Lingering in my mind since the beginning of the month has been a two-part training I attended with my cooperating teacher offered by the Crisis Prevention Institute (CPI). It was a training in nonviolent crisis intervention, directed at teachers and paraprofessionals who have behaviorally challenging students, as in students with a history of verbally or physically violent outbursts. I believe we were semi-required to do the training because of our student on a behavioral IEP - who, by the way, is doing extremely well and showing less anxiety and tendency toward previous behavior. However, I am glad I took the course for a variety of reasons.
I'll continue with thoughts of my own after taking the course. While they were inspired by the course content, I do not wish or seek to quote CPI philosophy verbatim, nor should my comments be considered valid citations of CPI instruction. I highly recommend the training; don't let this be all you hear of it!
On the most basic level, it reinforced for me what I had learned in the past about dealing with conflicts that might arise with a student, or with any individual, for that matter. Conflicts happen as a natural part of human interaction; they escalate when the individuals involved engage themselves in a power struggle. Perspective is lost and the conflict becomes more about the conflict than about the interaction at hand, and only escalates further. (...Hmmm... Sound familiar when considered in the context of present-day politics?)
Ultimately, the best you can do to defuse an interpersonal conflict is to deescalate the situation, whatever it is. A powerful tool for this, I'm learning, is removing oneself from the conflict at hand by making clear you are not looking for conflict. Because, after all, you're not, even when challenged by another.
I'm being very vague. Let's take the example of Dora, who I've written about in previous posts (and believe me, there are more to come). As I became more intolerant of her social behavior, the mentality that "I don't like her" solidified itself so strongly in my mind, it wasn't about her behavior anymore, but about the personal offense I took by it. Where did that get me in my interactions with her? Right in the middle of a constant power struggle. She wasn't doing what I wanted her to do and that got me riled up in negativity.
Great, Avery, way to set a student up for failure.
As I guide all of my students through the social curriculum within our classroom community, I am the mirror they look into, the model they will seek to emulate once I have earned their respect. However, I do not want them to behave in a particular way simply because I want them to do so. Teaching behavior at any age is about the longevity of what is learned, the development of life-long social skills that long outlive the teachers who first modeled them.
Selfishly, of course I want them to do what I want, because then my life is a lot easier in the classroom. But ultimately - selflessly - I want more that they want to do what I want them to do: to respect each other, to care for each other, and to communicate with each other well. To make that possible, they must first grasp the extremes of good and bad behavior and the results of both. Then I can communicate the need strive for the good extreme not in order to please anyone in particular, but to be able to engage in meaningful relationships.
And so, "Because I said so" becomes "Because that's what good friends do."
End of power struggle, removal of authority figure from conflict. The only conflict that remains is the choice: the choice of an individual and, simultaneously, the act of choice that will continue to develop an individual's sense of self.
May we strive to be mirrors that are honest, respectful and caring to those who look to us. May we remember that they will not remember us, only the image we reflected. And may we - despite it all - remain honest, respectful and caring, anyway. Because that's what good mirrors do.
Sunday, October 19, 2008
Thursday, October 16, 2008
P.S. Where did the Counting Jar come from?
It was brought to my attention - ahem! - that I did not give full credit where credit is due when recalling my Counting Jar introductory lesson. It was developed as part of a K-5 Math curriculum called Investigations at TERC, an education research and development organization in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Check it out at: http://investigations.terc.edu/index.cfm
Sunday, October 5, 2008
The Counting Jar (et al.)
What a great week! This is the first week I have noticed real progress in some of my students, be it the ability to discern a square from a rectangle, or simply using kind language with friends on one's own initiative (i.e. without teacher example). What cause for celebration! What growth! What joy there is in exploring and making sense of the world around us!
(I think this is why I could never be a high school teacher.)
I am now leading the majority of the day's events in our Kindergarten classroom, having taken on whole-group literacy instruction new this week. I taught the letters /c/ and /a/, which are not easy letters, you know. /c/ is what we call a stealer, because it doesn't have its own sound - it must take from /k/ and /s/. And when you write the letter, you "fly backwards with your pencil, realize "Oh no, I'm going the wrong way!", so you turn down and around and land back down on the ground going the right way." (That is, literally, how I explained it.)
Don't get me started on /a/. First of all, it's a vowel. It's not one of our tip-tapper or lip-cooler consonants that start with our lips or teeth. This letter starts with a smile - about the smile you'd have on your face as you bite into an /a/pple! Second, don't forget that sometimes it can say its own name and sometimes it's a word all on its own. Finally, it's a real trickster, because it looks a lot different in the books we read than the way we write it, so watch out!
Ah yes, good times learning letters in Kindergarten. Don't get me started on the tubs and pictures of objects that start with /c/ and /a/ that I pulled out for practice! ... c- c- camera! ... a- a- alligator! ...
On the front of Mathematics, I introduced a new weekly routine from the math curriculum my school uses called a Counting Jar. I began with a cute little book called Mouse Count, about a snake that collects 1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-10 mice in a jar for dinner. Just as he's going to eat them, one of the mice tells him he forgot the biggest mouse of them all over yonder. As the greedy snake is off looking for the mouse (that's just a big rock!), the mice "uncount" themselves 10-9-8-7-6-5-4-3-2-1 out of the jar.
We broke for recess and lunch, then returned to the story and retold it with a real jar and 10 little origami mice (unfortunately no snake). I then introduced the jar as "Our Counting Jar": What do you think we're going to use this jar for? For counting, of course - we'll count whatever is in it! Let's practice. I'm going to put a new number of mice inside and you can look at it and guess how many mice are there. What do you think? Four? Five? Six? What's one way we could count them? Take them out one by one and count along: 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5! What's another way? Dump them out and count them with your finger: Dump! 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5! Same number, even though we counted a different way that time. Interesting. Now that we have counted and we know how many mice we have - 5 - our next job is to show our number on paper. What's one way you could show the number 5? You could write the number 5. You could draw 5 dots. Like on dice. You could draw 5 lines. You could draw 5 mice. Look at all the ways we can show the number 5! Let's each take an index card and pick one way to show the number 5. Then we'll put them together up on the board to share. Look at what everybody picked! Some number 5's ... some mice ... some dots ... I wonder if we could find 5 of something else in the classroom? I have these paper bowls here that just happen to have your name on them. I'm going to take mine and look around for 5 things that are the same and all fit in the paper bowl. Let's see ... Look what I found! Five legos! Wait. Do I have five? How can I tell? 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5! But wait. This pile of legos is different than my pile of mice. How can they be the same number if one pile is bigger than the other? Oh, I see! The size of objects doesn't matter when you count, just the number! I bet you'll remember that when you go to find your own collection of five things. ... Let's share with our neighbors at the circle what we found. So many different ideas! I notice Susie over here organized her five things just like the dots on a die. That's an interesting pattern. Can you all put your five things in the same pattern? Look at that! From now on, when you come in Thursday morning, the Counting Jar will be out and we will be able to practice different ways of counting and showing our numbers, as well as to collect some things from the room to share at Morning Meeting.
Oh, it was so well-received, I was so happy! It's odd sometimes, what we all take joy in - children and adults - but I think it reminds us that we fundamentally can't help sometimes but wonder at the world around us and celebrate the ways in which we may participate in it.
(I think this is why I could never be a high school teacher.)
I am now leading the majority of the day's events in our Kindergarten classroom, having taken on whole-group literacy instruction new this week. I taught the letters /c/ and /a/, which are not easy letters, you know. /c/ is what we call a stealer, because it doesn't have its own sound - it must take from /k/ and /s/. And when you write the letter, you "fly backwards with your pencil, realize "Oh no, I'm going the wrong way!", so you turn down and around and land back down on the ground going the right way." (That is, literally, how I explained it.)
Don't get me started on /a/. First of all, it's a vowel. It's not one of our tip-tapper or lip-cooler consonants that start with our lips or teeth. This letter starts with a smile - about the smile you'd have on your face as you bite into an /a/pple! Second, don't forget that sometimes it can say its own name and sometimes it's a word all on its own. Finally, it's a real trickster, because it looks a lot different in the books we read than the way we write it, so watch out!
Ah yes, good times learning letters in Kindergarten. Don't get me started on the tubs and pictures of objects that start with /c/ and /a/ that I pulled out for practice! ... c- c- camera! ... a- a- alligator! ...
On the front of Mathematics, I introduced a new weekly routine from the math curriculum my school uses called a Counting Jar. I began with a cute little book called Mouse Count, about a snake that collects 1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-10 mice in a jar for dinner. Just as he's going to eat them, one of the mice tells him he forgot the biggest mouse of them all over yonder. As the greedy snake is off looking for the mouse (that's just a big rock!), the mice "uncount" themselves 10-9-8-7-6-5-4-3-2-1 out of the jar.
We broke for recess and lunch, then returned to the story and retold it with a real jar and 10 little origami mice (unfortunately no snake). I then introduced the jar as "Our Counting Jar": What do you think we're going to use this jar for? For counting, of course - we'll count whatever is in it! Let's practice. I'm going to put a new number of mice inside and you can look at it and guess how many mice are there. What do you think? Four? Five? Six? What's one way we could count them? Take them out one by one and count along: 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5! What's another way? Dump them out and count them with your finger: Dump! 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5! Same number, even though we counted a different way that time. Interesting. Now that we have counted and we know how many mice we have - 5 - our next job is to show our number on paper. What's one way you could show the number 5? You could write the number 5. You could draw 5 dots. Like on dice. You could draw 5 lines. You could draw 5 mice. Look at all the ways we can show the number 5! Let's each take an index card and pick one way to show the number 5. Then we'll put them together up on the board to share. Look at what everybody picked! Some number 5's ... some mice ... some dots ... I wonder if we could find 5 of something else in the classroom? I have these paper bowls here that just happen to have your name on them. I'm going to take mine and look around for 5 things that are the same and all fit in the paper bowl. Let's see ... Look what I found! Five legos! Wait. Do I have five? How can I tell? 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5! But wait. This pile of legos is different than my pile of mice. How can they be the same number if one pile is bigger than the other? Oh, I see! The size of objects doesn't matter when you count, just the number! I bet you'll remember that when you go to find your own collection of five things. ... Let's share with our neighbors at the circle what we found. So many different ideas! I notice Susie over here organized her five things just like the dots on a die. That's an interesting pattern. Can you all put your five things in the same pattern? Look at that! From now on, when you come in Thursday morning, the Counting Jar will be out and we will be able to practice different ways of counting and showing our numbers, as well as to collect some things from the room to share at Morning Meeting.
Oh, it was so well-received, I was so happy! It's odd sometimes, what we all take joy in - children and adults - but I think it reminds us that we fundamentally can't help sometimes but wonder at the world around us and celebrate the ways in which we may participate in it.
What's in your Counting Jar today?
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
True confessions allow for true growth (part two)
So, back to Dora: it all began in the bathroom.
We take four scheduled bathroom breaks during the day, in which we walk together to the big bathrooms (with multiple stalls) to get our business done all at once. It was one of the first pieces of the routine I took over, and one of the first one-on-one encounters I had with Dora on a number of occasions. She was consistently the last one finished, the slowest to wash her hands, and just kind of in her own world the whole time, not even acknowledging our reminders that bathroom breaks are when "we do our business, we wash our hands, and come right out, ready to go back for more fun in the classroom." When I went in to watch the whole scene play out from the beginning, I realized that she was spending a lot of time initiating games with the other girls, flashing the lights, locking herself in the stall and crawling underneath to the next one, and flicking water from the sink.
In retrospect, I did not acknowledge her curiosity and creativity, or take any joy in her sense of play; I suspect my own intentions for that time plus my customary knowledge that bathrooms aren't a place to play for reasons more hygienic than social. As a result, I was pretty firm in my dislike of her behavior, mostly because it kept everyone else out in the hall, getting noisier as they waited. But there was something more, something beyond her sheer play that rubbed me the wrong way: she seemed to pay no mind to my authority whatsoever. As I realized this, I began noticing a variety of situations in which she completely dismissed or ignored what the adults in the room said to her or asked of her. What other students could read in our voices and body language as a redirection or suggestion for behavior did not seem to register at all in her mind.
My cooperating teacher and the paraprofessional assistant both consider her to be "simply very young", pointing out that she sucks her thumb at Quiet Time (when students lay down with a pillow for 15 minutes) and that she uses much more primitive language and grammar in her speech than the other students. Did her parents lie when they filled out her birth date at registration?, we asked ourselves jokingly. In my own mind, further questions emerged: Is this really a developmental issue? If so, what are some other ways to observe possible stages of development? Would they reveal consistency, or a "delay" in particular elements of her development? I began making a point of watching her a bit more intently to begin putting some pieces together ...
As I observe Dora with her peers, a certain mean streak has surfaced in her social interactions. I watched her initiate conflict with other students both outside at recess and inside at free play time or standing in line, especially. During such unstructured time, she often begins playing on her own, and especially loves dressing up to the point of excessiveness (memories of the three purses I used to carry in Kindergarten come to mind...). When she does attempt to play with the others, who are also engaged in imaginary play, she can't quite seem to find her way into the group, and so lashes out instead to get attention. I'm beginning to wonder if the others are turned off by her apparent inability to engage cooperatively in imaginary play, where several children share one fantasy and interact with each other within it. She obviously feels ostracized, but I don't think she realizes what she's doing that elicits such a negative response from her peers. For example, she'll stick her tongue out at someone, who will then run away not wanting to play, at which she begins to cry that no one wants to play with her.
The pictures that Dora draws of herself in her journal were overly ornamental, with an onslaught of color on top of color that she could never consider complete, no matter how long she had to finish. In addition, she consistently portrays herself with feminine attributes and accessories, such as high heels and fancy belts, as well as long hair and pierced ears, which she knows she does not have.
Finally, Dora's immediate reaction to any conversation perceived as an accusation or conflict that she does not wish to admit to, is to cover her ears or eyes, as if to deny what is happening. When I would ask her to come out of the big bathroom stall (she is now only allowed to use the classroom bathroom), she would often say, "Dora isn't here." or "I'm not Dora, I'm Brittany." The stories she tells about anything differ from one telling to the next: "I got a splinter" can turn to "I cut myself with a knife" within seconds. There appears to be an impulsiveness that inhabits her entire way of being, so that I really can't tell if she's thinking about what she's saying or doing at all.
There is more of the story to tell, for sure, but I'm curious what others think at this point. I know my observations do not provide a full and valid picture, but I would still be awfully interested in what other perspectives offer. Post a comment or send me an email with your own thoughts! The saga will continue shortly ...
We take four scheduled bathroom breaks during the day, in which we walk together to the big bathrooms (with multiple stalls) to get our business done all at once. It was one of the first pieces of the routine I took over, and one of the first one-on-one encounters I had with Dora on a number of occasions. She was consistently the last one finished, the slowest to wash her hands, and just kind of in her own world the whole time, not even acknowledging our reminders that bathroom breaks are when "we do our business, we wash our hands, and come right out, ready to go back for more fun in the classroom." When I went in to watch the whole scene play out from the beginning, I realized that she was spending a lot of time initiating games with the other girls, flashing the lights, locking herself in the stall and crawling underneath to the next one, and flicking water from the sink.
In retrospect, I did not acknowledge her curiosity and creativity, or take any joy in her sense of play; I suspect my own intentions for that time plus my customary knowledge that bathrooms aren't a place to play for reasons more hygienic than social. As a result, I was pretty firm in my dislike of her behavior, mostly because it kept everyone else out in the hall, getting noisier as they waited. But there was something more, something beyond her sheer play that rubbed me the wrong way: she seemed to pay no mind to my authority whatsoever. As I realized this, I began noticing a variety of situations in which she completely dismissed or ignored what the adults in the room said to her or asked of her. What other students could read in our voices and body language as a redirection or suggestion for behavior did not seem to register at all in her mind.
My cooperating teacher and the paraprofessional assistant both consider her to be "simply very young", pointing out that she sucks her thumb at Quiet Time (when students lay down with a pillow for 15 minutes) and that she uses much more primitive language and grammar in her speech than the other students. Did her parents lie when they filled out her birth date at registration?, we asked ourselves jokingly. In my own mind, further questions emerged: Is this really a developmental issue? If so, what are some other ways to observe possible stages of development? Would they reveal consistency, or a "delay" in particular elements of her development? I began making a point of watching her a bit more intently to begin putting some pieces together ...
As I observe Dora with her peers, a certain mean streak has surfaced in her social interactions. I watched her initiate conflict with other students both outside at recess and inside at free play time or standing in line, especially. During such unstructured time, she often begins playing on her own, and especially loves dressing up to the point of excessiveness (memories of the three purses I used to carry in Kindergarten come to mind...). When she does attempt to play with the others, who are also engaged in imaginary play, she can't quite seem to find her way into the group, and so lashes out instead to get attention. I'm beginning to wonder if the others are turned off by her apparent inability to engage cooperatively in imaginary play, where several children share one fantasy and interact with each other within it. She obviously feels ostracized, but I don't think she realizes what she's doing that elicits such a negative response from her peers. For example, she'll stick her tongue out at someone, who will then run away not wanting to play, at which she begins to cry that no one wants to play with her.
The pictures that Dora draws of herself in her journal were overly ornamental, with an onslaught of color on top of color that she could never consider complete, no matter how long she had to finish. In addition, she consistently portrays herself with feminine attributes and accessories, such as high heels and fancy belts, as well as long hair and pierced ears, which she knows she does not have.
Finally, Dora's immediate reaction to any conversation perceived as an accusation or conflict that she does not wish to admit to, is to cover her ears or eyes, as if to deny what is happening. When I would ask her to come out of the big bathroom stall (she is now only allowed to use the classroom bathroom), she would often say, "Dora isn't here." or "I'm not Dora, I'm Brittany." The stories she tells about anything differ from one telling to the next: "I got a splinter" can turn to "I cut myself with a knife" within seconds. There appears to be an impulsiveness that inhabits her entire way of being, so that I really can't tell if she's thinking about what she's saying or doing at all.
There is more of the story to tell, for sure, but I'm curious what others think at this point. I know my observations do not provide a full and valid picture, but I would still be awfully interested in what other perspectives offer. Post a comment or send me an email with your own thoughts! The saga will continue shortly ...
Monday, September 29, 2008
True confessions allow for true growth (part one)
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!
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!
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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