Spinning

I remember visiting my wife's second grade classroom some morning after work (and on a side note, I also remember going through a side door, open and unlocked.  Not so any more.).  I was walking through the aisles and the kids were looking back at me, smiling and waving and asking me several questions.  It was my Indiana Jones from the Last Crusade moment.  C-3PO among the Ewoks.  That was the day the seed was planted.  I was ignorant of the fact then, only in that I felt secure in the notion that I could do the one thing all teachers do--walk up and down an aisle, turn papers your direction to read an answer and smile back when needed.

Of course, that's not all we do.  Today I had 7 kids plus my own daughter in the room as they ate lunch, spoke over each other, carried themselves by piggyback and spun on rolling chairs.  They write letters like the one below.



Sometimes they draw pictures and characterize me as the "best teacher ever."  Those awards typically fade by year's end, but they are better than an Oscar.

And sometimes they write other notes.  Like the one I found on my desk.  I'm not going to show you a picture, however, if I had the balls to do so, I guess I would.  If the good pictures get me "likes" on Facebook, why not the negative?

And like most notes you don't want to read, the truthful ones, they tend to hide and get shuffled among the traffic of the table.  This week my work table had been consumed by a grade book, about 6 different piles of papers and tests to grade, unsharpened pencils, two clipboards, a jumbo paper clip, a bell, a bag of clay, The Hunger Games, literature essays on To Kill A Mockingbird and reminder notes 10 deep.  Among that rubble was a note from a student, an apology of sorts, after being sent to PEAK (our version of detention).

The paper had been pushed around for at least a week.  On any other day I would have thrown it away.  I even wrote a note on one of the folds.

Mr. Cordova, I know you think I'm dumb.  I wish I was smarter.

Mr. Cordova, I hate my life.

Mr. Cordova, I know you like (a high performing student) more, but I'm just dumb.

I hate school.

Looking at those specific lines, extracted as such, remind me of some twisted poem of disapproval.  How could the same person teacher who believed in the young man above, so be a part of making a girl feel so unloved?  When did her feeling manifest?  Was it a look, a sigh, an eye roll?  Was it a denied question, when I raised my voice or when I dismissed a request?

This past week I've lost two students, again, girls, to online charter schools.  Both were victims of bullying and a pestering and prevalent system that caters to the troubled and does little for those that walk the narrow path.  Teachers spend so much time dousing fires, filling out paperwork and jumbling data that the ones we want to protect the most get neglected.  I struggle with the shy ones, boys and girls, the wallflower, the awkward kid who is too afraid to ask.  Sometimes a kid comes out of their shell within the comfort of the year.  Other times, their voice gets lost among the loud ones, the ones that are more consistent.  As a man, how do I relate to being a young girl with selected friends and a unique array of gifts and interests?  Any man can relate to the cutie pie, the smart, over-achiever and the needy one, that girl who doesn't have a father figure.  But the other?

And during those weeks I've also welcomed two new students.  One is acclimating herself well into the room dynamic.  The other one?  Silent as stone.  I'm sure it is already evident the one I favor.

Tomorrow we continue a science experiment on centripetal force.  We've been making spinning tops, a lesson in inquiry and procedure.  I've enjoyed watching them succeed and fail and manipulate materials for a desired affect.  All week I've heard my name over and over.

Time me.  I'm ready.  Look, Mr. C.

They still want my attention and I spin.