Get Your Hands Dirty

It only took four days of teaching for my immune system to cave. I spent the weekend in a Nyquil-induced coma of recovery, dreaming of all the prep time I was losing. I didn’t get much planning done, but what I ended up finding was time to reflect. The most buoyant memories of my week floated to the surface easily as I half-slept on the couch ignoring the History Channel.

When I thought back to the teachers who influenced me most, one image just kept popping up: my high school chemistry teacher’s hands. It may sound like an odd memory, but he showed his work through his hands. There was evidence of his effort and energy as a teacher there. He was a volleyball coach, chemist, and veteran educator at Blue Springs High School, South of Kansas City, Missouri. Always at the board writing furiously, his hands were continuously covered in a dull yellow chalk dust that most kids today would mistake for fertilizer or curry powder (I’m not even sure there is a chalk board in my high school anymore).

I found pretty quickly that, by third hour, my teacher was ready to demonstrate enthalpy, stoichiometry, and Boyle’s Law in as many ways as it took for me to get it. His board had been covered, erased, and covered again several times over by this point and he was anticipating our questions. His was one of the toughest classes I have ever taken to this day. What I remember today has less to do with what was on his tests than what was on his hands.

I hope to show at least one student the same kind of symbol in my teaching. I want my students to understand what I give to them of myself. Last week, I was writing on the board for the third hour in a row, I noticed my hands were turning black with the soot of my dry-erase markers. Inside, I started to smile; I found a new energy to propel myself forward.

When I look back at that high school chemistry class, I remember the chalk most, but it makes me wonder: what am I forgetting? What myriad of gestures went unnoticed while I was a student? Even if I can’t remember every explicit example, I know there are just as many teachers whom I liked and I can’t
say why. Sometimes, the art of conversation, of managing group work, or engendering accountability are what make teachers who they are.

Last week, my students spent a day writing about the qualities of good teachers and students. They reflected upon their favorite experiences in the classroom and also shared some more difficult moments. On each question, the students had time to reflect on paper independently for a few minutes before sharing with a partner nearby. After they had listened to one another, they took a few minutes to reflect in writing again about what their partner had said. From the pair-sharing, I took answers from the whole class to put on the board. Each student had to reflect one last time on the ideas of the entire room.

I like this cycle of participation because it allows for a gradual swell into whole-group discussion. Sometimes I have found that teachers jump right from quiet individual work to whole-group work with no transition. When you leave out the steps in between, the discussion goes from a beautiful wale swimming in the deep ocean to beached in no time, and you’re left to revive it. In my structure, I tried to allow all students to get the time they need, individually, to ponder a question before sharing in a comfortable partner situation. Eventually, students get to hear a sampling of the entire class’s thoughts and reflect again.

Each student needed one of those levels of discussion and collaboration to succeed. I gave them the chance to review the lesson structure and give three positive of negative feedback points. In dong that, I heard a lot of split thoughts (for example, “I liked/didn’t like group work’), but just about everyone liked at least one aspect of the structure. I promised to read their anonymous critiques and make changes to the lesson accordingly.

As week two begins and my first-week sickness subsides, I’m trying to keep the good things in mind. I’m trying to get my hands a little dirtier than I did before.

I Said I Was Nervous, and I Lied.

Welcome Sign

“My first student came in at 7:33am to drop off his Yankees hat, marking his desk. By this point, I’m already half-way through my miniature pot of coffee.  I’ve seen a few kids I recognize from student teaching, some smiled and yelled, some walked by staring at the ceiling. A few building vets have walked by my door and smiled; I just want the students to come in already. For some strange reason, “Hide Your Love Away” by the Fab Four is on a loop in my head (mostly the parts about standing head in hands with my face turned to the wall). Am I nervous you ask? I think so, but I’m not sure. Continue reading

Chronicle of a New Teacher

The beginnings of things are the most beautiful, the most terrible, and the most fascinating. Babies emerge covered in goo, screaming, and blinded as a room full of people stand and watch. Teaching is not much different. My four year gestation left me soaked in theory, conversational, and blinded with well-meaning naivety about the world I was entering.

Plants have it a little easier as they grow from seed to stalk; they push through dirt, but it seems more private and clean I think. They get to flower much more quickly as well. Depending upon the genus and species, it may take only days or weeks before buds emerge, ripe with petals. People are a bit more complicated from what I’ve seen, but they bloom nonetheless. Continue reading