Halfway through my first week...

Today was a day of small successes and big realizations. I think it has finally hit me how much work there is to do here. When I was chatting with another TFAer last night about my mess of a school, he told me, “You’re in the show. That’s what TFA is about.”

I guess I am in the show. And it’s a show that I’m only starting to get the gist of.

I provide 100% of my own supplies. The school has given me absolutely nothing. Each time I inquire about copy paper, the supply closet is “locked” or the office manager is gone, or they “will get some up there soon.” This morning I ended up bringing my own meager stash of paper into the copy room. I ran into a math teacher there. He was carrying a brand new ream of paper.
“Mr. O! Where did you get that paper from?”
He gave me a Look.
“Oh…you brought it yourself, didn’t you?” He nodded.

Ok, so that’s the way things are going to work.

Today we were finally on regular (block) scheduling. I had an amazing day teaching my raising-of-the-hand/quiet-down procedure. I have these kids quieting down without my even having to speak. I also implemented a class rewards system, finally giving my rowdy 3rd period a reason to quiet down. I also think I made a good choice investing the students so much during my first day talks.

Although my extremely chatty and rowdy 3rd period dampened my glee after period 1, I was still feeling pretty positive about my control as the instructional leader of my classroom.

Then 4th period comes. This woman (who I have only seen a couple of times) comes into my classroom, does not explain why she is here or who she is, but sits down. My class is already overcrowded because 7 extra students have shown up. I assume she’s there to work with my sheltered learners.

Pretty much, she spends the entire class barking orders at the children, repeating all my directions, not even giving them a chance to do it before she calls, “Boy, do your work!” She has the most mincing, clipped voice I have ever heard.

At one point, I realized I ran out of syllabi, so I went to get some more out of the binder. She barks at from across the room, with absolutely no mark of politeness, “You got more of those sheets? Those kids don’t got any.”

And yes, I am supposed to be teaching these kids how to treat others respectfully and speak academically. I have spent at least 40 minutes stressing to them that they are capable of achieving, that they are not dumb, that I will accept no excuses because I know they are smart. But when this woman comes into my room, with a demeaning tone (intentional or not), treating my kids like they are incapable of anything (and I am almost fairly certain I could have handled the behavioral problems – they were no less rowdy than my rowdy 3rd period)…what’s a TFAer to do?

And I have kids in the teacher’s lounge, who explain (when I gently remind them that the vending machines are for teachers only) that they are getting a drink for their teacher. I see kids coming into the teacher’s lounge to pick up/heat lunches for their teachers. I overheard a teacher who complimented a pregnant student’s weight gain, saying it was “happy fat.”

I’m sorry, but when is having a child at age 16 happy? Maybe it’s just me.

Needless to say, my spirits were pretty dampened at the end of the day. Yet there was one gem of a moment today that I drew hope from.

D walks into my 3rd period class with this sort of aloof look. I mentally mark him with a caution sign – possible trouble. But as I stress the fact that I believe that they are smart despite what others may say, that I am only there for them and for no other reason, I can see his eyes watching me. He gets drawn in.

He is the first one to come back from lunch.

“Hey D, welcome back.”
“Hi, Miss Chen.”
I’m setting up for class. We chat a little bit – he tells me that he plays the tuba and is in band. There is a brief pause.
“Miss, I can’t write.”
I look up.
“D, I do not believe that. Remember, there is no can’t. No excuses, remember?”
He thinks and clarifies himself.
“Ok, I mean I can write, but I’m not good at it.”
“D, it’s ok. We’re going to work on that. I will help you. That’s what I’m here for.”
He sits down.
“Yeah, Miss Chen, I really want to down on my writing this year.”
“Ok, D, we’re going to work on it.”

I have asked them to write an identity poem with some sensory imagery. D raises his hand for me to read his paper. He has the scrawl of a five year-old. He writes about growing up in the ghetto, like most of my students did. The spelling is horrendous and I can only imagine what his diagnostic will look like.

But he has the want. And for now, that is all I need.