It's been a while since I wrote. In the meantime, quite the drama has occurred that half-way prevented me from writing because I could sense the story was changing constantly. I didn't want to misrepresent, though I fear the narrative will end up being a bit distorted anyway.
I came to our third student teaching seminar with an embarrassing, but genuine confession: "I have a student that I don't like." It was hard to say this out loud, and yet, there were simply no other words for it. The issue I was wishing to express, however, had nothing to do with the student, but rather with my own attitude that I knew was already affecting my general behavior with her compared to with other students. I don't like disliking other people in general, and disliking a student does not exempt me from the responsibility to help her succeed and grow in her learning.
And that was exactly it: as I worked through my recollections of our interactions (she is a female, I'll call her Dora), and specifically my responses, I recognized the true challenge of the situation to be fulfilling my responsibilities by finding a way to work with her that erases - or, at least, limits - my negative attitude and supports her learning as much as possible. The task at hand lies entirely in my lap; all the better if she has no idea.
Oh, but Dora is not that easy a case. Is anyone, really? As a matter of fact, the longer I have struggled to connect with her, the more intrigued I have become with her thinking, her behavior, and - quite simply - her story. As one might expect, it runs much deeper than her words and actions might imply ...
I'm afraid I have to leave the cliff-hanger there, folks. To be brutally (and embarrassingly) honest, I was discussing with my host family what I should use for a pseudonym, and - as per usual - we got a little side-tracked. I promise not to keep you hanging too long this time!
Monday, September 29, 2008
Sunday, September 7, 2008
Five-year-old with an IEP?!
Everything still appears to be going well after a full seven days of school. I like to think they're easing us (and the students) into the year with a three-day week, a three-day (Labor Day) weekend, a four-day week, and now, finally, a five-day week approaching. By the end of the week we'll be golden and on our way to Thanksgiving!
Gnawing at my inside, however, since the middle of last week, is the memory of an early morning meeting about a particular male student in our class. Before school started, I was informed by my cooperating teacher about three students coming into Kindergarten with Individual Education Plans (IEPs): two for behavior, one for a language delay. My immediate reaction had been a bit of a cringe, especially on behalf of the two with apparent behavior issues. What a stigma to be slapped with at the beginning of your school career!
Now, fair is fair: IEPs are a well-organized and clear way of mapping out a successful route for students who are struggling in any one of many learning arenas. I do not intend to insult their purpose, but I find it a shame that they are usually associated with "trouble" kids (who are often, themselves, troubled by circumstances outside of school) and therefore might influence a negative impression of the child before his/her situation is really understood.
... Which is exactly how I felt the morning of this meeting. We had started school just four days prior, but both my cooperating teacher and I could not understand the picture presented to us of the student at hand in his IEP. Thus far, we had observed a pleasant little boy with some difficulty staying within the boundaries of decision-making (he was very determined to check out a Star Wars book from the library which was not available for Kindergarteners), but seemed to accept teacher redirection willfully given enough space to change his mind, i.e. nothing we couldn't expect from any of our other students.
However, this meeting brought to light a variety of factors - mostly home-related - that contributed to a recent burst in violent behavior on his part, mostly in situations in which he felt he did not have the control he desired, and was not able to make a choice for himself. The school behaviorist informed us that, above all, we are not to engage in any power struggles with him, but rather give him the parameters to make a decision and leave him alone with it. "Even if he makes a 'bad' choice, it is important that he is making a choice," he said.
I don't want to divulge too much information, but suffice it to say that I anticipated a much deeper story than the IEP originally seemed to report. Not that the external origins or potential factors influencing the behavior reported are necessary to mention in the plan, but it certainly helped me understand the situation better once I had a clearer picture of the context.
We all agreed by the end of the meeting to take proactive action to support this student in a number of ways, which we had discussed. However, the memory of the meeting that continues to gnaw at me long after I registered everything else was the large gulp of remembering how much children are exposed to that they don't understand ... and that I don't really understand, either. It looks like this student could struggle with his impulses for a long time, and for no other reason than that it has become the only coping mechanism he knows.
As his teacher, what is my role in helping him grow and succeed? What mirror can I hold up to his face that will show only the positive potential inside him? I remember, at this moment, the words of a colleague of mine from IslandWood: "I don't teach curriculum, I teach kids."
Gnawing at my inside, however, since the middle of last week, is the memory of an early morning meeting about a particular male student in our class. Before school started, I was informed by my cooperating teacher about three students coming into Kindergarten with Individual Education Plans (IEPs): two for behavior, one for a language delay. My immediate reaction had been a bit of a cringe, especially on behalf of the two with apparent behavior issues. What a stigma to be slapped with at the beginning of your school career!
Now, fair is fair: IEPs are a well-organized and clear way of mapping out a successful route for students who are struggling in any one of many learning arenas. I do not intend to insult their purpose, but I find it a shame that they are usually associated with "trouble" kids (who are often, themselves, troubled by circumstances outside of school) and therefore might influence a negative impression of the child before his/her situation is really understood.
... Which is exactly how I felt the morning of this meeting. We had started school just four days prior, but both my cooperating teacher and I could not understand the picture presented to us of the student at hand in his IEP. Thus far, we had observed a pleasant little boy with some difficulty staying within the boundaries of decision-making (he was very determined to check out a Star Wars book from the library which was not available for Kindergarteners), but seemed to accept teacher redirection willfully given enough space to change his mind, i.e. nothing we couldn't expect from any of our other students.
However, this meeting brought to light a variety of factors - mostly home-related - that contributed to a recent burst in violent behavior on his part, mostly in situations in which he felt he did not have the control he desired, and was not able to make a choice for himself. The school behaviorist informed us that, above all, we are not to engage in any power struggles with him, but rather give him the parameters to make a decision and leave him alone with it. "Even if he makes a 'bad' choice, it is important that he is making a choice," he said.
I don't want to divulge too much information, but suffice it to say that I anticipated a much deeper story than the IEP originally seemed to report. Not that the external origins or potential factors influencing the behavior reported are necessary to mention in the plan, but it certainly helped me understand the situation better once I had a clearer picture of the context.
We all agreed by the end of the meeting to take proactive action to support this student in a number of ways, which we had discussed. However, the memory of the meeting that continues to gnaw at me long after I registered everything else was the large gulp of remembering how much children are exposed to that they don't understand ... and that I don't really understand, either. It looks like this student could struggle with his impulses for a long time, and for no other reason than that it has become the only coping mechanism he knows.
As his teacher, what is my role in helping him grow and succeed? What mirror can I hold up to his face that will show only the positive potential inside him? I remember, at this moment, the words of a colleague of mine from IslandWood: "I don't teach curriculum, I teach kids."
Monday, September 1, 2008
Three days down, ...
"If we don't have any tears, wet pants, or dropped lunch trays, the first week will be a success," said my cooperating teacher on the morning of the Big Day: the First Day of School. I was remarkably calm and surprisingly, the students seemed very well-natured as well, considering the significance of such a transition in their lives.
What had helped, I think, was a combination of two factors: a) most kids go to pre-school or daycare prior to Kindergarten, and so either know at least one other person in their class to buddy up with or have had enough experience spending the day without Mom and Dad to adjust easily into a new environment; and b) the day prior to the First Day, Kindergarteners had the opportunity to come in with their parents to play freely and explore in the space of the classroom, so that Wednesday morning did not bring the shock of an entirely new environment.
Unbelievably, the first three days went remarkably well. Not only did we avoid the three measures of failure mentioned above, the students arrived everyday with a very positive attitude, excitement, and ever more confident ease with the daily routine. I take absolutely no credit for this, for I was mostly just observing and getting into the routine, which was as new to me as it was to my students ... almost.
I suppose it is time to make a small confession about my own educational background that I only just recently realized informs a lot of my sense of being an educator: I went to a Montessori pre-school and Kindergarten. There it is. It's out. I'm one of "those", as some people might be thinking.
Now, this is only important because on Friday evening I went to a bluegrass concert in the basement of a cafe in downtown Middlebury and found my mind lingering between thinking about the structure we provide children in their learning and the freedom of non-structure that allows other learning to come to fruition. I am a musician, you might say, but nowhere near professional, and I've often wondered why it is that sort of fate didn't find me. Who's to say I couldn't have gotten up on some stage somewhere with some song that came to me at some random moment of my intuitive and poetic youth that someone important just happened to hear and like and sign me up for a gig or record deal or whatever? When I think about the very natural progression of my career as a teacher, I can easily comprehend this alternative.
But it didn't happen that way, and, admittedly, most likely never will. Why? Because - I thought downstairs at the concert, admiring the way the lead singer made the notion of a female version of Ichabod Crane strangely attractive - I was a Montessori kid. I had work to do, like slicing apples and fitting cubed blocks in a larger cube in the correct pattern. I had set hours of playtime, work time, and quiet time that kept the day moving. And - my favorite part - I had a whole world to discover and learn about, never quite mastering something before becoming intrigued with something new. I could never have become obsessive about something the way musicians are obsessive about practicing (not to mention managing to sing the same songs gig after gig after gig); I was too busy making the rounds and working on little projects.
And so, back at school as a student teacher, I find myself flowing with the routine of the day - very similar to the one of my own childhood - with as much ease as most of the students. And I can see now, from this perspective, the value that this routine offers: no matter what is happening in the life of a student, s/he can rely on the fact that when s/he arrives at our classroom, it will be Choice Time, when students engage in an activity of their choice; after that, there will be Morning Meeting with a special greeting of the day; and so on and so forth. That predictability, though boring to most adults, is extremely important for children who are learning so much new material and in a new environment. It offers them the confidence and comfort they need to begin taking risks, socially and academically, thus taking ownership of their own learning experiences. It makes sense to me and even only three days has shown me why.
And yet, at the bluegrass concert on Friday, I couldn't help but ask myself who, of my students, might become the musician - the one who doesn't thrive in a daily routine, but in the freedom to run with one's interest as far as possible ... and what will I choose / be able to do about it? Already, my fellow student teachers and I came to the realization at our first seminar that the two elementary school teachers (myself and another female) already felt confident determining who of our students is most likely to go to college and who is not based on our impression of students' families. Is that a fair judgment to make on my part, despite the statistical evidence that confirms the trend? Will knowledge of my students as whole human beings enhance my teaching, or open it up to potential bias and skewed expectation?
First impressions are interesting, to say the least. We shall see how they change, or how they reaffirm themselves as the semester continues. I sincerely hope, though, that the routine that's been established for the school day is open enough for our internal thinkers and structured enough for our external thinkers. As an external processor, myself, I'll have to be careful not to assume the needs of my students one way or another based on my perception of the material; rather, I'll constantly face the challenge of seeing the material through the eyes of multiple "others", each with their own valid perception of the world around them and of the material at hand.
Intimidating, you think? For this eternal student discoverer of the world, new territory to explore and grow to understand respectfully is the cause of enough excitement to move me to tears or - perhaps - even to drop my lunch tray.
What had helped, I think, was a combination of two factors: a) most kids go to pre-school or daycare prior to Kindergarten, and so either know at least one other person in their class to buddy up with or have had enough experience spending the day without Mom and Dad to adjust easily into a new environment; and b) the day prior to the First Day, Kindergarteners had the opportunity to come in with their parents to play freely and explore in the space of the classroom, so that Wednesday morning did not bring the shock of an entirely new environment.
Unbelievably, the first three days went remarkably well. Not only did we avoid the three measures of failure mentioned above, the students arrived everyday with a very positive attitude, excitement, and ever more confident ease with the daily routine. I take absolutely no credit for this, for I was mostly just observing and getting into the routine, which was as new to me as it was to my students ... almost.
I suppose it is time to make a small confession about my own educational background that I only just recently realized informs a lot of my sense of being an educator: I went to a Montessori pre-school and Kindergarten. There it is. It's out. I'm one of "those", as some people might be thinking.
Now, this is only important because on Friday evening I went to a bluegrass concert in the basement of a cafe in downtown Middlebury and found my mind lingering between thinking about the structure we provide children in their learning and the freedom of non-structure that allows other learning to come to fruition. I am a musician, you might say, but nowhere near professional, and I've often wondered why it is that sort of fate didn't find me. Who's to say I couldn't have gotten up on some stage somewhere with some song that came to me at some random moment of my intuitive and poetic youth that someone important just happened to hear and like and sign me up for a gig or record deal or whatever? When I think about the very natural progression of my career as a teacher, I can easily comprehend this alternative.
But it didn't happen that way, and, admittedly, most likely never will. Why? Because - I thought downstairs at the concert, admiring the way the lead singer made the notion of a female version of Ichabod Crane strangely attractive - I was a Montessori kid. I had work to do, like slicing apples and fitting cubed blocks in a larger cube in the correct pattern. I had set hours of playtime, work time, and quiet time that kept the day moving. And - my favorite part - I had a whole world to discover and learn about, never quite mastering something before becoming intrigued with something new. I could never have become obsessive about something the way musicians are obsessive about practicing (not to mention managing to sing the same songs gig after gig after gig); I was too busy making the rounds and working on little projects.
And so, back at school as a student teacher, I find myself flowing with the routine of the day - very similar to the one of my own childhood - with as much ease as most of the students. And I can see now, from this perspective, the value that this routine offers: no matter what is happening in the life of a student, s/he can rely on the fact that when s/he arrives at our classroom, it will be Choice Time, when students engage in an activity of their choice; after that, there will be Morning Meeting with a special greeting of the day; and so on and so forth. That predictability, though boring to most adults, is extremely important for children who are learning so much new material and in a new environment. It offers them the confidence and comfort they need to begin taking risks, socially and academically, thus taking ownership of their own learning experiences. It makes sense to me and even only three days has shown me why.
And yet, at the bluegrass concert on Friday, I couldn't help but ask myself who, of my students, might become the musician - the one who doesn't thrive in a daily routine, but in the freedom to run with one's interest as far as possible ... and what will I choose / be able to do about it? Already, my fellow student teachers and I came to the realization at our first seminar that the two elementary school teachers (myself and another female) already felt confident determining who of our students is most likely to go to college and who is not based on our impression of students' families. Is that a fair judgment to make on my part, despite the statistical evidence that confirms the trend? Will knowledge of my students as whole human beings enhance my teaching, or open it up to potential bias and skewed expectation?
First impressions are interesting, to say the least. We shall see how they change, or how they reaffirm themselves as the semester continues. I sincerely hope, though, that the routine that's been established for the school day is open enough for our internal thinkers and structured enough for our external thinkers. As an external processor, myself, I'll have to be careful not to assume the needs of my students one way or another based on my perception of the material; rather, I'll constantly face the challenge of seeing the material through the eyes of multiple "others", each with their own valid perception of the world around them and of the material at hand.
Intimidating, you think? For this eternal student discoverer of the world, new territory to explore and grow to understand respectfully is the cause of enough excitement to move me to tears or - perhaps - even to drop my lunch tray.
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