Memoir, Pop Culture, Princess, Teacher

“OMG – What are those things?!” – Why teachers should always preview the class movie.

suburbanprincessteacher

I popped the DVD in the machine and turned out the lights.

“Is everybody ready?” I asked.

The kids had moved all of the desks to the back of the room and pulled their chairs to the front. Some were less than a foot away from the big screen TV I had managed to snag from the AV room.

“Move out of the way, Josh. I can’t see!” one of the girls yelled.

“Move your own chair,” Josh said. “What? You got a piano tied to your butt?”

Josh’s friends laughed.

“OK, enough,” I said. “Remember. I can turn this off anytime. I need you to cooperate with me. I have to finish these reading assessments by the end of the day and the only way I’m going to do that is if you all watch the movie and eat your snack and be quiet. Got it?”

“Yeah, yeah,” they all grumbled.

‘This movie is called Babies. It’s about one year in the life four babies. One is from Mongolia, one is from Namibia, one is from San Francisco and the other one is from Tokyo. You can see how babies are raised in ways that are very different from here.”

“Have you seen it, Mrs. H?” one boy asked.

My heart stopped a little bit. No, I hadn’t. I had meant to preview it during the week but other things kept bumping it off my to-do list.  I figured: it’s an award winning documentary, rated G…what could possibly go wrong? It’s rated G, for heavens sake. Most of these kids had already seen movies that I still couldn’t watch for fear of nightmares.

“No, I haven’t but it has won a ton of awards and I think it will be great. You will learn about babies for health class and about different countries for social studies. Two birds with one stone! Hooray! Now, when I call your name, I need you to join me in the hall for your reading assessment. It will only take a few minutes and then you’ll be right back at the movie. OK?”

“Yes. We promise,” said the one girl who might have actually been listening to me. The rest of them were trading snacks, whispering to the friends, and moving their chairs to get a better view.

I hit play and called the first name on my alphabetical list.

“Ryan, my friend. You are first.”

Two chairs were set up in the hall perfectly so that I could see the class (but not the movie) and they could see me but not the reader. It was a delicate balance of supervision and assessment and doing these two things at once was challenging, to say the least. It would be a wonder if I didn’t have a split personality by the end of the day.

Ryan read his piece smoothly and quickly, while the rest of the class was immersed in their snacks and the movie. One down, 29 to go.

“Katie!”

“Robert!”

I had six students done when the buzzing started.

“What is that?”

“What is she doing?”

“Is that a…?”

“Oh my God! That’s her boob!”

The class went crazy.

“No way!” somebody shouted.

“Yes, look at it. It’s huge! It’s bigger than that baby’s whole head.”

“Oh my god. That’s sooo gross.”

The giggling had reached a peak and could be heard in the hall and beyond.

I dropped my clipboard of reading scores and raced into the room. The student I was reading with somehow made it there ahead of me.

Sure enough, there was the Nambian mother, completely topless, feeding her baby. Her heavy breasts hung almost to the ground and two babies were simultaneously sucking on them and playing with them.

And then, as quickly as it started, it was over. The film moved back to the California baby demurely drinking formula from a bottle fed to her by her father. I paused the movie and considered my options.

“Nooo! Turn it back on!”

“Don’t stop the movie just for that, Mrs. H! It’s no big deal. It’s natural, right?”

If I stopped the movie now, there would be no way I would finish the reading assessments by the weekend. And besides, they were right. Breastfeeding is natural and there was nothing gratuitous about the scene.  Next year they would all get the “sex talk” despite the fact that some of them still played with dolls and action figures.

“Do you think you can handle this maturely, boys and girls?” I asked, pretending like I trusted them to act more mature than my husband would if he were watching the same movie.

“We promise!”

“Pinky swear!”

So, I turned the movie back on, crossed my fingers, and called the next name.

The lesson I learned that day? Well, that previewing a movie before showing it to 30 ten-year-olds is not just a “good” idea, it’s essential. I was lucky it was just a little boob on display. Amazingly, I didn’t get any flack over the movie. I don’t know if the kids just didn’t tell their parents or if the parents agreed with me that it wouldn’t hurt them but I know I lucked out. So, do yourself a favour and watch the movie first and if you see boob or hear cursing, you might want to put it aside and find yourself a new electronic babysitter. Just a tip.

 

Memoir, Pop Culture, Rants, Suburban, Teacher

Children do not fall off turnip trucks. It’s time for parents of bullies to get their heads out of their posteriors.

suburbanprincessteacher

Children do not fall off turnip trucks. (I mean, I suppose literally, some do, in rural Mississippi or southern Ontario, but really, those things are freak accidents.)

Children do not come to school, empty vessels, only to be filled up by what they learn from teachers and peers.  As the old saying goes, children learn what they live. Don’t get me wrong: I know that sometimes, despite everything we do as parents, our kids will go off the rails. But then it’s our responsibility to do everything we can to get them back on track again. Sticking your head in the sand and saying, “Not my kid!” only makes things worse.

The issue of bullying has once again reared its ugly head with the recent suicide of BC teen, Amanda Todd.  This poor child, already suffering from depression, was bullied on-line, in school and out. Despite desperate interventions from her parents and her school, she still felt powerless and alone and eventually took her own life.

There is no doubt that schools have an important role to play in the prevention and treatment of bullying. Teachers and administrators see kids at work in the classrooms and at play on the school ground. And here’s a little secret: most of the time, teachers already know who the bullies are. There are a few, usually the charming kids who are good are being sly and flying under the radar, who come as a surprise but most teachers can tell within the first month of school who is being mean to whom without anyone having to come tell. And teachers deal with small acts of meanness and bullying everyday. It’s a fact of life when dealing with people in groups – kindness and nastiness will occur and hopefully the kindness will outweigh the nastiness.

The problem occurs when schools attempt to deal with the bigger issue of bullying. Bullying is not a one time thing – like two friends having an argument over what to do at recess. Bullying is when a person or group of people targets an individual repeatedly over time using aggression to humiliate or hurt their victim.

Parents are always very willing do anything they need to do once they find out that their child is the victim of bullying. But the scenario changes greatly when parents are told that their child is the bully.

“No. Not my child. My child wouldn’t do that,” they say.

 “I know it’s difficult to hear, Mr. and Mrs. Smith,” the principal tells the stone-faced parents. “But the other child said that your child has been taunting him, pushing him and stealing his lunch treats for weeks now. We have witnesses who have verified this.”

 “They’re lying. I asked my son and he said he didn’t do it and my kid doesn’t lie.”

 “Some of the witnesses are teachers and lunch monitors at the school. They said when they confronted your son he admitted it. He actually confessed everything to me and wrote a letter of apology when he was brought to the office.”

 The principal hands the parents a letter which they refuse to take.

 “I don’t care what that says,” the mother snips. “You forced him to write that. He said you bullied him into doing it.”

 “Mr. and Mrs. Smith, I know this is difficult,” the teacher begins. “But some of these incidents have been recorded on the school’s video cameras. We can show you those now.”

 “Those things can be faked!” the father sputters, turning red in the face. “I saw a thing on it on 20/20 about it last week. You people have had it out for my kid ever since he started at this school. All of his teachers suck and the other kids are mean to him. He doesn’t do anything. He’s the victim in all this.”

 At this point, the principal looks out the window and sees the child in question on the playground. She points this out to the parents and everyone in the meeting looks out the window.

 Young Billy is walking around the playground alone. Suddenly he walks over to another student who has his back to him and pushes him to the ground. The teacher on duty runs over and pulls him away just as he’s about to kick the other child.

 The principal gasps and shakes her head.

 “This is exactly what I’m talking about,” she says to the parents. “So what can we do about it?”

 The parents stand up and walk towards the door.

 “This is harassment,” the mother says.

 “You’ll be hearing from our lawyer,” says the father.

 They nab their son as he’s being brought into the office and tell him that he’s coming home with them.

“Wahoo! Freedom!” he shouts.

 As he’s going out the door, the kid turns around and yells, “See ya later, suckers.” And gives everyone the finger.

 Until the parents of the bullies take their heads out of their proverbial asses, the problem won’t get better. The most schools can do is implement short term suspensions. In reality, this usually means the kid gets to stay home and play video games all day, while the parents complain that once again their kid is being punished for nothing.

I used to work for an amazing woman who believed that, “everyone who is a pain, has a pain.” Kids who are happy and content with themselves don’t bully other kids. If your kid is bullying, you have a problem. Put your ego away and deal with it. Your child, and mine, is counting on it.

Memoir, Teacher

“You smell like fruit” and other compliments from my students

suburbanprincessteacher

Marshall was an odd boy, by any definition of the word. He didn’t have an official “diagnosis” but he was definitely…outside the norm. For one, he talked like a robot and two, he was little obsessed with aliens and anal probing.

I started teaching his class late that year. My mother died on the first day of school, so I was in Ontario when they all arrived. Being the conscientious teacher that I was, I gave the eulogy, packed up some of her things, gave my father a fortifying hug and was back to work within the week. (Ed. note: yes, I know. Craaaazy!)

It was a new school for me and starting late did nothing to ease my angst. My large class of grade 5’s was well known for their “specialness”.  When I arrived at the school, I was told, “Oh sorry. You have that group. Good luck.” There was something in the water the year those children’s parents got together and it’s quite possible that “thing” was alcohol. (I’m not accusing anyone but seriously ladies: put down the wine glass until after your kid is born. There’s plenty of time to drink once they’re teenagers. And trust me, you’re going to need it then.)

Anyway, that year was a hard one for me and, no doubt, for Marshall. As I said, he was odd and he didn’t have a lot of (read: any) friends. This didn’t seem to bother him though, as he spent all of his time reading. He read in language arts class, math class, science class, lunch…you get my drift. And whenever I tried to get him back on track, he would just sigh and say in his robot voice, “I’d rather not.”

Of course it was my job to push the issue, so everyday, he and I would meet to re-do the math lesson from the morning – this time, one-on-one.

“So, today we’re looking at long division, Marshall,” I flip the textbook open to the section we just covered in class while Marshall was reading about aliens.

“You smell like fruit,” he said.

“Oh,” I reply. “Um…thank you?”

“You smell like oranges.”

“Oh.”

Pause

“Do you like oranges?”

“Not particularly. But you smell like them.”

“OK-dokey then.”

Another day.

“Today we’re working on double-digit multiplication, Marshall. Do you remember what we talked about in class?”

“Are you familiar with anal probing?” he stares at me with a serious look. He’s not trying to mess with me…he’s really just curious.

“Uh, yes, I’ve heard of it. But we really need to focus on math right now,” I say, trying to divert the conversation.

“Aliens use these probes to find out information about the human race,” he says. “It’s quite a popular method of information gathering among aliens.”

“Alrighty then.”

Another day.

“So, Marshall.  Today we need to find the area of this square. Do you remember how we figure out how to do that?”

“Area equals length times width,” he intones right away.

“Yes!”

I can’t believe it. He’s on track. He was listening today! I am making a difference. I am such a good teacher.

“So, can you show me how to find the answer to this question?”

“Of course,” he says.

He puts his head down, writes down the formula, fills in the blanks and comes up with the correct answer.

“Excellent,” I crow. “You did it! You are one smart cookie, Marshall. What do you think about that?”

“You smell like the soap from my campground.”

Memoir, Teacher

“Yes, Max, there IS a word worse than the F-word.”

suburbanprincessteacher

I knew it was too good to be true. My grade 5 students were diligently working on their writing in a manner befitting the Writers Workshop model in which I had just been trained. Each student was in a different stage of writing: some were still brainstorming, others were in the throes of getting their ideas down on paper, and some were editing and revising with a friend. The classroom had the electric buzz of learning echoing throughout.

I was working one-on-one with a student at the computer, practically spraining my shoulder patting myself on the back for coordinating such a great lesson, when suddenly, young Max piped up from the opposite side of the room. Max was (supposed to be) editing his work with his classmate, Gord.

“Mrs. H!” he stage-whispered.

I ignored him. He knew the rules. We don’t shout from across the room. Besides, I made it clear that students were to be working independently while I was conferencing with a student. Unless you are on fire, don’t bother me.

“Mrs. H!” he said, again, obviously missing my hand signals and eye daggers. “Gord says there’s a word that’s worse than the F-word.”

“Shut up, Max,” Gord said, pushing him.

Yes, Max, shut up, I thought.

“Don’t say ‘shut up’, Gord. Are you on fire, Max?” I asked, looking over at him. “No, it appears not. So, do your work, please.”

I tried to refocus. The Writers Workshop leader had said that students would work independently if you set the proper environment. She obviously didn’t have Max and Gord in her class.

Short pause.

“Gord says it starts with “k”,” he tried again, this time a little louder, obviously annoyed that I wasn’t giving his question the attention it deserved.

“Enough, Max!” I said more firmly. “Ignore, Gord and do your work.”

Gord smirked at Max and shrugged his shoulders.

The class had slowly gotten eerily quiet as this exchange had gone on. I was secretly pleased that they were all working so diligently and bent back to the student I was conferencing with.

Max tried again.

“He said it was really bad.”

I ignored him.

His voice boomed through the air, blocking out every other sound within 10-mile-radius.

“He said the word was kunt.”

The word hung in the room like smoke from a nuclear bomb.

Every set of 10-year-old eyes turned from Max to me and then back to Max, who just looked at me, pleased to finally have my attention.

Gord put his head down on his desk and shook it back and forth.

Time moved in slow motion as my brain scrolled through the possible appropriate responses to this situation. And yet I knew instinctively that this hadn’t been covered in any of my education classes. I stood up and walked to the centre of the room.

“First of all,” I began slowly. “It’s the “c-word”. That word is spelled with a “c” not a “k”.”

Deep breath.

“Second, I would have to say, that Gord….” I glared at Gord, who had just lifted his head off the desk and was trying not to laugh, “…is right. Many people would say this word is much worse than the f-word.”

“Why?”

The question came from one of the sweet girls who sat at the back of the room with her twin sister.

“Why is it worse than the “f-word?” she asked again. “What does it mean?”

She reminded me of Cindy-Lou-Who when she asks the Grinch why he’s talking their Christmas tree…why?

Sweet Jesus, Mary and Joseph.

“Well,” I began again, trying to figure out what I could say that would bring this line of questioning to a merciful end. “It refers to a woman’s private parts and it’s considered to be a very, very rude word. It’s insulting to girls and women and you really don’t want to be using it.”

There was silence.

Then the boys in the class exploded with laughter, holding their sides, some falling out of their seats. The girls, on the other hand, were indignant. They went after the boys with the fury only a gaggle of 10-year-old girls can muster.

“Ewwww!”

“You guys are disgusting!”

“That’s so gross!”

“You are so immature!”

As the chaos ensued, I motioned for Gord and Max to join me in the hall.

Max was white as a ghost.

“I didn’t know what it meant,” he said. “Am I in trouble?”

“You may not have known what it meant,” I said. “But you did know that it meant something that wasn’t appropriate. So I will be telling your mother about it. You and she can have a little discussion about school appropriate language. Now go back inside.”

As he walked back into the classroom, I turned to my potty-mouthed culprit, who was still trying not to laugh.

“You, my friend, ARE in trouble.”

Without a word, Gord turned and marched himself to the office. He knew what was coming but he also knew it was totally worth it.

Memoir, Pop Culture, Princess, Rants, Suburban

John Tesh says blogging about your diet will help you lose weight…thanks for the tip, Tipster.

suburbanprincessteacher

Fasting

First of all, where does that stupid word come from? Fasting…there’s nothing fast about fasting. It actually feels like time is standing still. How many more hours until I can eat? Has it really only been an hour??? When can I go to bed? Because when I go to bed, then I’ll go to sleep and when I wake up, I can eat!!!

It makes my brain hurt and my body tired…or perhaps it’s the other way around.

So, why I am doing it? Well, I signed up for this “nutritional program”. Cleanse your way to better health! Be a slimmer, healthier, happier you! Who doesn’t want that? I’m all about health. Nothing is more important to me. Well, sometimes chocolate. And definitely wine. But nope. Health. Health is #1. Of course, there is also that little matter of seeing pictures of myself in a bathing suit this summer. That was not nice. No one should have to see that. I wanted to get a t-shirt made that said, “Look away! Avert your eyes! You will turn into a pillar of salt if you gaze upon this sad spectacle!” But alas, I had no sign and no doubt scarred a few poor souls for life, through no fault of their own.

So, I signed up for this (expensive) program that promised better health, slimmer thighs and perhaps happiness for life. Supposedly there is a mountain of science behind the program basically saying that it’s been flown to us from a mystical land on the backs of unicorns. Just follow our plan, the magic fairies sing, and you too will look like Jennifer Anniston (Disclaimer: minus the hair…we can’t do anything about the hair. That’s a gift from God). This plan involves drinking 2 protein shakes a day: ideally, one in the morning and one at night. (I don’t like to say breakfast and dinner because then it just sounds sad.) At noontime, you get to eat one “healthy meal of 400-600” calories. Enjoy it because it’s the only solid food you will put in your mouth for the rest of the day. This wouldn’t be so bad if you could choose your 600 calories (let’s not be silly, here, who would pick the 400 calorie option?). A glass or two of wine, some cheese and crackers, an apple (for fibre and to keep the doctor away) and maybe a handful of veggies to keep the fanatics happy. But no. It’s all fruits and veggies and lean protein, blah, blah, blah. To make things worse (if that’s possible), wine, sugar, wheat, caffeine, and I believe possibly, air, need to be eliminated from your diet altogether. Lord save me from my own vanity.

I wonder if Jennifer Anniston eats this way? I once saw an interview with Cindy Crawford where she said she wishes she could get up in the mornings and look like Cindy Crawford, the Supermodel. Between airbrushing and personal chefs and private trainers, it’s no wonder these women look the way they do. And for us mere mortals to aspire to look like them is ridiculous if not bordering on the insane. (My husband would like to note that I crossed that border a long time ago. I hope you like sleeping on the couch, Big Fella!)

So, here I sit, at 3:30 on a Friday, with no food in my belly, other than two small powdered disks of I don’t know what (perhaps they are ground fairy dust designed to melt fat and erase wrinkles – oh please, please!).  And I wonder, WHY??? I don’t think Ms. Universe is about to come calling and Vogue hasn’t booked a visit in, like, ages. I’m can still see my own toes and don’t have Type 2 diabetes…yet. I’m already married and it’s much too expensive for my husband to divorce me now. So….WHY???? If you can tell me, please do. For now, I will sip my herbal tea and wait for tomorrow to come.

(Is 6 pm to early to go to bed?)

Memoir, Pop Culture, Princess, Rants, Suburban, Teacher

No one told me I’d have to raise my own children!

suburbanprincessteacher

Response to Brenda MacDonald’s Oct 15, 2012 column: Two Cents Worth

I’d like to add my two cents worth to Brenda MacDonald’s recent column in the Bedford-Sackville Daily News. In this week’s column, she laments the fact that she can no longer trust her sons’ teachers to teach them “the moral, value, life lesson, don’t-miss-a- deadline stuff”. Wow. My heart goes out to her. I mean, as a parent, I didn’t know either that I was actually expected to teach my children morals and values. This wasn’t in my “What to expect when you’re expecting” book! I mean, I understood that until they started school, I would have to teach them certain things like, “Don’t touch the stove or you’ll get burned!” and “Don’t flush your dinky toys down the toilet or we’ll have to pee in the yard!” But I felt safe in knowing that once my boys started school that responsibility, that heavy, heavy burden, would be lifted off my shoulders and placed on the backs of those miracle workers known as teachers. And when the last of my (two) children got on the school bus to begin his first day of school, I heaved a heavy sigh of relief. I felt light. No more worrying about educating my children on life lessons or morals or values. That job was now up to the teacher. I now have one child in grade 9 and another in grade 12 and I’m afraid I have a lot of catching up to do. You see I trusted their extraordinary teachers to teach them all of the morals and values and life lessons they would ever need. Thanks to Ms. MacDonald, I now realize how wrong I was.

Sarcasm aside, Ms. MacDonald’s initial concern that her child was given a 5-week extension on his middle school project and was not docked any points off his final grade is certainly valid. None of us likes it when we work our butts off and get our work done on time and the person in the cubicle next to us does the minimum amount and still gets paid as much or more than we do. (Yes, real life sucks, too.)

Ms. MacDonald admits that schools across the country have adopted no-zero policies, which means students can’t be penalized for what is considered a “behaviour issue” such as handing in a project late. Some parents and teachers are currently banding together to protest this new rule. The most high profile case on the books right now involves a teacher in Alberta who was suspended for going against the rule and assigning a child a zero. Ms. MacDonald dimisses the rapid spread of this policy across the country by saying, “I have no time such nonsense.” Nonsense or not, it is here, and teachers are required to follow the guidelines set forth by their provincial departments of education, their school boards and their school administrators. Shaming and blaming teachers (“I no longer totally trust them to teach my children anymore.”) is shifting blame to an easily identifiable group and allows Ms. MacDonald to ignore that other “nonsense”. A backhanded compliment like “don’t get me wrong, teachers are an admirable bunch” is as insulting as saying, “That dress is lovely. It really hides all the weight you’ve gained.”

Teacher responsibilities have grown over the years to include much more than the traditional reading, writing, and arithmetic. The obesity crisis, the bullying crisis, the identity crisis – all of these things are now being placed on schools. Fix our children, parents cry! Oh, and while you’re at it, make sure they can still read, write and do math better than children in other countries.

I did not, have not, and will not ever expect my child’s teacher to prepare my child for the “real world”. I want my child’s math teacher to teach him math and his biology teacher to teach him biology. I can handle the life-lessons, the morals, the values and “don’t miss a deadline” stuff. That’s what I signed up for.

Memoir, Raves, Teacher

Those perfect days

suburbanprincessteacher

Today was one of those days that makes you think, “Yeah, I chose the right career.”

My students performed two plays – just cheap little reader’s theatre plays right out of a book – nothing too crazy or creative. But they took these little plays and turned them into their own. They created props and backgrounds. They brought in costumes. They made posters. I just backed farther and farther away until they were working pretty much on their own. Keep in mind, that these kids are 9 and 10 years old. It was hard not to take over, change things, make it “better”. Instead, I sat on my hands, bit my tongue and just tried to control the chaos that creativity brings.

This afternoon they took to the stage. The kids who were behind the scenes, the stagehands and props people, were as excited as the actors. 600 kids, teachers, and parents watched them as they performed their 5 minute plays. After they were done, they were exhilarated. They said, “Can we do that again???”

You bet we’ll do it again.