First step's the hardest

Today, Randi, Gail and I ran the Revlon Run/Walk. It's a 5K (3.1 miles) to raise money for research and support for women's cancers. As we were making signs, I began remembering all the women I know/have known/my friends know who have or had cancer. Just recently, Kevin told me his friend's mother passed away from breast cancer, and Gilly told me that one of our former students' mother also recently passed away. One of my friends has (fingers crossed) recently conquered a battle with cancer.

As I looked around at the hoardes of people (mostly women, but plenty of men, too) running to support this cause, I became overwhelmed. I've always had a fear of death-- I sometimes daydream of being hit by a car, or being mugged, or that I'll receive a call that one of my family members has died. Whenever I fly, I recite a mantra over and over during take off: "I love you mommy, I love you daddy, I love you Steven." It serves two purposes--1) It helps keep me calm during a scary time; and 2) in case of a crash, I know that my last thoughts will be those.

"I'm running in memory of my mother." "In memory of my wife." "In support of myself!" I've been so blessed in that I've been spared so far from awful tragedies. I admire deeply those who have survived themselves, or who have managed to survive the loss of a loved one. It's something I choose not to think about, because I honestly don't know how I would deal with that kind of loss. A day like today forces you to realize, though, that millions of people are dealing with this every day. My thoughts are with them, today and every day.

Blooming

Spring has sprung! I'm training for the Revlon Run/Walk on April 30. I met up with Randi in the park and we did a couple of short loops. Join us or donate!

Tested

My students took their city-wide reading test today. "This test will measure how much you know," I was required by law to say. It took all my strength not to blurt out "NO! It doesn't measure what you know at all! But you still have to take it." The test simply tests how well the students take the test. For 65 minutes, my students sat in a hot room, unable to get up for the bathroom or a drink of water. Excruciating, it seemed. And yet, the same students who so often have trouble sitting still during a lesson, or controlling their impulses at so many other times of the day, were remarkably focused, quiet, and still. The weight of THE TEST has been so ingrained in their heads, they instinctively know that there is a different set of rules. It's as if they consider all the work they do every day simply unimportant in the long run. Most of them certainly don't put as much focus and attention into our regular work. But clearly they are capable of sustained focus and attention. Despite all our efforts to the contrary, despite all our work on designing rubrics, outlining expectations, having kids meta-cognate and self-assess, they consider their grade on THE TEST the definition of themselves as students. Those 65 minutes take precedence over everything else.

I refuse to outright cheat, though I'm sure many teachers do. I stick to the rules, I don't give hints or say, "You should check this one over." And I leave feeling like I've been part of something quite evil. Next week is math, and we get to do it again. This time, at least, the fans have been turned on.

Passing Judgment

It's report card time again. I dislike it for so many reasons. First, it's physically draining and time-consuming to create report cards for 96 children. Second, in my school, the social studies report card is a page long, with over 12 different categories to be graded. Third, I'm always playing catch up. Despite several attempts to stay organized, keep on top of grading notebooks, etc., I'm embarrasingly behind in my grading. At this point, does it even matter? Don't get me wrong--I assess my kids constantly. I'm always taking notes as I talk with them or during their discussions to help me keep track of who knows how to do what and what else I need to teach. But I'm not always so good at telling them what I've discovered. At the same time, since so much of the work we do requires sophisticated thinking skills, how do I help the kids who are still so concrete? They can't just study more so that they'll remember a few more facts for the next test. I don't even give tests.

What ends up happening is that the only kids who fail do so because they have not put forth nearly enough effort. Some of those kids would still not meet standards even with improved efforts. But how can I fail a kid who has worked so hard, written pages and pages in their notebook, turned in every assignment on time? I can only say that their "Habits of Mind" are "approaching standards".

It's imperfect. And yet, I can't imagine teaching in the kind of school where I would use a textbook, give tests, and base all my grades on the outcome of those tests.

April Showers

I love taking long showers. I love feeling the water trickle down my back. I love the feeling of my hair when it's completely saturated. I love wrapping myself in a fresh, clean towel afterwards.

At my grandmother's unveiling yesterday, it rained. Actually, it hailed. LIttle chunks of frozen rain dropped onto my coat. We huddled under umbrellas, my aunt's hands under one arm for warmth, my mother's under the other for comfort. We braced ourselves against the cold and the sadness. Sadness? Perhaps, for a life unfulfilled. But is that for me to judge? Is the fulfillment that I seek, professionally and personally, just of a totally different sort than that of women of my grandmother's generation? Was she content? She raised two children, by herself. Whenever I lament all that she didn't do for me as a grandmother, I remember how she did as well as she could with so little. Could I have done the same? Under those circumstances, she's an inspiration. For all her indecisiveness, aloofness, neediness, and stubbornness, she raised two children by herself. She is to be praised and honored for that.

The rain cleansed us yesterday. It cried for us, washing away whatever negative images or memories we harbored, leaving room for only praise and honor. It pelted away years of bitterness and resentment, until all that was left was a smooth, new headstone honoring the memory of a "loving mother, daughter and sister." There is no room anymore for anything else. And I wrapped myself in my mother like a fresh, clean towel. I love and honor her, too.