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