My Little Humans

As teachers, we don't always know how much to share about our lives.  They tell us to never give out our personal information—where we live, cell phone numbers, personal emails or Facebook connections, stories about our lives, etc.  It's really to protect us, but it also keeps a wall up between us and our students.   But this year I have shared more about my life, as my students have shared with me, and it really has made all the difference.


Recently, I had my students complete a project called "The Soundtrack of My Life" in order to kick off the school year and dive into our Descriptive Narrative essays.  The kids had to think of significant moments in their lives that helped shape who they are as individuals, and they had to find music that connected to these events, creating a soundtrack as if their lives were a movie.  They shared some of the most personal experiences I've ever heard, some very painful and emotional, and allowed me to get to know them on a such a deeper level. Some of the things they revealed to me actually enlightened me as to how I should approach them as learners in order to help them better.  The biggest thing this did for me is to help me see them as human beings, not just students.  What adults sometimes forget is that kids are humans too, very emotional and sensitive humans.  Some of them have such serious things they deal with when they leave my classroom that they couldn't possibly care about writing an essay or studying vocabulary when they go home.  And for some of them, the eight hours they spend with us are the best part of their day, surrounded by comrades in a place where they feel safe and loved. This project opened my heart to these kids and let them in, and as a result, I feel like we're making more progress than we ever have before.


After they created their projects, they asked me to create one of my own.  It was strange at first because I see myself as a facilitator—I give them opportunities to learn and grow, and I don't like to be the center or have it be all about me.  But they wanted me to share, so I did.  I shared with them some of the best and some of the toughest times in my life, and I used the 20+ years I have over them to show them how I got through those tough times and what I've learned in all my years.  The funny thing is, I think it had the same effect on them as their projects had on me—I became a human being in their eyes. I have feelings, I have a heart, I have hopes and dreams, I've endured tragedy and heartbreak, and I've made it through.  I've learned that when we see each other as the human beings that we are, we have a respect for each other that perhaps wasn't there before. I feel that they're working harder because of it. They're trying and caring, and giving me a reward that's better than a paycheck—excitement and enthusiasm for learning.  


As I was sharing some writing samples from previous students, I heard some kids saying, "Wow, I want to write like that."  And then they asked if we could just start writing the essays. They actually wanted to write an essay.  When I showed them my blog, they actually asked if they could write one.  They even suggested that they write one for homework.  Let me say that again… They were assigning themselves homework!  I was dumbfounded.  By the next day, two kids had started blogs in their free time and even gave up their lunch period to come and get my help with it. That right there is the reward.  It might not pay my bills, but it certainly pushes me out of bed every morning and keeps me rolling into that classroom every day, ready to help my little humans. 

Are They Listening?

Sometimes, as teachers, we think our students aren't listening to us.  Well, to be fair, we know that some of them aren't.  But I just love those moments when they show us that they really were listening and they learned from something we taught them. My students just finished writing a literary analysis paper, and during the writing process I had them write an outline first, which they all groaned about.  Because we were incorporating so many different texts into the paper, I wanted to make sure they had an opportunity to organize their ideas first.  They didn't see it that way and thought I was punishing them, but they did as they were asked and began working on the outline.  

On day two of the writing process, one of the students was ahead of the others and, having finished his outline, began to write his draft.  He turned his body to face the class and announced to everyone, "Hey you guys, I'm writing my essay and the outline is totally helping!  If you do it the way Mrs. J said to do it, the paper is so easy!"  I had to immediately swear that I did NOT pay him to say that.  

Now they are working on the next essay, a film analysis, and this time one of the students actually asked me if they were allowed to write an outline first.  My response?  Hallelujah!!  No one has ever requested to write an outline before, but these kids are doing it… and very well I might add.  These are the moments that keep me plugging away and pushing through because, even though sometimes they complain about learning, I have to remember that they are, in fact, learning.  And that makes all the difference.

Buzz

This week I enjoyed watching my new group of students have a breakthrough in their capacity to engage with a text.  These are my summer session students, who have a mere six weeks to develop their ability to analyze and write about literature, and they have even less time to get comfortable opening up and working together to achieve this, but they're doing a fine job.  The other day in class I set them up in pairs to analyze a play, and each set of students had a different question to consider and element of the play to explore.  The buzz in the room was beautiful.  They actively worked together and never stopped working, readying themselves to lead the discussion that would follow. They really discussed the text, helping each other find a deeper meaning in it, and they pulled their information together effectively in order to enlighten the class. It was inspiring and they didn't even know it.

This reminded me of a moment I had years ago when I was teaching 7th graders who were hard at work in small groups, collaborating on whatever task was at hand.  I remember stepping back, looking around, and enjoying the buzz in the room of all the little voices blending together like a hive of worker bees. They, too, were on task and working together to achieve the goal. One of my students looked up at me asked why I was smiling, and I said, "This is what learning sounds like." She looked around, smiled, and then turned back to her group, refocusing on the task and rejoining the buzz.

One Starfish at a Time

On my very first day of teaching, I was given a bookmark with that story on it about a little boy walking on the shoreline, picking up each stranded starfish and throwing it back in the ocean.  A man on the beach says to the boy, "But why are you bothering, you can't possibly save all of them.  It doesn't make a difference."  At that, the boy picks up another starfish, tosses it into the sea and says, "It made a difference to that one." Good teachers are in this business to make a difference -- it's not about the vacation, or the health benefits, and definitely not the money.  It's for the reward of knowing we helped someone succeed.

One of the most fulfilling moments of my career happened a couple weeks ago when a student of mine gave me the most rewarding gift I've ever received.  He wanted to thank me for being his mentor for a speech competition he entered, in which he will be presenting the argument paper he wrote for my class last semester.  When we first met in my Comp I class in the fall, he had just returned to school for the first time after having been laid off from his job, and I was very interested in his writing.  In fact, I told him that I thought his style resembled that of David Sedaris, the author of a piece I had read with the class.  This student proceeded to buy every one of Sedaris' books, becoming more enthralled with this writer's style with every piece he read.

A few weeks ago, this same student (now in my Comp II class) attended a book signing for David Sedaris and brought with him all of the books he had bought since last semester.  He also bought a book for me that he had Sedaris sign to thank me for helping him.  My student had some time at the signing to chat with Sedaris; the student talked about our writing class and how I had inspired him to explore a career in writing and "be more than a worker drone," as he put it.  So, Sedaris wrote in the front cover of my book, "To Krista: I wish you were my writing teacher."  I was so flattered and honored that such a renowned author would write such a thing to me, but I was even more honored that a student of mine would have such nice things to say about me that it would prompt such a message.

For all the times we are unappreciated in this profession, and for all the times these moments of inspiration go unmentioned, there are these select few times that remind me, once again, that I am meant to do this. This student thanked me for all I've done for him, but it is I who was grateful for knowing I am making a difference, one "starfish" at a time.

Wilfred Owen, Starbucks Visionary?

I had a nice chuckle this week with one of my classes that tends to make me laugh all the time.  We were reading Wilfred Owen's "Dulce et decorum est" in order to jump into our unit on the effects of war.  We read the poem aloud together. After the final lines, "Dulce et decorum est / Pro patria mori" ("It is sweet and fitting to die for one's country"),  I asked the entire class, "Who can tell me what that means?"  Though the translation was just underneath it, one of the students said, "Well, we know what dulce means."  I said, "Really, what?"  And several of them chimed in by stating very confidently, "It's that drink you get at Starbucks."  Of course, they were talking about Starbucks' ever popular Dulce de Leche.   I shook my head, laughed out loud, and enjoyed the moment of pure blissful ignorance on their part.  I said, "Yes, I'm sure that Owen was suggesting to his fellow soldiers that they get a latte at Starbucks before heading back to the battlefield in World War I -- back then there was a Starbucks at every trench."  We laughed again.

Though these students have moments of brilliance, they also have many moments of pure naiveté that actually make me love them.  This is probably because they can laugh at themselves when they make these little blunders, and the nice part is that it doesn't keep them from contributing to the discussion in the future.  Some students would pack their things and drop the class if they had an embarrassing moment like that, but show me one person on this earth that hasn't said something "slightly misguided" at some point. I say silly things all the time. So what?  We laugh and move on. In fact, it makes those moments of brilliance stand out that much more.