad the whole day because I take things personally, perhaps when I should not.
There’s a bunch of old proverbs out there that remind us to stay useless. When you become indispensable, then you must be around all the time, doing things that only you can do. Better to stay useless and fly under the radar.
Well, I’m too tall to fly under the radar. This is my 18th year at North High. I’ve had one period of a student teacher. I have never been a TOSA (teacher on special assignment). 90 classes, one student teacher. There are others that get a student teacher almost every year. I guess I should be flattered–my classes are so special and wonderful, and I bring so much to the table, that, without me, and in the hands of a student teacher, the class would deteriorate into chaos. The apocalypse would be upon us.
I guess that’s the way I’ll justify it–I am just too valuable. Whatever would happen at school if I weren’t around to bring my expertise?
The reality is that everything would keep going, I would not be missed, and some would be really happy that I was gone. Camus would nod and smile, tell me this is the way the absurd world works, and that, sometimes, you are in a search for meaning where the world offers none. Thanks, Camus.
I was taken aback this morning–real quick–when a first-year teacher told me she has a TOSA period. She’s a first-year teacher, right out of student teaching. WOW. This isn’t about her and her qualifications. I would have taken any break in my schedule during my first year, too. That was the position offered her, and she took it. I will offer this teacher help any time she needs it, too, for we teach a similar subject.
But I didn’t know of this position, and I can venture that not many people at our school knew of it either. When I spoke to my immediate administrator about this, after school, I was told that the position had a reading recovery element attached to it. There was also the pesky fact that I would have to follow another teacher’s lead, and that was a concern.
I’ve taught at North High for 18 years. Every day brings a new surprise.

I taught today. I was up there in front of class, being engaging and charming–something we’re told we should not do. But someone had to lead the discussion of reading, and why it’s so nifty, and pose questions that have enough rigor that they challenge students to think. It’s why I’m around.
I was happiest at lunch today, though. There was that glimmer of hope. A student was talking to me about being bored in the class that no longer has a teacher (who never existed in the first place) and how this student goes on tumblr and other social media sites during class because no one cares. The student will look up certain sites and certain facts–supposedly River Phoenix had only done drugs the night he died outside the Viper Room. This fact made the student look up Gus Van Sant’s My Own Private Idaho, with River P and Keanu Reeves.
So I said Gus Van Sant’s name, and another student–hey, not many eat lunch with me, so this is kind of a big deal–knew who he was and asked if I had seen Elephant. I had, I told my questioner, but I didn’t like all the walking the hallways. I told this student that Gus was enamored with walking scenes at that period in his filmmaking, and that this student might like Gerry, too. It has Casey Affleck and Matt Damon walking through the desert for much of the film.
After that, we discussed Van Sant’s studio works (the ones he did with movie stars and a studio’s budget) versus his more personal pieces. I told them I still like one of his studio works best–it’s the Pam Smart story that he made into To Die For, with Nicole Kidman, Matt Dillon, and Joaquin Phoenix. It was a movie ahead of its time, even it was just for its focus on the media.
People wonder why I love Mondays. This is one of the reasons. Subjects were engaged today, and even though these two students might be the only ones on our campus that know who Gus Van Sant is, I’m going to pretend there’s a whole throng of them, waiting to have lunch with me.
And that’s what gets me through until Tuesday.

Today, I looked out at my classes, as I always do. All of them were supposed to have read certain books that would add to the meaningful aspect of the lesson. Some had done the reading.
But I just pretended that everyone had read, even though many wouldn’t make eye contact with me. Even though most couldn’t fill in any of the blanks on my study sheet. Most just stayed relatively quiet and let me bleat on about literature that they will forget as soon as they fail the upcoming test.
They could apply the themes to their own lives, but had a hard time relating any of them to the context of the novels.
I powered through. I acted like it mattered. Perhaps I will convince myself that it mattered for the kids who did read. Perhaps not.

For the last three years, APN has taken its two senior classes to Sequoia National Park. We did it back in 2010, too. Most students go. We herd them on a charter bus, feed them along the way, spend two nights with them at the Montecito Resort (where everything is included–students need not bring a dime), bring them home, and feed them on the way home. It’s 200 bucks.
One of the cool things about the Montecito Resort is that it has no cell phone service and pretty crappy wi-fi. Students worry a bit about this; they wonder, and often ask, what is there to do? That is not the cool thing. That part happens when they actually get to the destination. For some of them, they still don’t know what to do. They kind of hang around the lodge, maybe play some ping-pong, maybe get a juice, or coffee, or some food item, since everything is included.
Some check their phones to make sure they, indeed, have no cell service. Oh, the humanity!
But, after a while, something magical happens. They give in to it. They realize that they are 300 miles from home, and go for a walk in the woods. Some keep playing ping-pong. Others break out cards and play games and laugh and yell at one another. Others just talk, or sit by the fire, or take some pictures next to trees (or snow, or water), or slide down snowy hills, or climb rocks, or nap, or eat more.
For those couple of days, students don’t whine or complain about much. And their phones become invisible, like they never had them in the first place.
It’s one of our greatest teaching moments, yet it requires no lesson. It’s getting our kids out of Torrance, trusting that they’ll be able to hang out, and sitting back and reaping the rewards. As teachers, we sit at the same tables they do, often play cards with them, or ping-pong, or rock climb, or slide down a snowy hill. Friendships are made, and people understand others a little bit more when there’s not a bunch of desks in a room and bells going off every hour.
It’s fun. There, I wrote the word–FUN.
Schools should try it, too.

Every day, my boy Anton comes homes from school, does his homework, plays a game on his phone or laptop, hangs out, or does what any 12-yr-old does, minus the scheduled hourly activities. Every day my wife and I ask him how his day went, if anything happened, did he learn anything. Did he help anyone. Did he have any fun. I’ve helped him with his math and English this year; the wife has helped him with projects and everything else.
I’m not thrilled by some of his answers about school. He’s in Honors English, so writing summaries about stories is not that tough. I also don’t believe a teacher puts much effort into grading an assignment that will probably sound very similar a hundred times over. But it’s work, and I know he’s reading other things, too. He tells us enough to know that the school is doing a decent job at giving out information, challenging him here and there, and that his teachers are in the classroom.
Yesterday, when walking down to check out a book from our library, I noticed that my next-door neighbor teacher was not in her room. Neither was her substitute teacher, who had been there earlier. One of our classified campus staff was in the room instead.
Another teacher’s third period class had to be covered by a similar classified staff member. My students said that they had the same thing happen with another teacher during a different period. This is all true, though I don’t know if it’s the extent of it.
As a student, how should you feel about this? How should anyone feel about it?
These shortages happened in classes of math teachers who knew they were going to be out of school on a late start day, first day back from a 17-day break. Perhaps it was hard getting substitute teachers on a day like this, but it’s not like it was last minute.
The same goes for our former English teacher who never existed. She’s been gone for over a month and no word has been sent out detailing her absence (Syme has been vaporized). Other English teachers have no clue that she’s even gone. I worried that her absence was detailed in an email or meeting that I might have missed; but two people I spoke to yesterday had no idea she was even gone. How has no one asked? Or cared? Or even noticed? There hasn’t been an assignment graded since the middle of November–I have no idea what the students are doing because I’ve never seen the substitute.
The teacher’s absence is not as 1984-esque as I make it out to be. She is pregnant and on maternity leave. Her pregnancy was not a secret. It was known and very visible at the start of the year in September, and in October, and through the part of November where she was at school. She even was at school over the summer and made it known that she was pregnant. The bottom line is that our school knew for months. I have heard that the class had a long-term sub in place, but that fell through late in the game. Still, one would think the students haven’t had much continuity.
In her class are former Honors students, ones who have applied to many universities. What would these universities think about this whole situation?
I learned something long ago when I taught at Long Beach Poly, but I’ll reiterate it here. When a teacher leaves a position there becomes a hole which needs filling. That’s a problem. The solution is to fill the hole. Once the hole is filled, no more problem. Did it affect kids? Huh? Hole is filled. Did it affect the school? Whaaa? Hole is filled.
That’s us, teachers. We are the hole fillers. Take a bow and try not to fall in too deep.

Today, we had a late start. We discussed WASC and how we want our school perceived by others. Everything said was great as long as you nodded your head and smiled. Every school is a great school if you don’t scratch deeper than the surface.
I felt bad because I made a new teacher blush during our table discussion. It was strictly to make a point that we don’t communicate, that we don’t look at data, that we teach on islands where we have to swim pretty far to get to the island next door. I asked her how many students we had at our school. I asked her what our biggest ethnic group was. I asked her what the student codes indicated. She did not know the answer to any, as many teachers (and not just new ones) would not have known either.
Isn’t it important to know your target market? I don’t want to sell beef to vegetarians. If I had a bunch of people coming over for dinner who were allergic to peanuts, I would probably want to know that information beforehand. You know?
One of the WASC goals that always gets to me, though, goes along the lines of what should kids know. What should kids know? Names, dates, places, things? Who wrote this? Who said that? Where does that quote come from? and, Why is it important?
You know Melville wrote Moby Dick, right? The first line is “Call me Ishmael.” Captain Ahab passionately pursues the white whale that took one of his legs. Starbucks got their name from a character in the book. Is any of that important?
One of my students today said “slo-mo,” which made me think of Dredd and the drug called slo-mo featured in the film. I’m listening to Body Count right now–it’s on a huge playlist of music my kid should know–but my students only know Ice-T from the Law and Order series, or that reality show with his wife Coco.
The more you know, the more you can relate to others; the more circles you can be part of. So, I want my kid and my students exposed to everything. They don’t have to love it, but they should know it. Or, we could all just walk around like zombies looking down at our phones.
Come on, Ice-T and Body Count had a song that was so foul that the federal government pulled it from a released album. You shouldn’t like “Cop Killer,” but it’s kind of a big deal.
Or is it?