Thoughts on the End of a Quarter

Teaching for me is making a bunch of decisions while maintaining a steady stream of interaction on a certain topic. It's creating problems in the moment to be solved when the students leave the room.

Here's an example of this problem-making/problem-solving cycle. While grading papers, I realize that my students have serious issues with certain homophones. I decide to do a quick warm-up with homophones the next morning.

They ask if they should take notes.

I say, "Yeah... if you want to make sense in your writing." Oh no, here it comes...

"Will there be a test?" they ask.

I pause. Here's what's happening in my brain: Well, crap. Then I have to make a test, don't I? And do a review beforehand? Or maybe I assess them in some other way. One more column in their writing rubrics? Or maybe they make posters. There is literally no more room for posters on my walls. Or maybe I need to think of some new means of assessing that I've never thought of before. Time to research. Why didn't I think of assessment before I thought of this activity? Oh, right. Because I was grading their papers. Does every, little tiny minutia have to have a grade? Why isn't knowing the right thing enough of a gift? Why the grades why all the grades forever?

Here is what comes out. "I will tell you tomorrow how you'll be graded. But today, take notes."

The more you think ahead of time, the less stressful that moment has to be. But I can't plan ahead all the time. When? If I'm in a heavy grading cycle, then anything the students get to learn in class while I am spending evenings grading essays is a freebie. Learn it or don't. I can't grade everything.

That is problematic in my current setting, though, because if things aren't attached to a grade, students very often feel that they do not need to be attentive or even civil in class.

So what's the solution? What do you do when you can't grade everything?

Here's what I do: I lie about it.

Okay, it's not exactly a lie. It might be on the test. But it might not be. I might grade it after I collect it. But I just as easily might get to the end of the quarter and throw it away.

This week, my trash can was *full* of stacks of ungraded papers every afternoon.

Just Your Typical Fairy Tale...

I came across this thought in a student's research paper on Marilyn Monroe:

It started out as a typical fairy tale story of one young girl dropping out of high school to be with an older man with hopes that they would live happily ever after. That was not the case.

I plan to submit the idea to Disney. If that fails, Dreamworks. If that fails, I'll go straight to Michael Bay, and maybe he can combine it with some robots and other forms of banal failure.

Five Paragraph Essay Example

Carolyn McK
Miss McK
Academic Writing
30 August 2012

Why Every Child Should Watch TV

In the 1950s, television provided a useful tool for broadcasting news bulletins and entertainment. In the 1960s, Americans had the opportunity to see news bulletins that involved real footage from the ghastly Vietnam War. But television has progressed a great deal since then. In the late 1990s, television introduced Americans to what it affectionately called “reality” with the hit show “Survivor.” Ever since, any willing mind has been able to access a wide world of “reality.” Children should be encouraged to watch as much television as possible, for it prevents cancer, discourages excessive imagination, and encourages a broad knowledge base.
If in the sun for too long, the skin is at risk of developing cancerous cells called melanoma. As the earth’s temperature increases from a lack of ozone, UV rays become ever more powerful and harmful. If melanoma is not removed promptly, it is a deadly problem. The television can help children to avoid the damage in the first place by keeping them indoors, in dimly-lit areas, where screen-viewing is optimal.

 Television can also reduce the risk of involvement in hazardous activities. For instance, before the television, and in outlying areas without access to television shows, it has been reported that children would create and enact their own games. The first real harm of this is that thinking of one’s own games and entertainment is a mental exercise: the toll is unfathomable. Playing games of one’s own (indeed, playing games at all) is taxing on the mind and often the body. By the end of the day, one who has been engaged in such play is quite worn out. The second trouble with creating one’s own games is the potential for risk to life and limb. What if an especially eager child takes it upon himself to invent a game called “birds,” and plays on the roof? He will most likely meet his demise. What if an enterprising child discovers that in order to accomplish his aim of imagination, he needs to design and build a treehouse? This is most inconvenient for the parent, who has to supply the necessary tools and support for such an endeavor. What is more, should the child endeavor to set up, say, a lemonade stand, some unfortunate adult would have to teach the child how to make lemonade, collect money, give change, wash glasses, and spend whatever profits wisely (though there most likely are none, what with the overhead). All told, this becomes an extraordinary effort on the part of the adult, not just the child, let alone the likelihood that the child is making himself a nuisance to the neighborhood.

Finally, through television, a child may gain knowledge regarding every aspect of the world. If a child wants to learn about giant squid, she may turn to Animal Planet. If a child wants to learn about indigenous swamp-dwellers of the Florida Keys, she may turn to the Discovery Channel. If a child wants to learn to bake cakes, she may go to the Food Network. The television provides a veritable buffet for the eager sponge that is the young mind. And adults certainly need no longer discuss “the birds and the bees” with their children, for that curriculum is already built into most family shows.

Owning a television should be prerequisite to having children, for all the benefits it provides. However, if one still has reservations regarding the benefits of television on young minds, one might begin with a single show (e.g. Sesame Street, or Caillou), and work one’s way up through the day’s programming, until one is able to live comfortably with merely a full fridge and a remote control.

Possibilities for my Anabaptist research paper:

• Prayer practices in Hutterite/Bruderhof communities

• Anabaptist eschatology (beliefs about the end times)

• the Brethren in Christ holiness movement

• Jubilee practices in today's Mennonite/BIC churches

Care to weigh in?

Update: I'm writing about peace-making in Russia. I know, it wasn't quite fair to ignore all the options and go with door #5.
All this is happening because I work at an Anabaptist high school, and needed to take a seminar called Understanding Roots of Community in Anabaptism. It's nice to be on the paper-writing end instead of the grading end. Relaxing, you know?

Crash or Soar

I have not heard good things about our ninth grade class as a whole. The other English teachers I've spoken with have had their hands full trying to make a go of their English 9 classes. Mrs. B said at the beginning of each new semester, you hope for your class to run and take off from the ground. That being off the ground is the learning experience, and it's thrilling. But her last class walked a bit, and—plunk—into the water they dropped and sank. They did not want to learn.

I approached my first ever English 9 class with a good deal of reservation as a result of this and other tragic stories. If we couldn't fly, at least we could stay away from the deep end for the plunk.

Today, my English 9 removed my fear of the plunk. Jay read his personal narrative aloud for our revision circle. It was about his being adopted. It was rife with spelling and grammatical errors. But the heart of it was not the less visible for them: he was glad to be in a safe, caring family that brought him closer to God. He read in a stilted way, not yet a confident reader aloud. But he persevered manfully through the piece. We applauded him, and slowly hands went in the air for commentary. Everyone appreciated his sharing his piece. One girl, Elena, thanked him for writing his story. She, too, had been adopted, but more recently. And she still remembered what it felt like not to be wanted by her father and mother. She told us of the relief and gratitude she felt toward her adoptive parents, the people she trusted so wholly. She ended with a sob. It may have taken all she had to talk about that. But she knew she had to, because Jay had the courage to write about this thing that had so moved her as well.

When she had finished, I, like an idiot, said something to try to draw the attention away from her... I think I was uncomfortable for her. I didn't want her to feel as though she had spoken to an empty room. But I think now that I would have rather just said, "thanks so much for sharing that," and left it.

So, there is a story of how my class lifted off of their own volition, and didn't wobble and crash. They soared.

More Stories From Real Life

Yesterday, I spent the afternoon and evening in the dorm office. So the weekends go. I bring my grading with hopes of getting it done while accomplishing a long stint in the office.
The afternoon went beautifully. But I found myself getting a little punchy by 8pm.

A Portrait of 8-10pm, in three parts

Part I:  Sitting Next to the Wireless Router

Rika comes in. Her back hurts often. We talk about what kind of treatment she might need to look into this week. Rika remains, pretending to study vocabulary for the SATs, but really just talking to me (better practice, anyway, we all agree).

Sherrie enters the office. She begins to speak in Chinese to someone on the other end of her computer.

Hue comes in and sits next to Sherrie. They are best friends. They do not speak to each other now, each plugged in to their respective devices. Sherrie's volume always rising; Hue never making a sound.

Gow (a squat 15-year-old from China, an incredible pianist, the sweetest and funniest of all the students) comes in with his computer. He asks me whether I can't make his computer play all for a list of illegally downloaded video clips. It's all in Chinese, except a few command buttons. I say "no," I can't help. I couldn't help if it were all in English.

Rika leaves, called away to something. Gow sits at the desk near me, occasionally asking me questions about movies I like. Slowly, I realize that the smell I have been hardly noticing is emanating from this boy. He is edging ever closer, refusing to raise his voice as Sherrie's conversation grows louder and I keep asking him to repeat himself.

Sherrie gets excited sometimes. Gow looks behind, furtively annoyed with Sherrie. I tell her to take her talking elsewhere. She leaves. Gow takes her seat and hunches over his computer.

Part II: Still Sitting Next to the Wireless Router

Andy has been pacing around the downstairs with John and Wu (all Chinese guys). I am speaking with a student when Andy hands me his phone, "I can't understand," he says with his Brit-Chinese accent. I take the phone, "hello?" I hear something garbled "...food."

"I'm sorry? Who is this?"

"Chinese food." The voice is muffled, and has a deep, not-Chinese accent. Could it be Mexican? Seriously? I look at John and Wu.

"Are you guys ordering Chinese food?" They nod enthusiastically with big smiles that could be suspicious or merely indicative of their fondness for Chinese food. I look to Andy: he is laughing with Rika. Is this a joke? "What are you ordering?"

"Duck. Lo Mein..." John replies. They cannot remember their order.

"I'm sorry," I hang up and hand the phone to Andy. I expect him to tell me it was a joke. Hah. Hilarious.

"What did he say?" Andy asks.

"I don't know. I couldn't understand him," I reply.

"Is he here yet?" We exchange the most perplexed looks with one another. Rika is from then on the intermediary between the British-Chinese-accented Andy and the American-Mexican Chinese food delivery man.

Part III: Still Sitting Next to the Friggin' Wireless Router

The snow has stopped outside and I hear the scraping of a shovel. Herb has come to clear the treacherous steps. I go out, sensing a responsibility. "Hi Herb. I looked for a shovel... the dorm's responsibility... of course. In the future... (oops). Thanks, Herb."

"Turn down the show, girls." I return to the office. I pick up a research paper to grade. Where is the works cited, for crying out loud? This is draft two!

What is that smell? Oh, Gow.

"I am locked out of my room," Yan says.

"Here's your room's key, return it when you're done." Maybe I'll catch up on online Scrabble for a minute.

Aw, the internet is down. No problem, I'll go back to the research papers. Only 21 to go.

Sherrie, sitting just outside the office door, pokes her head around the doorframe, "Excuse me, Carolyn, the internet is not working." Fine. I restart the router. A minute passes. Still no internet.

Gow asks, "Can you access the internet settings on your computer?"

"No."

From a distance, Lia shouts, "Sherrie, could you ask Caroline to restart the router?"

I'm annoyed. That's not my name. I've already restarted the router. Find something to do that doesn't require the internet or complaining to me about the internet.

A few minutes pass. Gow speaks up again, "Can you access the internet settings from your computer?"

"No," I snap, "I already told you that." He sinks his head.

A few minutes pass in which I look at page two of a research paper about the history and importance of numbers. I have written nothing on it.

Students are coming out of their internet stupor. They are making interactive sounds. They are thinking of ways to amuse themselves that don't involve the internet. With only 25 minutes until curfew, I could have awake, alert 16-year-olds coming into the office to talk to me, to ask for food, to ask if we can have a snowball fight. This night is going downhill fast. With some guilt, I text Chad to take a look at the internet. He comes out of his apartment. He moves a wire or two. We have internet. Things quiet down. I give up on the papers. I play Scrabble. It's nice to have the internet.

New Spellings

of my last name:

Makalubs

McKlapus

McKalubs

CaryLin

Ms. Kalips

Mrs. Carolyn

Ms. Makalup

Miss. Klips

Miss. Catlips

Miss. Cowlips

Miss. Kay-lips

Miss McKaliaps

I'm serious.

Hand-written Comments

When I received a paper back from a teacher, the first thing I did was look at the grade. But I barely hesitated before reading the comments all over the piece. Indeed, I barely breathed as I read them. As I read those comments, I learned so much. My favorite teachers of writing were those who wrote a lot on my papers. That was where they proved themselves to me: I can still picture some of those comments. I took that advice and improved.

This is my second post about grading papers. Different ones today, of course. But my own experience leads me to believe there may be other writers just like me, hungry for the ability to communicate clearly and beautifully.

I say go ahead, use red pen!--make the paper bleed! I will try to resurrect it.

What I Am Doing vs. What I Want To Do

Joella texted me today to notify me that she and Becky had made it safely to the outback of Ontario. I was sincerely happy for them. May they enjoy themselves.

I have been grading papers all this glorious day. It's been so hard to concentrate. If you, reader, are or have recently been in any education courses, you'll be happy to know that I am using a purple pen.

Also, I have self-diagnosed inattentive ADHD. Back to grad--

While in Chicago

I had two mid-terms to send in to my professors on the Thursday that we arrived in North Chicago. One was based on a book mentioned here already, On Being a Teacher. The other was comparing Jack Kerouac and Saul Bellow. I sat in the lobby of the Comfort Inn with my headphones in my ears, listening to Shawn McDonald as I fought to regain my consciousness. I was exhausted from the drive.

I had some reflections of value from the books. But in the end, I emailed my professor for an extension. So, do I recommend On the Road or Herzog? Meh. Not really. On the Road is good to know historically. Plus, it has the ring of some deep truths: the infinite search for purpose, and the imminent failure of it all; the likeliness of disappointment; the feel of connection to one's surroundings; what it takes to be human. But it surprised me with its sadness. Maybe it is worthwhile.

Herzog was not very reachable for me. The book is comprised of the hilarious and wordy ramblings of a highly-trained academic. I could identify with him at the strangest moments. His perspective is rather childish for a man with so much learning. I'm making it sound like I had fun reading the book. I didn't. I laid on the couch for two and a half hours and got bloodshot eyes, a strained neck, and a soppy brain out of the deal. I did, however, find this to be beautiful:

"There is a distant garden where curious objects grow, and there, in the lovely dusk of green, the heart of Moses E. Herzog hangs like a peach."

What is the difference between an event and an experience?

My Niece

Me: Aida, wanna hear some of my really-boring paper?

Aida: Sure.

Me: K. Just say "stop" when it gets too boring for you, alright?

Aida: I will.

Me: "Both Saul Bellow and Jack Kerouac are writing in the post World War II era--"

Aida: STOP. That was really boring.

____________________________________

Me: Aida, I have a question.

Aida: What?

Me: Is there a story about why your dad calls you "Pickle"?

Aida: Sure.

Me: Is it a secret story?

Aida: No. It's 'cause he loves me.

Dear Literary Criticism Paper,

Right now you exist only in faith. But in a matter of four days, I will see you face-to-page. I await that glorious day with thoughts of uninterrupted slumber and an impatience with that part of my mind which is responsible for feeding ideas into a word processor. It is gone and is demanding a higher wage.

Your Expectant Slave,
Carolyn