I should clarify.  Really, I was a wussy kid.  I’d follow the directions of any authority figure–parents, teachers, public service videos with cartoon characters asking me to conserve water.  I always felt behind, socially and developmentally, so maybe I lingered a bit too long in Kohlberg’s pre-conventional stage of moral development.

When my circle of friends started doing the things that (I guess) most young adults do–drinking–I got uncomfortable.  Started in high school.  Lasted well into my twenties.  It hurt.  They were doing things that I “knew” were wrong and dangerous.  I felt left out, not good enough, and terribly terribly nervous for my friends’ safety.  I still don’t drink.  It’s mostly a non-issue (I love to drive, so adding the adjective “designated” is fine by me), but there’s still an emotional smoothie of sadness, anxiety, and a dash of superiority when my peers imbibe.  I’m not proud of that, but it’s not going anywhere.

But this anxiety is only worse as a teacher.  My students are drinking.  Not all of them, sure, and most are probably only doing so occasionally.  But the thought breaks my heart.

I more or less try to stay out of their personal lives.  It’s none of my business, really.  I overhear things in the hallway.  The looks on some kids’ faces when conversations turn to these issues make it all too clear.  And sometimes, they just come right out and tell me.

But if they’re reading To Kill a Mockingbird or meeting their deadlines, then that’s all I’m really supposed to do.  I’m not a counselor or a parent.  I’m definitely not a friend, as much as I want to be sometimes.  If I’m going to stick with this career and hear those conversations, though, I’ve gotta develop much thicker skin, because I can’t just stick my head in the sand and pretend it’s not happening. 

Drinking is a hobby reserved for adults because it’s risky, so kids shouldn’t be doing it.  But even worse–even more upsetting to me–is this: alcohol is for adults because adults’ lives are boring.  And if an adult, whose sense of wonder and passion dimmed long ago, wants to make the weekend or wedding or ballgame a little more lively with alcohol, it’s understandable.  Like buying some reading glasses when one’s vision grows weak, a responsible adult has every right to enhance an evening’s enjoyment with alcohol.

So why do my kids need it?  Has their fascination with life, their ability to find excitement in everything really been dulled to the point where they have to get wasted every weekend?  It seems so irresponsible, but it’s also sad.

With my peers, the root of my anxiety was their immediate physical safety and, more honestly, not fitting in when they picked up their new hobby.  For my students, though, I’m more scared of what’s making them want to drink in the first place. 

I know they’ve got pressure.  With mid-terms and two yearbook deadlines this month, I’m a primary source of genuine stress right now.  My expectations are high: I assign my freshmen a chapter of reading per night while my coworkers play them an audiobook.  My seniors write six-page research papers, only to fail when they don’t bother to cite their sources correctly.  And my yearbook staff seems all too familiar with the face I make when I’m not satisfied with their efforts.

Add fix or six other classes of similar difficulty, maybe a part-time job, family issues, and the unbelievable melodrama in their social lives, and I can see how they’re growing up too fast, getting to that point where nothing seems fun anymore.  I just wish it wasn’t happening so fast.

My yearbook kids are sweet.  Adorable, self-motivated, socially competent geniuses.  4th period is a wealth of potential and skill.  They’ve got talent oozing out of their eye sockets.

And I’ve got too many of them.

Again, I love them all.  Absolutely every single last one deserves their spot on the staff.  They’re pulling their weight.  Some more than others, sure, but everyone’s performing.

Here’s my issue: Too many seniors.

Out of 22 staff members, I’ve only got 5 underclassmen.  Seniors–with all of their strengths and foibles–dominate the classroom.

I didn’t think it would be such an issue, but these kids–chin-deep in AP classes and extracurriculars–have senioritis nipping at their tails, beckoning them with its sulty Siren song (to mix too many metaphors and an Homeric allusion).  Everything in their work ethic says “I can get this yearbook done!” while their natural high school clock is begging them to take a day off and see what’s up with The Price Is Right.

After seeing how they handled the pressure of their first deadline (again, it’s supposed to be a relatively easy one), I can tell it’s going to be a rough year, wherein I’m praising one kid’s determination one day and cursing his laziness the next.

I think we can help each other.  See, I’m a teacher.  I’d say I’m overwhelmed with my professional responsibilities, but the honest truth is just that I’m a little lazy.  I’ve talked with teachers that stay at the school until midnight.  With no kids waiting for me at home, I could do that.

But I don’t want to.  I like seeing my wife for those twenty minutes before she runs off to her night job, so I go home.  And NHL12 just came out, so I’ve got lots of electronic hockey to play.  I love my job, but really doing an excellent job at it requires more time than I’m often willing.  Selfish?  Maybe.  Should I quit?  Not a chance.  I’m still twice as good as some of my peers.  It’s a sick sad world.

So here’s where you come in, Corporate America.  I need resources to be a better educator–mostly, I need a secretary.  I need a girl (or guy, I’m progressive) to handle all of the type-A paperwork and organization that I’m just no good at.  My lesson plans need to be submitted on time.  Parents need to be notified.  Students need to be reminded when their papers are due.  I’m no good at this stuff, so it needs to be outsourced.  This gives me more time to plan, provide quality feedback on student work, and pursue professional development on my own terms through new texts and online seminars.

What’s in it for you, Corporate America?  I’m so glad you asked.

A CAPTIVE AUDIENCE

Around 150 teenagers walk into my classroom every day.  150 relatively attentive youths with disposable incomes and impressionable mushy brains.  I’m talking about advertising, Corporate America.  Me and you joining forces to make kids smarter, but also want to buy more Doritos.

Just imagine the possibilities to integrate savvy edu-marketing (it’s a new term I’m playing around with) within our curriculum!  Whatever you’re selling, I can figure out a way to tastefully insert it into our lessons.

Vocabulary!

Ford has always been a trusted brand, but they’ve really outdone themselves with the all new Ford Focus, certainly the ________ of American automobile performance.

A. witticism     B. zenith     C. deference     D. enigma

Grammar

Complete the sentence with the proper superlative:

Taco Bell’s new Slam Dunk $3 Quesa-dealio is the ________ snack for you and your bros!

(Answers will vary, but we’re looking for “meltiest”)

Literature!

Shakespeare is easily the English language’s most prominent dramatist, but does he “know drama” as well as the TNT network.

Compare and contrast the instances of heroism on display in To Kill a Mockingbird with the heroism evident in TNT’s Franklin and Bash (pre-order season 1 on DVD now!)

Write a three-page paper discussing the tragic flaws of Odysseus, besides not loading his ships with Lo-Carb Monster Energy Drink (“unleash the beast!”).

For the right price, I’ll even bend the facts to better serve both our interests.  Literary product placement!

• Suddenly, Hamlet is using Shure brand microphones to put on his play.
• Walter Mitty escapes his boring life by daydreaming about seeing Shrek 6.
• Poe’s troubled narrator no longer feels “sorrow for the lost Lenore” but “sheer glee in the Apple Store.”

So, for a few hours after classes, I wrestled with our county’s online gradebook, a frustrating byproduct of bureaucratic programming-by-committee and irrational administrative decisions.  Combined with how depressing my students’ grades are,  I’ve got a proper headache.

I teach  3 9th Lit. classes, Journalism 1, Yearbook, and one period of English Literature.  That’s 6 classes.  But due to state testing changes, No Child Left Behind rules that divide my kids, a handful of yearbook scheduling issues, my gradebook has SIXTEEN different sections.  Sixteen.

Sixteen different places where my students wind up in my gradebook.  None of them are named anything helpful, unless you can make sense of 23.0610006-9, which I can’t.  Some sections only contain one student.

All of this means that I’ve got to create the same set of assignments over and over again, and maintain 16 different rosters of grades, rather than the six I should logically have.  And now, posting grades, something that takes many teachers a few minutes, turns into an all-afternoon ordeal as I try to make sense of where all of my students exist on my gradebook.

Don’t get me wrong, teachers have never had it easier, technologically.  I can Google “Middle Ages Powerpoint” and have something decent to show my seniors in a matter of seconds (I never do that, but that’s more of a personal issue than anything).  BUT my county and the company that runs their grading system could borrow a few steps from, say, Apple’s design philosophy, and make all of these bureaucratic nuances invisible to the everyday user, the teacher, whose time is valuable.

[NOTE: I feel awful complaining to this extent about my job.  A rant like this is, if anything, annoyingly self-important.  I hate teachers who whine about their pay or their responsibilities.  We're federal employees--some paperwork's to be expected.  Please understand I adore my profession.  It's fulfilling, meaningful, exciting.  Every job has its down sides, and teaching is no different.  But there's nothing I'd rather do, warts and all.]

First of all, I’m exhausted.  I want to do a good job for them, so I’m researching, reading, and grading more than I have in a long time.  Having 4 preps to take care of can do that, I guess.  A few years ago, I had one class period of sophomores, and I felt like I cheated them, not spending enough time with their lessons.  I don’t want that to happen to these seniors.  I like ‘em.

Freshmen come in somewhat malleable; they don’t have a clue how they’re supposed to act in high school, and that buys me a lot of time to set up some expectations, before they fall back on old habits.

Seniors, on the other hand, come in bored.  They’ve had three more years than freshmen, of soul-crushing school routines.  Are they more acquiescent?  Sure, but they’re numb, too.  Part of me is relishing the quiet of the class, reluctant to shake things up too much.  Another part of me wants their final year of high school Literature to be as fun and memorable as possible, curriculum-be-damned.  Right now, I’m afraid to loosen the reins, though.

I’m doing the Nicenet online forums in my classes.  Tonight’s the deadline to post a thoughtful response to the board for all of my students.  About 30% of my freshmen have done it.  Only 2 out of 31 of my seniors have bothered.  So they’re definitely not as enthusiastic as I had hoped.

Maybe the grade will encourage seniors a little more since their finish line is finally within sight.  I know 9th graders are seldom motivated by the idea of graduating; it’s so far away.  We’re about to start reading the Literature book’s version of Beowulf.  I hope they find the spirit to care just a little more

Mentor Sentences!

I took part in the Kennesaw Mountain Writing Project over the summer.  It kept me busier than I expected, but I took away so much from the experience, as an educator.  The program is built around the philosophy that teachers should learn from each other.  I had to deliver a presentation to my cohorts on some sort of writing instruction.

You can view the Prezi presentation I made here (seriously, check it out), but the gist is that students can learn a variety of writing styles by imitating sentences of established authors.  The result would be but an original sentence crafted in the likeness of one already deemed good writing.  It’s a tad like student artists sitting in The Louvre, copying the masters, honing their own style and techniques along the way.

I’ll be new to the idea.  I think it can teach kids some style and, if we focus on some details, a good bit of grammar in a practical way.

Online Interaction!

I’m setting up Nicenet groups to get students discussing our literature in an online forum.  These communities are everywhere in college courses, even traditional on-campus ones.  If I can get my students comfortable with their conventions and ethics as high school freshmen, I see that as a big benefit.  Furthermore, it’s a good way to get everyone involved in a conversation, even if they’re shy.

Also, I’ve set up a Facebook Group and Twitter feed to keep students updated on class news and assignments.  Facebook groups allow me to invade their Facebook newsfeeds without actually being friends them.  Perfect.

Well, those are the two biggest things, but they’re HUGE changes to way I’ve managed my classes in the past.  I’m sure I’ll find plenty of potholes and hurdles and other proverbial obstacles along the way.  I’ll let you know how things go.  If you have any advice, I’m all ears (which, if literal, would be gross).

Last night, I watched some friends play their last show together (again, more endings).  Before the show, someone jokingly asked if I passed this year.  And it made me realize just how stationary I am.  In a way, I don’t pass…ever.  I repeat the 9th grade every year.  And I see the same things with only slight variations year after year.  Lazy kids, motivated kids, hyper clowns, silent geniuses: different names, different faces, same kids.  I’m exaggerating some, I think; your average office job would be a million times more mundane and repetitive as what I do for a living.

However, my first batch of kids moving on into the world makes me feel simultaneously old and renewed.  While kids that I helped form are going off to face their challenges, I get to wash my hands of all of my mistakes and tackle a new bunch in a couple months.

But why bring up hockey on your teaching blog, Sonny?  You’re wasting our time with your dumb hobbies! Boo.  Hiss.  We’re headed elsewhere, you phoney!

Calm down, pals.  I bring it up here for this reason: I’m terrible at it.

Like really really awful. Mighty Ducks before Coach Bombay bad.

Ducks fly together!

And it’s refreshing to be awful at something.  As teachers, we quickly forget that the material we cover is difficult for some people.  I’ve read The Odyssey four years in a row–I understand it (more or less).  But I can’t expect every student to grasp its formal language, themes, and similes without some practice, even if then.

It’s advice I’ve heard before: take a class in something outside of your comfort zone.  It’ll give some insight into your struggling students’ attitudes and perceptions of your class.  Out on the ice–surrounded by actual hockey players uprooted from Michigan, Canada, and even Russian–I’m clueless, lost, trying my best to absorb all of the information around me.  I fall down.  I miss passes.  I skate to where I’m supposed to be, then glide past it, for I haven’t nailed down how to stop yet.

Some of my kids can’t see context clues or use apostrophes.  It’s the same thing–a lack of experience and a deficiency of skill.  With some practice and a patient teacher, they could get it.  Except–and here’s the difference–I want to play hockey.  They’re being forced to take an English class, something they’ve struggled with all their lives and would give up at the first chance.  And whether this deficiency (if that’s the fairest word for it) comes from a learning disability, a bad attitude, or (more common) poor upbringing is really besides the point.  This is where they are.  They hate English.  Books are bad, and–to paraphrase Burris Ewell–ain’t no snot-nosed slut of a school teacher can make them do anything.

So what to do?  I empathize, yes, but that’s where the advice from teacher publications ends: just feel sorry for your students, give ‘em a break already.  I don’t want to lower my expectations; that sends the wrong message, right?

What do I need to do in hockey?  Practice.  Make sacrifices.  Endure.  Even when it sucks.  I’m asking for the same from my kids; I just have a better idea of what that actually means now.

But sometimes, I deserve to commend myself, notice the sunshine.  So here’s an off-the-top-of-my-head list of things I’m good at or areas of vast improvement in my almost three years as a teacher.

1. I memorize students’ names faster than any teacher I know of.

2. My expectations have gotten higher every year.  My average grades have stayed the same.

3. I can hook up my own technology, thanks.

4. My discipline problems have gone way down since my first year.  I write up very few students, mostly because I just don’t need to.

5. I don’t lose my head over hoop-jumping administrative stuff.  Some teachers throw tantrums when they’re asked to do anything extra.  I’ll either comply or politely forget to do it.

6. I keep my mouth shut.  High school’s a gossip-laden soap opera for teachers, too.  It’s very hard to avoid rumors about students or the nosy, negative attitudes of some colleagues.  I do a decent job of minding my own business.

7. I’m not an idiot.  I can write a clear email to a parent.  I can create a spreadsheet and analyze test grades on it.  I know students would much rather tell me about their game instead of me just saying, “Good job,” so I ask open-ended questions about their performance.   I’m not good at some pretty important things, but I know I’m capable of figuring them out.

1. I decide my students need to be able to do [A].
2. I determine evidence that would prove they can do [A].
3. I design the best path that leads them to producing that evidence.

I’m sure others have put it more eloquently, but that’s the gist.  See, it’s backwards in that I consider the END before the beginning.  Makes perfect sense to me; I just can’t do it.  Like the game Othello, it takes seconds to learn and a lifetime to master!

This week, my students are suffering from my very forwardly designed lessons.  We read “The Most Dangerous Game” (which is fabulous for 9th graders, by the way–really exciting, ripe for analysis, etc.  They’ll complain about the length then whine when it’s over.).  While we read, we took notes on character and setting.  I thought it was going rather well–felt real teacherly.

Things took a turn towards Sour Town when I gave them 3 possible writing assignments to choose from, all of which require the students to cite passages from the story to support their ideas.

That goal–using the text to support an analysis–baffled my students.  Not coincidentally, it’s where I failed to properly design my lessons backwards.

Oh, I knew I wanted to my students to be able to do this from the get-go; it’s why we took notes as we went along.  But here’s my failure (and I screw this up all the time): I don’t break down the larger task (using the text to support an analysis) into smaller, manageable components.

Some after-the-fact consideration: in order to do the job well, my students need to know how to:

1. Find stuff in a story that supports their ideas.
2. Incorporate the quoted material with their own ideas in a logical way.
3. Properly cite the stuff in MLA format.

Three little things.  They’re manageable, too.  But I didn’t pause before I started the story to consider these needs.  I could’ve taught them this stuff along the way, but instead, my weak, sloppy lesson at the end set them up to fail.  They’re not getting it, and the assignment’s taking days longer than I anticipated.

So what’s the lesson here?  Sonny shouldn’t be teaching, probably.  But another lesson is to not only know where I’m taking my students, but anticipate and equip them with what they’ll need.  It sounds like absolute common sense, I know, but my brain just isn’t wired for it or something.  I’m getting better, but there are still units like this that suck suck suck.