What is Sean Penn doing in my afterlife?

Whirlwind.

2011 has come and gone.  Our house is once again a gift earthquake.  Unopened boxes, Barbie clothes strung across the floor like a doll one-night-stand, the menacing look of a soldier aiming at no one.  We'll soon discard the old for the new, as many families do this season.  2012 is just about here.

December evokes lots of reflection.  Thoughts of home.  This year we stayed in Ohio, and I barely get a glimpse of what Christmas is like back in Houston.  Tamales, my loud uncles, my cousins with kids of their own, my sister.  My grandfather's birthday passed on the 21st.  I joke with my wife that if he was still alive I would have never left his side.  I vaguely remember driving in his truck, sitting on his lap as a toddler, able to honk the horn at passerbys.  I remember making my uncle Gilbert (who at the time was in high school) change the channel to what I wanted to watch on tv.  Foghorn Leghorn was the king of Saturday morning cartoons.  When he grew sick from the pneumonia that eventually took his life, I reportedly was so mad I stormed out of his hospital room.  It would be the last time I would ever see him, apart from the pictures I still own, the ones my grandma has in large photo albums she keeps.  One memory is sitting by the window awaiting his return, wondering if his truck would simply pull into the driveway.

Growing up in Houston has its own stories, too many for a mere blog.  Many of them are with my uncles.  Richard the handsome one, whose life was struck short in a tragic accident.  Gilbert the young one, whose girlfriends were the frequent targets of my seemingly endless questions.  Jesse, the black sheep, the one I outwardly root for.  In a movie he'd somehow be redeemed by the actor Jimmy Smits in one of those Oscar-winning speeches.  David, the family man turned tragic cautionary tale.  My uncles were the men in my life when  my father sat speechless in front of a television screen living his life through the actors and actresses he logged in various 3-ring binders.  They weren't the ones quoting from the Book of Responsibility my step father used often (In hindsight, I was as much as an issue for him growing up.  Whether that was from rebellion, our differences or some Freudian attempt to keep men away from my mother is beyond my intelligence to comprehend).  I envisioned making a movie about a kid being raised by the four of them, and indeed if I took parts of each one they would make for a great narrative.

Memories of them come up often.  I watched "The Tree of Life" this past week.  Brad Pitt plays the reverential and tough father of 3 boys in Waco, Texas in the 50's.  The movie is part poetry and existential ruminations on the meaning of life, from creation to the afterlife (not sure if I totally agree with the movie, but it proves for some great conversation, first and foremost--what the hell was Sean Penn doing in this movie?).  I thought so much of my uncle Gilbert's job as a father to four boys. As a brother myself I related to so much of the story (Cruz did too, I think, because it's the only way to explain how a 7 year old can sit next to his father and watch an art house movie, a Terrance Malik movie by golly, is beyond explanation.  But it all has to do with boys being boys, and probably some of his desires to have a brother run around the neighborhood with, someone to push and push back, someone to wrestle with, someone to understand his point of view).  I'm not here to say it was a perfect model, but I do know that my 4 cousins are special in the way that God only can do, from the way they act, their personalities, their looks and the memories they all invoke.

The other night when wrapping last minute gifts, my DVR slighted my emotions by clipping the last cathartic minutes of "It's a Wonderful Life."  I know how it ends but I was ready for my deep Holiday cry.  Not that I have anything to be sad about.  Crying for George Bailey finally understanding where God placed him, thankful for the gifts around him.  When I see the tears in my uncle Gilbert's eyes whenever I say goodbye I see the dame thankfulness.  I see it in the vivid memories of my grandfather under the sheen of worn photo album covers.  The black and white photo of him wearing a suit and Al Capone hat will probably stay etched in my mind.  I can't imagine seeing him once again in color.  By then it probably wont matter.  Perhaps he'll be a floating celestial being.  Perhaps not.  But I know that my Sean Penn-walk-in-the-afterlife walk will look like.

Whirlwinds.

No mustard, no ketchup

There are days that I am reminded that my students are kids.  They may exhibit adult-like behavior at times.  They may write fantastic letters in the character's voice from a recent novel, or they may speak sophisticated about others who bother them.  In the end, they are kids.  Scared at times, troubled, confused, carrying a yoke too burdensome for their age.  Kids.

And other days their parents remind me that they too can be influenced by wanting the very best for their kids. We all want this, to a point.  Many parents desire for their kids to outlast them, outsmart them, outdistance them in their educations, their dreams.  And then every once in a while, we step over the line and try to force the issue.  We, as parents, simply cannot let things be.  We lack trust in their choices.  We lack faith in the people around them, the friends they choose and the teachers that are undoubtedly a large part of their lives.

So today a parent witnesses kids being kids.  Teasing occurs.  Feelings become hurt.  Emotions spike.  The decisions as parents that we make at that moment serve as both a precursor to how we envision our own kids handling that same situation.  If we are calm and handle it without strife, do we make our kids into would-be punching bags?  Or when we lose our tempers in front of them, do we hope that we too will fight for what we believe in?

I saw my mom angry on several occasions.  Frequently it was from wrong orders at the fast food drive in.  "No mustard, no ketchup!"  At times there were curse words.  Other times I probably never knew that she arrived home without the fries, or 4 biscuits short.  Once, after coming home with a friend of mine from a local election party, we were stopped by Houston's finest.  My friend was made ordered to step out of the vehicle.  My mom sat in the back seat, immediately began confronting the young officer.  There was this impassioned speech about civic duty and harassment.  I don't think we got the ticket.  And I have never argued with a police officer.  Once, I remember her claiming an officer entrapped her into a speed zone as he hid behind a dumpster (I think).  My mom still got the ticket.

Once in high school, a car load of friends were pulled over.  We were in a bind.  All underage drinkers, 5 total people in the car that reeked of cheap Boone's that was tossed from the window before we even stopped (by me).  We had a drunk girl in the back seat, perhaps suggestively wishing she's pass out, even accidental removing articles of clothing.

We all had to step from the vehicle.  I admitted to throwing the Boone's, my friend Barry admitted to the car not being his (no, it wasn't stolen, just borrowed from the back seat groper among us).  My friend Juan went into this mexican-man tirade, tempting the cop to arrest us, beat us, whatever.  It was only when we interceded to get him back in the car did the cop release us.  It was the wrong decision to let us go.  I would involve myself with a near DUI months later with different friends, then other mischief.  Perhaps it would have been a sign for my parents to have kept me home.  Choices.

There was always something reserved in me to avoid those types of confrontation.  Perhaps it was the power position.  They had the badge and I didn't.  I once felt superior enough to complain a Wal-Mart when my grill was not assembled.  I even cursed like I'd seen many a white man!  Of course I was wearing my shirt that advertised my school.  That's my luck.

Last year a mom berated me outside my room.  I let her have some back.  I took up for myself.  It was still an embarrassing low light.  My son has never seen me argue with any other adult.  Why should he?  I can't imagine what message he would learn from me if I handled a situation like my parent did this morning.  Confronting a kid.  Eyes burning with vengeance.  After seeing me hug my friends and smile all day, what would he think about me raising my voice to a Wendy's drive-thru worker, his teacher, or one of his friends?

Times do change.  Whenever a crisis happens, I immediately blame my kids first.  I don't take their sides until all the facts have been placed on the table.  I'm old school.  If I would have even been hit by a car as a kid, my grandmother would have said, "Why were you in the road?"  Nowadays, parents over fight.  They pull their students from school when they don't the desired grades.  They move if their son is retained.  They get on the news and demand justice be served when their bratty kid is duct taped in class by a substitute teacher.  And my room 160 students get me.  Teaching them about self-sacrifice and humility.  Don't boast, don't call attention to yourself.

Many of my students have facebooks.  One in particular curses, posts spammed porn, uses extra z's and dollar signs in his posts.  Think he's listening?

Falling through Canyons

This entire school year has been a game of catch-up.  My moments of clarity are so last-minute they are like the fresh papers I print, warm to the touch, but by the time the pencil lead is begins to dull, it's cold, distant.  This past week I copied the wrong side of a daily language exercise on the back.  Week 13 on top of week 12.  Some of the kids noticed, the ones who look forward to turning in their work a head of time for that lure of the computer time incentive.  I'm like the 2 or 3 that barely figured it out the day the assignment is due.  "Dude, you did the wrong one," I say, pointing out the left-over stash of papers they were supposed to complete instead.  They look at me with their expression, thinking,  "Again,  I messed up?"

I have 29 students this year (my new one enrolled Monday). 2 less than my highest total of 31 and about 4 or 5 more than what is typical for me.  I also teach a 4th and 5th grade class.  I call them "young" and "old."  I try to make them feel as if they are a true multi-age classroom.  If you can handle the work, here, try it.  You should see my writing lessons.  They are a macabre dance of packets and prophetic Smart board truths from years past--how to milk the reader into reading the next paragraph, using questions to draw readers into their intros, using quotes to drive the narrative, ending with a memorable line.  Some are working on commas and capitals.  My son knows there should be a capital "I" in sentences.  Why don't my fourth graders?  We furiously erase commas and introduce semi-colons.  My high kids, both the fifth and fourth grade alike, yawn, roll their eyes and trudge ahead with essays and typing their final drafts.  They hunt down those that aren't achieving not so much to help but to perhaps boos their own ego, to tell on them, shame them in front of their peers.  "Mr. Cordova, he's not even using periods!"

Reading is when I see their struggles and successes magnified.  They work in teams of 2 or 3, and they are singled out with their grades only.   Two different novels I'm teaching, while sprinkling in a dose of the district basal reader, non-fiction supplements, computer-based assessments and vocabulary exercises driven towards exploring synonyms and multiple meanings.  They have 30 minutes to master a concept.  Sometimes it's just enough time to finish, and other times not enough.  Anytime my grandmother ever made dinner, she always had enough.  And this called for having seconds, enough for someone who just arrived and packing enough for the ones who weren't there.  I never learned her mastery of portions.  It's a lesson that would serve me well when conducting my lessons.

Even within their grade levels there is great disparity.  I have one fourth grader that might as well skip and move to fifth.  I have at least 3 that have no business in fourth grade.  The rest weave through the narrative of the day when their effort affords them to.  They sometimes don't maintain the effort it takes to succeed, and other times no matter how hard they work they will find my way of instruction or the material daunting.

My fifth graders are a wonderful challenge as well.  Some I've had for two years now.  They know my routine and I know their moods.  We were conversational the first day of school, which is sometimes a curse in itself.  They talk to me like I am their friend.  Most of the time they don't even raise their hand.  Some of this is learned behavior as well.  My son Cruz hugs everyone he sees.  I do this too.  so it's no wonder during silent hallway time they try to walk beside me to chat about their day.  Most of the time I oblige them.  I'm the same way with my staff.  During fire drills, I talk to fellow teachers when the students are supposed to be quiet.  I joke with the custodians, hi-five kindergartners.  When I get after a kid for not lining up or fighting at the bus stop, I have to scold someone else for making it a joke.  I'm less and less sarcastic when I talk with them.  When I don't give you a hard time, then you should be worried.

The year is almost done.  I stress less about the test that drives my instruction, my employment, and more about their lives beyond the walls of room 160.  I've been eating lunch with my kids this past week.  It gives me a time for them to update me on their lives, how their siblings are doing.  Some are shy and sit far from the group, while others won't even start eating until I begin.  For the first time ever, I had two kids on separate occasions deny the chance to come back.  I don't know if I should take the snub as a slight or that they are just too insecure to grab their lunch and walk down the hallway without some driven fear that they are somehow in trouble.  Are these the two boys that will fall through the cracks we whisper about in the teacher's lounge?  I think along the way to becoming a teacher I fell through canyons.

This past Monday we added a new mantra to our daily pledge.  We say the pledge of allegiance, then the room 160 saying, "Shady Lane Students will LEARN, LEAD, and ACHIEVE," and now "My Identity."

I am a new creation

I am deeply loved

fully pleasing

and totally accepted.

I am absolutely complete.

There has never been another person like me

in the history of mankind,

nor will there ever be.

I am original,

one of a kind, really somebody.

I lifted this from a bible study of "The Search for Significance."  If you search for the book, you'll come across the identity mantra they share aloud with each meeting.  There's some fanciful editing of mine that took place.  Law requires me to excise the use of God or Jesus in my daily teaching, but they cannot take what's in the heart.  

So I type my lessons, clear my desk for the next upheaval, and jot down a series of dots, lines and codes for absences and behaviors.  During recess, I take down score and call fouls for the fifth grade basketball game.  In a way, it's like my day.  I catch most infractions--the talking, the constant rummaging through a desk, unauthorized dragon drawings--and other times I'm caught napping because my head is down recording a rebound.  The kids turn the ball over, they steal it back, sometimes even a game-winning shot.  That's all they need.  A pick on their defender, that look at the basket.  Swish.