Bachelor Kitchen Word Problem

Mr. Walker has an old can opener from his family’s garage. Since all of the food in Mr. Walker’s Bachelor Kitchen is in cans, he uses the opener quite a lot. You might say he’s developed a relationship with it. Anyway, as a result of the excessive use, the can opener’s “cutting disc” (the rotating metal disc that cuts into the top of the can) developed a tiny––but promiscuous––bend in one place. Since Mr. Walker is too cheap, and is obsessed with conserving resources anyway, he will not replace the can opener. Since Mr. Walker is a math teacher, he’ll instead torture his students (and blog followers) with a math problem.

Now, instead of cutting completely around the circumference of the can without a hitch, like a can opener should do, the bend in the disc causes this slacker can opener to dislodge from the edge and run itself off of the can. Tonight Mr. Walker noticed with intrigue that it runs itself off of a can exactly pi times (that is, if the disc is positioned with the bend against the can so that it starts cutting into the lid right at the bend in the disc, so that the disc rotates once fully before hitting the bend again and running off the can, it will run off three times with .14159... left over of the can’s circumference to cut.)(This is true) Mr. Walker quickly opened every can in the cupboard to make sure that his observation was correct (which it was), and as smells of butternut squash soup, green peas, and petite diced tomatoes wafted from the kitchen he measured the diameter of the can to be exactly 7.5 cm.

So now the question is this, my friends: What is the ratio of the diameter of the can to the diameter of the can opener’s cutting disc?

The first to answer correctly in the comments section wins a prize! (Maybe a can of already-opened butternut squash soup?)

An Honest Look at the Dark Side

One of the biggest challenges of this experience is deciding how to describe my experience to people outside of the city. I had this challenge living and studying abroad in Costa Rica as well––everything is so different in such complex ways I always found it difficult to express how a semester abroad had changed how I look at the world. Living and teaching in Chicago is just barely more familiar than Costa Rica, and is still like living in another world.

Some cultural differences I’ll never be able to describe, but there are some that are worth taking a crack at. The cultural aspect that I want to write about is one that is all too well known in the public, media-driven sphere; the phenomenon of violence. It is a not a judgement to say that, in my part of the city, it is prevalent; this is an objective observation. It seems to permeate into nearly every realm of social interactions at school, ranging from playful (though rough) fighting among true friends to undeniably brutal fights that result from anger, gossip, drama, and failed communication. These fights are alarmingly common, and, as far as I can tell, result from issues like “she bumped me the hall and is always instigating it” to “well, since we both like so-and-so...” to “So-and-so said that she said that I...” All of these are stated reasons from my own students who were involved in fights. More often than not I find out why they were fighting after they return from a three-day suspension.

In March, Michele Clark was on the local evening news channels because of a fight among students after school on the street that got so out of hand that a student hit a police officer and was tased. Her family protested outside of the school for that week with megaphones, encouraging the other students to walk out of school, and implored that they “don’t tell the cops NOTHIN!” Yesterday, two of my students, and 8th grader and a 7th grader fought after school––the result of (unknown to me) long-pent-up animosity between the two girls. Many others joined in, all my students. Today my first period was like a ghost town because of so many suspensions.

This is the type of violence that goes on, according to the students, frequently. Last week I asked one student how his Spring break was.

“Horrible!”

“No way! Why was it so bad?!” I knew the weather had been awesome in Chicago over the break and, knowing this student to be an enthusiastic athlete, was surprised that he wasn’t three shades of green from all the grass stains he would have after a week of playing outside.

“They kept shooting all the time outside our apartment, so we couldn’t go outside and play football. I was so bored!”

I tried to hide my horror, but I must have let out something about his safety, because he reassured me, “No, I was alright because my cousin still runs with that gang so he told us when to look out because he knew when it was coming.”

“I’m really glad you’re ok, LaDarion,” I responded lamely. I didn’t know what else to say.

“Yeah, Mr. Walker, I’m good.”

I hesitate to bring this carnage up in describing my experience because I don’t know if it’s helpful. I don’t mean to say that it’s not a huge part of my experience (it obviously is) but I feel like I carry a certain ambassador status for all my friends and family who don’t know anything about the city. By no means am I an “authority” on city culture or city education, but I’m spending a whole semester here – something most of my friends and family have not done, and by living and teaching in this community I have a clear window into the living culture. I’ve found that there is part of certain people with whom I talk about my experience – maybe not a rational part – that makes it seem like they’re holding their breath to hear first hand accounts of how bad the cities are, like they’re only listening long enough to confirm what they think they know about city education systems: that they’re hopeless.

My friends often joke with me, “Have you been shot at yet, Mr. Walker?” or “Don’t give a kid an F, or he’ll jump you!” And I’m not surprised when I consider how much information about the inner cities are circulated to the non-city public, and what percent of that information deals with crime, drugs, and violence. I try to use to the jokes as an opportunity to bring up how diverse the students are, acknowledging that there are some “troublemakers” (to put it lightly) but to point out that there are also tons of great kids, too.

So why a whole post about violence if I’m worried that the violence is the only thing that other people will see? Because I think that to ignore its existence, and it’s hugely negative effect on the lives of my students, is as useless as depicting the city only as a battlefield. I want others to know that the violence is real, but also that the lines between victims and perpetrators are blurred here; when kids are growing up in a culture of daily violence, everyone loses, even (or especially) those who are involved in the fighting.

My students sometimes share their work from other classes with me, and today during a lunch a group of 8th graders shared some of their poems from english class. This is a poem by one of my students, Rae, published with permission.

I’m all alone

Pow Pow

Gun shots go off

OMG this is where it starts

May 15 is when I started 2 believe that

The whole world was after me.

OMG he was only 16

Why wasn’t it me, he had so many dreams

Gun shot wound straight to da chest

Dear God please do your best

He was my 16 year old brotha

It’s not time for him to rest

He was doing his best,

And nothing less.

Da medics are here, they rush him to the hospital

As I sit in dat quiet waiting room I think to myself

No way he can be dead he was just getting ahead

The nurse comes out and say I have some bad news

Your brother is gone, here’s a tissue

I peek into the room and see that flat line

All I could do was start to cry

My brother is gone, and I’m all alone.

-Rae L

I was shocked by the straightforwardness of the poem, and even more shocked when she answered my unasked question, “It’s true,” she shrugged, “my brother died two days before my birthday two years ago.” She said it without drama. Other students nodded and then, like the script of life gone wrong, they started listing the other family members (all boys) who had been shot and killed. One student exclaimed, “Everyone’s getting shot these days” and shook his head, eyes looking beyond the room.

I think to bring light to the subject if violence here also serves as a testament to these students’ resilience and perseverance. I find it difficult to cope with the emotional stress of constant violence even as an adult, and I stand in awe of my students who can make it through, and even thrive, in a school an community that is sometimes torn apart by physical aggression. Rae (honestly) is one of my brightest and most engaged students, popular and good-intentioned, with a great sense of humor and a drive to succeed. She is one of many who fit this description.

One of the veteran teachers at my school who has been a small but crucial part of my mentoring told me never to be too proud of teaching in the city. “It’s not a badge of honor to teach here,” he said, “or at least it shouldn’t be. Everyone should be entitled great education. These kids have the same right to it as the kids in the burbs.” I understand this idea more as I gain experience and learn more about my students and their lives. When I consider the violence that swirls around and sometimes inside of our school, and I reflect on my role as a teacher, I am undoubtedly proud, but not of myself; I am proud of my students.

Meet My Students

On the first day in the middle school – what seems like so long ago, only in the beginning of March – I had students fill out information cards for me. The classroom management professor at Miami champions these: the all-powerful information cards. You give each student an index card and ask them to put down everything from their names, parent’s names, and phone numbers, to their favorite subject in school and hobby outside of school. You also ask for after school commitments and their class schedule. The goals are these: to know a little about your students, to know (if they disclose them) some obligations that would make it hard for students to always keep up with work (like taking care of a grandparent or younger sibling), to be able to contact their guardian for good or bad, and to know what other teachers have each students so that you know with whom to collaborate if you have a problem or something to share. Not a bad idea, all around.

When I asked my students to write these I also asked them a few extra questions that picked their brain about who they are as learners and people. The funny thing about the cards is that they are, at first, completely meaningless for me! In the very beginning I have no idea who goes with each name on the cards, and, even if I can match a face and a name, knowing an index card of information about them before I develop any relationship with them is not very insightful. It’s a hilarious and intensely fascinating exercise to go through now and re-read these cards. They provide deep insight in some cases, comfortable confirmations of personality in others. Either way, they are the stuff of blog posts if I ever saw them, and I quote some of their answers to my questions here.

What is your favorite part of Ms. Dean’s class?

“The discussions”

“Test day”

From one of the bookworms: “learning new math terminology”

“N/A” (ha!)

“The middle of class when the lesson is intense” (quite a lot for me live up to!)

“sleeping” (then again...)

What languages do you speak and/or are learning (other than English)?

“Spanish”

“Spanish and Slang”

“Spanish and Chinese”

“Spanish, and my uncle speaks Italian”

“Spanish 1 (learning) and Ebonics (know)”

If you could live anywhere, where would you live and why?

“Miami, because it’s hot”

“Florida, because it’s hot there.”

“Texas, because it’s hot there and it’s a different world.”

“I would live in Arizona. Because it’s HOT there.”

“Miami, because I like the weather and the wemon.” [sic]

“Wisconsin, because it’s fun there.”

“Wisconsin, because I like mixtures of the weather.”

“California, because you can meet stars.”

“Hollywood, and also Florida, because that’s where I dream of living.”

“Mississippi, because my grandma lives there.”

“Arkansas, because my grandad lives there and my aunt was born there.”

“I would like to stay in Chicago because there are less blizzars [sic] and no earthquakes.”

“Paris, because it is a beautiful place.”

“Egypt. It’s weird.”

“In the subs because it’s nice and quiet there.”

“Suburbs because I can be in a different environment and around new people and learn new things.”

“I would live in Los Angeles. I would want to live here or New York because I love the city and would like to live in the Suburbs for family ressons.” [sic]

“The sky, so I could look over things.”

What do you want to do when you grow up? Why will you choose that course?

(I chose this wording because I didn’t want to use the age-old “what will you be when you grow up” so that I had more chance of getting something other than a formulaic answer. Alas, I had to explain what I meant by “course,” and invariably a student would ask, “You mean, ‘what are we going to be when we grow up?’” At first I resisted, saying that not everyone had to “be” something, and then backpedaled as I thought of students interpreting that as “do nothing!” so I just said, “yes, it’s like ‘what do you want to be when you grow up.’” and a student invariably muttered, or thought, I’m sure, “why didn’t he just say that to start?”) Anyway, their answers:

(all are sic)

“Football player because I was born to play.”

“Football player, because I started playing when I was 5.”

“Football or basketball player because I love sports.”

“Veternarian or animal cop so that I could train and help animals.”

“I want to be a lawyer or therpist because I like helping people out with there problems and I like winning cases.”

“I change what I want to be every now and then but now I want to be a doctor/nurse or teacher or something where I can help people.”

“A doctor or a hair styleist.”

“I want to be a doctor or professional chef because it’s my dream.”

“Entrepeneur.”

“Astronomer.”

“a model/singer/dancer because I like to take pics, sing, and dance.”

“I want to be a teacher because I love to help kids learn.”

“Lawyer - because I love to prove my point and no going to stop arguing until I wen”

“Lawyer because I’m a good lair.”

“When I grow up I would like to be a lawyer because I love to find justice to people who have been done wrong.”

“An ultrasound technician because I love watching the developing babies.”

“When I grow up I want to be a designer because I can make my own clothes.”

“Teacher because I want to Egnolage others.”

“I want to be a basketball player and engineer to support and help and be a good man.”

Spring Vignettes

(Note: My first attempt to spell my title prompted Macintosh Pages to suggest “Spring Vinaigrettes” as the closest match. If only this were the food network...)

Books

I finished Brooklyn, the “One Book, One Chicago” selection, about three weeks ago. I'm looking forward to a public library book discussion close to my neighborhood. It felt so good to finish a non-school-related novel for myself. I felt like I hadn’t done it in ages. Thirsty for more, I tackled Jonathan Franzen’s The Corrections and, after many late nights this past week, finished it four minutes ago. I triumphantly threw it to the floor, pondering all that is a novel. I come away with much to consider, but at the forefront of the wake left by this masterfully-written novel, I find myself pondering the navigation of transition from one huge chapter of life to the next. I also find myself realistically grateful for my family––if you’ve read The Corrections, I think this is easily understood.

Spring Time

Broken glass is the first sign of this season of renewal. I noticed the barefoot-nightmare before any other sign, at the first hint of warm weather. Before the grills roll out or the lawn furniture, or the seasoned Chicagoan Eskimos downgrade their parkas for jackets, I was walking around pools of glass shards glinting the early morning sunlight all along the sidewalks in my neighborhood. The trees have caught up, though, and the new buds provide such a sense of relief and cautious joy from the relentless drudgery of Chicago winter.

Discipline

Ms. Dean is a traditional disciplinarian, favoring sets (multiplication tables up through twelve, three times each) and tough love for student offenses. She has better control of the class than any teacher I've seen in the school, so I'm hardly criticizing her. For the sake of continuity I have been using similar methods for the very few students who were (past tense I hope!) in the habit of challenging/outright disrespecting me. It is, as a fellow blogger has eloquently noted, not very effective, at least not in the long run. While I mean no disrespect to such disciplinarians, I am looking forward to my own classroom where students will realize that math is not a punishment but a right and a privilege. Anyway, I’ve been building relationships like mad, and I have several students totally with on board with me (student-teacher allies, I might call our relationships) and my crazy singing, dancing, math-ing, and vegetarian-ly correct grammar.

Vegetarianism

It’s a pretty great life choice for me. Several of my students exclaimed when they found out, “I ain’t never seen a vegetarian before!” I guess there’s a first time for everything. My 6th grade class was shockingly fascinated in my meatless existence and asked me a whirlwind of questions that each deserved paragraph answers (in the least!) but I fielded all with carefully accurate brevity so my class would not turn into a nutrition class or an environmental sustainability lecture. One of my students, fascinated to the point of action, tried a vegetarian diet for a week. I encouraged him to talk with his family about the decision so that they were in support of this new lifestyle trial (just like I...didn’t) and he reported later that he and his mother made salads and, one night, spinach lasagna together. The overall experience was “hard but good.”

Improvement

This deserves much more than a vignette, but for now, I’m focusing on asking specific questions to specific individuals, playing to their strengths (to build confidence) and weaknesses (to challenge them). This takes a lot of knowledge of my students, and I have to ask students with their names first so that “no one” (aka only 4 instead of 14 others) shout out various answers before the student has a chance to think. I’ve been doing a lot of explaining to the whole class, and having individual conversations with repeat offenders or shameless know-it-alls, about the importance of letting students think on their own and answer their own questions. “When you shout out it takes away the opportunity for the people still thinking to come to their own conclusion, and we ALL need to be able to think for ourselves. Agreed?”

At the same time, I’m encouraging certain hermits and recluses to lend their voice to class lessons. After class today I snagged one. “I was really hoping that you would contribute more to our discussion today.”

She looked away, thrown off and a little embarrassed that I brought it up. “I don’t know. I don’t like to be wrong.”

“I completely understand that...but sometimes we learn the most from our mistakes. And when you’re having trouble––and you’re real bright (she is)––I’m positive that there are other students who are probably struggling with the same thing, so when you bring it up you benefit yourself AND the rest of the class.” It was my version of a sincere pep talk.

“I guess...” She smiled a tiny, tiny bit as she thought about this. As she left quietly I got the impression that she was surprised and happy that I simply recognized her existence in my class.

Not Lost In Translation

"Good afternoon, class. I need your attention. Let's get started."

(I'm pretty business-like with this particular class because if you don't them started, they never roll.)

Hand raises.

"Question. Donte."

"Mr. Walker, that sweater's raw."

(I've already gotten several compliments on the sweater today. Who knew? I was feeling wily, so I decided to draw this out.)

"What do you mean? What's wrong with it?" I feign bewilderment and slight offense.

"I said that sweater's raw."

"I know. So what's wrong with it? How are you gonna tell me my sweater's wrong?"

"No, Mr. Walker," another student exasperatedly schools my uneducated ear, "He said it's rawwwwww."

Now, over the past months, I’ve gotten the feeling that my students are used to adults not understanding their slang. Usually, they’re ok with it because it allows them a certain amount of stealth in their communication, like a built in transistor radio when everyone else just has snail mail. However, when a straight compliment, by way of slang, goes miscommunicated, they go to great lengths to explain and simultaneously clear their name and show off their vernacular. This in mind, I knew that––with a little well-timed theatrics––I could drive them absolutely bonkers.

"What the heck!” I bellow, ”I know what he’s saying. So What's WRAAAAWWWWWWNG with it!"

I raise my voice and shake my head as I say this last part, like a WWF wrestler might tauntingly wag his head, tongue flapping loosely, to incite a leotard-clad opponent or the cheering crowd. In one second flat, I send my class into hysterics. The class explodes into a chorus of 29 7th-grade voices, leaping to the defense of Donte, shouting to stop the train of misunderstanding, and help me acquire the new word into my (ever-growing) vocabulary. But before the seething mass spins out of control, I raise my hand. They all stop, though not because I have utter control like Ms. Dean, but instead because they can tell, when I break my expression from offended to amused, that I have something up the proverbial sleeve of this raw sweater.

I point to Donte in the stunned silence.

"Gotcha."

27 pairs of eyes widen as they realize, and then 27 bodies burst into laughter.

As Donte slaps himself in the forehead, he groans an exasperated, “Mr. Walker....”

I give him a fist pound as he still hides his smile, shaking his head. Savion, seated next to him and still laughing, takes my wrist and makes us fist pound, too. We start class.

Quote of the day

"I don't gotta do nothin' but stay black and die!"

-Ms. Dean, in response to an unruly student who pleaded, "But Ms. Dean, you gotta let us go outside!"

Picture Show

I have been hesitant to include pictures in my blog, mostly because so few opportunities for photos present themselves at school, and I spend a lot of time at school. However, I like the idea of conveying experience through image, and despite the humble nature of these photos, they are real-time glimpse of my time here. In no particular order, enjoy!

This is a photo from one of several basketball games I attended. Five of my students played on the JV team. (We rocked in this game. Go Eagles!)

The Windy City takes St. Patrick’s day seriously...by dying the Chicago River crazy green! My cousin came in town and suggested we go (I hadn’t even known it was happening!) and it was a very festive event indeed. We came a little late, but we elbowed our way through masses leaving the river to get to this vantage point. I don’t know how good the thousands of gallons of dye are for the overall health of the river, but everyone was quick to say that it is “vegetable-based dye.” No prob, right?

This just got so bad I had to take a picture.

The NPO bike shop where I volunteer. More about this later.

The famous steel jelly bean in Millennium park. (I’ve heard others say that it’s a kidney, but I this its likeness to a jelly bean is uncanny, and it makes the sculpture so much more timeless and lighthearted.) On a sunny day, there are much better photos to be had. It’s interesting to me that, as a graduation gift from high school (!), a close friend and black-and-white-film photographer/enthusiast developed and gave me an almost identical photo. It now hangs on my wall, lending a strangely prideful and appropriate style to my apartment.

Dinner tonight.

Every Day is a Big Day

I’m reading a book with a several thousand other people. The Chicago Public Library has a program called “One Book One Chicago,” which is an epic city-wide book club. For two months the library hosts countless events ranging from traditional book club meetings to book-specific events like irish pub nights with live music or historical performances and period fashion shows. I am constantly impressed with the infinite ways in which the gargantuan city of Chicago brings its people together. It makes me feel more a part of the Windy City to know that there might be a person reading the same book just around the corner. The book for March and April, Brooklyn, by Colm Toibin, follows the life and challenges of a young Irish girl named Eilis who, after WW II, immigrates to New York to find work.

I am strangely comforted by the stories of her struggles in a new world; I relate very well to her unfamiliarity with the customs and people of a new culture, and, to a lesser extent, with her sporadic bouts of loneliness and longing for friends and family. In the early part of her transition to life in the U.S., Eilis describes how every day is so enormous, so full of events and ideas and life, that she would need another whole day to successfully process everything that happened––a 24-hour pause in time to synthesize––before she could take on the next regular day.

I know this feeling all too well. Especially since I began my new experience in middle school, I can’t believe how much happens in one day, and how little time I have to think about it until we get rolling again the next morning.

This past Monday was a disaster. Ms. Dean, the arc angel of control, was not able to be at school that day. I remember trying to write a blog post that day, but being to frustrated to finish. This is as far as I got:

“These are among my least favorite days. They are always a loud, argumentative, and exhausting reminder that this is not my classroom. As soon as students realize that the “real” teacher is absent for the day, my whole world swan dives into chaos.”

Monday was especially disheartening because even my “best” students––as far as I can judge after a week––were breaking rules, disrupting class, and disrespecting me and the substitute teacher with the rest of the middle school tribe.

Tuesday was reconciliation. Ms. Dean was furious to hear how her students acted with her gone, and swift, heavy justice swept the land. She made it very clear that “Mr. Walker is hear to stay. He’s not a sub, and he’s not a student whatever. He is an adult, and I SUGGEST that you treat him with the respect an adult deserves.” (Ms. Dean loves to “suggest” advice to her students, and they know she means business when she suggests something; it’s kind of like being voluntold to do something.) One apology letter reads:

Dear Mr. Walker,

I’m sorry for acting a fool yesterday. It will never happen again.

Sincerely,

Tamika

Some of the students were downright pissed that I took down their name and handed it off to Justice, but middle schoolers are wonderfully resilient. One student who I thought was the most upset––I was waiting for her to slug me (no joke. She was suspended two weeks ago for fighting)––wrote in her apology letter that more than anything she was sorry because she didn’t want me to be mad at her.

I’ve learned that middle schoolers, about 700% more than the high schoolers in my first 8 weeks, respond to my interaction with them. My questions, encouragement, or evil eye are all taken seriously, and they bounce back after a bad test or an off day, returning with reformed attitude and ––dare I say it––a passion to learn! Though not everyone, some of my students still hold a sense of wonder and intrigue that makes teaching a cardiovascular workout. Their faces are clear windows to their churning minds, and their insightful questions fuel my instruction equally as much as my passion to teach.

She Is Legend

Friends! Big development: as of this past Monday I am completing my student teaching experience in the middle school of Michele Clark. I am very grateful that the administration gave me the opportunity to get some experience with grades 6-8 and also stay at the same school. My new cooperating teacher, Ms. Dean, is––and there’s no better way to say it––a legend.

When other teachers in the building found out about my new placement, the reactions ranged from impressed nods to flat out jealousy.

From perhaps the most respected teacher in the high school: “Oh geeze, you’re set. Ms. Dean is an institution. I’ve learned more from her than from any other teacher in my whole career.”

From a linebacker-sized security guard: “Shoooot. She could do my job better than me.”

“Gosh,” an envious colleague idly suggests, “maybe you can get me into that class. I’ve always wondered what goes on down there...”

Among students, she’s known as “Mean Dean,” yet they adore her, especially when they move on to high school math and realize they are the most prepared of all the students in their math classes. “They may hate me for it,” Ms. Dean tells me in our frequent conversations throughout the school day, “but they’re going to get into good habits now so they’re sharp as tacks when they get to high school and it really counts!” I only have time to interject a nod before she continues. At this point our conversations are more like monologues where I sit and absorb everything I can while she just drops knowledge on me like loads of bricks in one-ton helpings. ––It’s actually not quite that intense; I just like the imagery there.–– I’m ecstatic, though, because more often than not I find myself in righteous agreement with her many philosophies of math and general education.

For example: “Students, especially here in the city, need structure and consistency. I don’t care if you’re the bloomin’ principal’s daughter; you bring your book, two sharpened pencils, and your spiral to class every day. If you think I’ll lend you a pencil, think again. Why would I teach you to be irresponsible? No, I don’t assign seats. They figure out real quick who they have to sit by––or not sit by––to keep themselves on track. We have a quiz or test every last day of the week. On thanksgiving week we have one on Wednesday. And don’t you try to come in here without your ID or uniform shirt. Don’t care if you get A’s or F’s: the rules are the rules.”

I am in awe of the nearly complete control she has. “Quite playing!”, her voice a whip, she silences two boys in the hall whose roughhousing had been swirling toward a fist fight. They hang their heads and shuffle back in line. To a passing bright-eyed 8th grader, kindly, “How did that writing test go, honey? Best score in the class right? That’s my girl.”

“Even if they hate her in middle school,” one veteran teacher tells me like a war vet spins tales of the victorious battlefield, “they all come back when they’re freshman, like clockwork, and hug her like to break her. Nearly every valedictorian we have in the high school was one of her students.”

Later that day, when two boys knock on her door, late to class (other students look away to sever association with the blasphemers), she starts toward the door, and then stops.

“You take this one. I’m not saying a word.”

“uh...what do you nor–”

“you’ll be fine.”

“ok.” I think, here we go!

I walk confidently to the door. She’s right behind me. I can tell she’s got my back.

She loves throwing me into these situations. She hasn’t said this explicitly, but I’m pretty sure she gauges her success with these interjections by how completely she catches me off guard. (she’s batting about 800.)

“I don’t know, what do you think about that question, Mr. Walker.”

“Ah yes. Mr. Walker will be able to help you with that. Go ask him.”

And her favorite, “Mr. Walker, what is this child’s name?"

“Ms. Dean!” I protest, “It’s only my second day!”

She just laughs.

Afterward, even if I didn’t really teach anything: “Did you like the outcome? What do you think you could have done to change the outcome?”

At the end of the day we walk out together. On Wednesday she gave me a motherly hug, and today I got a thumbs up.

I don’t mean to be too optimistic, but after just four days in my new placement, I feel like I’m on solid ground.

Re...consideration

I decided that my giant post needed some rethinking. Check back soon for a shorter update.

Cheers!

-BWalk

Comedy Club: Kitchen

Tonight I'm thinking about opening a comedy club.

I'd call it "West Side Stitch."

Or, more accurately, "Help Me Laugh At My Ridiculous Life."

There is potential for multiple venues, though the first would undoubtedly be: my kitchen.

It’s not that I’m bad at cooking; it’s more that when I “cook,” I put something savory on the stove and then walk away and forget about it, even though I had every intention of returning before a pan chars some vegetables to ash or a pot boils all over my linoleum like the adolescent child of Ol’ Faithful. Though the audience of my comedy club would chuckle goodheartedly as they watched my kitchen swirl into disaster during my absence, I’d probably get bigger laughs from my Sherlock-like entrance into my kitchen, in search of some mysterious hissing sound or stench that smells like food (...but burning), and then, as I realize my blunder, exploding into a hysterical, arm-waving fit of useless activity, flinging full pots and pans and utensils through the air from sink to counter to stove as if chaotic ballistics might somehow salvage the smoldering remains of my dinner...

They’d be rolling in the aisles. If I were watching me, I would too.

Alright friends, stay tuned for updates from the school front in the next couple days!

Shout Out

After more than a week I return to my blog, feeling a little guilty, to be honest, that I’ve left it for so long. This blog is a great outlet for me and I really love writing it, but it serves a different purpose than my personal journal does, and the last week or so has been so challenging that I’ve been focusing on personal growth and had to put off the updates for a bit. I’m really looking forward to catching up, because I have a ton to write about!

But before I do anything else, I need to holla at some important people.

This is a shout out to my teachers, the ones who are my inspiration and who fuel my passion for education. I’m overwhelmed with gratitude when I think how much effort they have put in to my education, in and out of the classroom, in math or Macbeth, music or morality, justice or friendship, and life. I think constantly about you, your devotion to students, to meaningful education, and to me. It helps me to keep in perspective how important my path is, and how hard it is, and––if I can be anything like you––how good it can be for me and for my students.

I draw strength from you all the time, even if you don’t know it. (I know some of you are sending it.) And I especially need it now, during this circus called student teaching, which for me could be accurately described as a string of hilarious-only-afterwards discombobulated and sometimes-chaotic mishaps.

Truth.

Hey teacher, remember all that knowledge you dropped on me in the classroom? I use it pretty often. Remember how you took your life and actually modeled exactly how an effective, rockstar teacher teaches? Now I use that every day. Every incidental learning experience with you has suddenly become my framework for teaching, and each of my (rare) successes I owe to your example.

Teacher, know that I’m working, and struggling, and learning, and that I love what I’m doing even when students make decisions that drive me crazy, and that I look to you like my personal lucky stars or guardian angel. With every small triumph, I think, Yes! Thank you. I know you saw that. I swiped that right from your bag of tricks, and it worked like a CHARM.

Boo yah!

Among the many new phrases I’m learning from my students is one favorite: “good lookin’.” I get the phrase a lot when I lend a pencil to a student so he doesn’t have to do math in pen (disaster). The first time someone said it to me I gave the kid a questioning look, and he and all my students laughed and explained that it’s not a pickup line, but actually a phrase that people use when someone does something to help or look out for one of their friends: Good lookin’.

Example:

“Hey, I picked up your coat you forgot in math class.”

“Thanks, good lookin’!”

Or, in this case:

“Hey, I changed your life because you were in my class and I lit you on fire and now you’re going to be a teacher and rock at it and love it.”

To my teachers:

Good lookin’