Educationally Defiant

Three weeks into summer school. I've had an interesting year, probably one that I'm learning the most about myself and the "system." The first few years I taught summer school, we were working with fourth graders who had not passed the OAT, so we had sort of a mission and a goal at the end when they were to retake the test. About 5 years ago, the state stopped offering this, so summer school ended up being basic remediation for struggling students going into 5th grade. A few years ago, they offered a computer lab version of summer school, which ended up being a criminal waste of time. No wonder I was not asked back the following year, I'm sure the district analyzed the results and wondered where all the money went.

This year, among my crew of 10 kids, more than half require small instruction, individualized teaching time, special needs and constant monitoring. After one week of wondering why the kids weren't trying, the school tutor realized she was to be in my room to offer intervention and help for them, and that has changed the climate. I certainly found myself with some of my patience whittled down to small broom threads and I began to rely more on frustrating redirecting, which with a kid who is defiant, ends up being more foolish than endearingly purposeful.

Of course, I then begin to question the axiom, "Am I qualified for these types of students?" Aren't they much like the ones I have taught before? What's so different, and why I am I so willing to throw up my arms and claim it isn't my responsibility? I begin to ask questions with the teacher assigned to my room, and we begin a revelatory conversation about the nature of labeling students and whether they are a product of their environment.

Is it fair to assume that educators place a label of emotionally disturbed African-American kid simply because he refuses to listen to instruction and is highly disrespectful? Think he's allowed to be at home considering his large family, a single mom and a culture that promotes selfishness, misogyny and violence through their music and movies? The same kid who refuses to listen in Pickerington is labeled autistic. He too lives with a single mom, listens to country music and goes to every doctor's appointment. Kid A gets cursed out by his parents, has older siblings that do drugs or hang out at the house all night. Kid B sees his dads on every other weekend, likes to be on the computer all day.

Then, because of this disparity in race, districts and state policy makers nationwide are working hard to label fewer kids (or at least to balance the ethnicity of those being taken to intervention), therefore maybe hurting a kid who truly needs help. Case in point, a child who was born with a drug-addled mom, received no form of human touch for several months and who ends up being adopted to an exhausted single mom who doesn't know what to do with his social awkwardness and lashing out at school.

It reminds me of a scene this weekend. I set up a fly trap outside my garage to prevent garbage pail flies from entering the house through the garage. I go out and see that during the storm, the trap has fallen and I realize that a bird has become snared within it's tangled snake-skin. I lift it and see that the bird is awake but perhaps not fighting any longer, tired perhaps from fighting. I place the tape in the trash, begin to think about a dead bird rotting in the garbage and take it out. I begin to wrestle its wings from the sticky substance, it flaps, gets tangled even worse. In my attempt to peel him free, a few feathers fall. I took a napkin and grab the small bird firmly, free him from the trap and place him on the ground. It hops frantically away, chirping protestingly. If only I could stop wrestling with the trap, limp away quietly and vow to live another day.

Mirror Image

I'm swimming with thoughts on a multitude of subjects. I may tunnel through some and whirlpool around others. So is having conversations with me, sometimes.

School ended Friday, and so begins another summer. I'm reminded of my past summers, which somehow all end the same despite all attempts to the contrary. I begin motivated, I vow to stay productive, I end up teaching summer school with a thought of working towards the next year, to fine tune myself. What eventually happens is I succumb to the human condition of perpetual regrets, bordeline depression and selfishness.

Last year, I survived until August, wanted nothing more that to begin school again and made everyone around me miserable until I went into my locked room and began moving around furniture and shuffling through dusty cabinets. Am I defined by my job? I recently commented that I was going to countdown the days until I was allowed back. Most teachers are the opposite. We count down the days until spring break, Christmas break, spring break, summer vacation. We count the days left in the school year as you remind ourselves that summer is the only reason why we became teachers in the first place. When we are confronted by a number that matters--like, how many kids in my class need to pass a test?--we can't summarize the enormous amount of data so we include excuses like, "The curriculum needs to change," "These kids won't learn," "Parents should have to take a test," and other legendary lounge room soliloquies.

My wife also reminded me that making such a countdown was proof that I wanted nothing to do with my own kids this summer. I think sometimes I fall victim to the thought perpetuated by my father, who claimed that he didn't know how to father because no one ever showed him. To some extent, he is correct, as fathers don't necessarily raise their kids to be parents. We raise our kids to become independent, make good decisions, to live under authority. When I get a notice from school that my own son couldn't control his temper I have no mirror in the house that would testify to the contrary and that their ins't some truth to the statement, "Did he get that from me?" Perhaps this summer I can exercise some patience and love towards my kids.

Then there's the issue of softball.

A friend of mine recently used the word "consumed" when he detailed how his family's lives have changed from playing compettive softball. There are several connotations of the word consume, from to do away with completely, to spend wastefully, or to eat in great quantity. My pastor in service this morning asked the congregation, and specifically to me, "Will my daughter be playing softball past the age of 25? Then why are changing our entire worship schedules on something that will not prepare them for life?"

So, my friend is consumed by softball. He's done away with other elements of his life--family time, worship, devotions, vacations--to play ball. He's spent his time wastefully by being at a park while the grass around his home devours the house, a metaphor for the lost time spent with a wife, a child. Softball has eaten away at the important aspects of life. Again, there's not a mirror in the house that I could walk by to reveal a clean heart, an unbroken spirit.

God allowed me to worship this morning thanks to a well-timed rain delay that stumbled onto a cancellation. I don't find it ironic as much as I think well-timed for me to hear that message today, to rid me of my filthy mind this morning by getting me our of bed to read the Bible. God is rooting for me from above. I love my friend, too. I will continue to pray diligently for an outcome that doesn't consume him.