wish you were here

This is what I know of grief.
 
It’s not the death itself that we mourn, but what that death takes from us, and the absence it leaves behind.
 
There’s a word for this, and it’s a word that means something more tangible than grief. This is palpable.  This is ache.  And it’s an ache that roots itself deep in the abdomen, sometimes rising up to fill that cavity in the chest, sometimes creeping into the blueness of our veins.
 
They are the ones who are gone, and we are the ones who are missing. And it’s the missing that doesn’t seem to get easier.  It’s the missing that, I’ve learned, hurts us all the same. We panic, terrified that our brains might stop remembering.  We cry suddenly, explosively, and almost inexplicably, and turn around because we think someone, the one, is there. We tire of people telling us to “think of the good times,” because, right now, the good times still remind us of what’s gone.
 
We wonder if anyone else will die.  If everyone else will die.
 
And we’re just supposed to keep going.  We’re just supposed to keep living on the edge of this hole, hoping we don’t fall in.
 
I have always found comfort in the permanence of cemeteries.  Perhaps it helps me temper the impermanence of life. It happened when I was young, after a death I wasn’t expecting.  In a cemetery, I can touch my fingers to the face of something physical, and trace the letters of a name. My palms press themselves against the grass that has not yet re-rooted itself, the earth that is still soft.  (Though, I suppose the soil in Florida is always soft and sunken-in.  I remember a winter burial in Massachusetts on the coldest day, and the jack-hammering it must have taken to break into that frozen ground.) 
 
It’s quiet, but not silent.  Trucks rumble on a distant highway. The dried leaves of a Florida Maple curl and fall.  Now and then, the birds forget themselves and go shrieking into the sky. But the quiet is enough to let us visit without words.  For once, we don’t need to fill up the space with sound.
 
At a nearby grave, two men, perhaps a father and a son, replace the dead daisies with new fall flowers.  And I wonder, What have you lost?  I turn from them and to the acres and acres of tiny monuments and shrines, and see our pain, our love, in the landscape.  Maybe this is what makes us human.
 
And maybe there’s something to remember about this grief, this ache: it wouldn’t hurt so much if we didn’t love so much.  The hurt is how we know we’re still alive enough to love.  And we cannot sacrifice the love to protect us from the loss.
 
Good grief, I say.

it’s (not) only teenage wasteland

If you’ve participated in any kind of discussion concerning education in recent weeks, you’ve heard the jargon:  Common Core, student engagement, best practices.  Bloom and Marzano.  Formative assessment. Summative assessment.  Essential understandings. There are even catch-phrases that are repeated consistently to teachers throughout a day or two of Professional Development:  “80% of good teaching is good planning!”

When it comes to teaching high schoolers, I beg to differ (of course).

Is knowledge of these educational trends important?  Absolutely.  And the teacher-dork inside of me eats this stuff up.  Call me crazy, but I love Common Core.  The first time I saw a standards-based report card, I wanted to frame it and hang it on my wall.  Or at least ask the media specialist to laminate it for me.  But the truth is that until you establish a relationship with those teenagers, it doesn’t matter what the standards are because you won’t be able to teach them.  The students won’t let you.  And if you don’t try to get to know those kids early, you’ll have a really really long year ahead of you.

I am, by no means, an expert teacher.  It has taken me ten years to start feeling like, once in a while, I have some success when I teach.  (To my surprise, I did get them to read and even sort of take an interest in Chaucer this year.  They even wrote their own little prologues and tales.  Whoa.)   But there are a lot of days when I wish my little darlings came with some kind of handbook.  So here are my seven-best-practices-for-getting-ready-to-implement-those-other-best-practices:

Quit the power-trippin’. If you’re there to be “in charge,” they’re going to show you, quickly, that you’re not.  And in fact, they should be in charge of their own learning.  And you should encourage them to be.  You don’t know it all, and they know you don’t. So don’t fake it; if you don’t know something, say you don’t know it.  Be open to learning from them.  Because the truth is, there’s a lot they know, and a lot you don’t.

Hear them out.  Even if you don’t agree with them (and a lot of times, you won’t), let them speak.  Because, sometimes, that’s all they really want.  Sometimes they know you’re right, and they might even know they’re wrong, but they want to feel as though  you at least might listen to their side of things.

Laugh with them.  And at them.  And at yourself.  They are some of the funniest people I have met, I promise.  So let them be funny.  And, once in a while, make an attempt to be funny, even if you end up looking stupid.  (It’s only the first week of October and my sophomores are already used to my bad puns.)

Treat them like people.  The weird thing about adolescents is that they’re human; they are not animals, they are not aliens.  And what makes them even more complex is that they are not, technically-speaking, children or adults. If you force them to do childish things, they’re going to act childish.  If you make an attempt to treat them like adults (at least young ones), you have a better chance of getting them to, maybe, act like adults.

Busywork is insulting (to the students and to the profession, really). When it comes to assigning work, make sure that work has a point to it, and that you can explain that point.  If they don’t know why they’re doing something, they’re certainly less likely to do it (or get anything out of it).  We’re supposed to be teaching them how to use their brains, how to be independent thinkers.  Not regurgitators.

Be compassionate.  What they experience in high school is both very intense and very real.  Even though you know that, someday, they will look back and laugh at themselves for taking all of the drama so seriously, don’t tell them that.  Because right now, they are raw.  And while they are incredibly resilient, they are also easily wounded.  So even though you may know that, in the grand scheme of things, it won’t matter that she wasn’t picked for homecoming court, it matters right now.  It matters a lot right now.  She doesn’t need condescension.  She needs you to let her cry on  your classroom floor.  (And, if I’m being completely honest, I should say that a lot of my students have already been forced to live through things I haven’t yet experienced.  One has a substance-abuse problem that is rooted in anxiety.  Another has a restraining order against his own parent.  And yet another asked me today if his mother is still “Mrs.” even though his father died some months ago.  In many ways, they are wiser than I.)

If it’s broke, fix it.  Maybe it’s because I get bored easily, but I can’t teach the same thing the same way year after year. And with how quickly things change in this world, really, no one should.  But teaching is both demanding and exhausting, and so sometimes we turn to what is easier instead of what really works. Last week, I sat in a lunchroom full of teachers from all different counties who could not stand the idea of changing their curriculum to include the Common Core Standards.  They were resentful and aggressive.  And to be honest, it was both downright scary and embarrassing. Clearly, what the US has been doing to educate its children hasn’t been working, so we have to change it.  Will it be hard to adjust?  Probably.  Is it the right thing to do?  Absolutely.  So, my friends, you’re going to have to change. And you’re going to have to change often.  Sometimes, what works in one class doesn’t work in another. Change. Oh. My. Goodness. Otherwise, your classroom will become a teenage wasteland.  And that’s the worst kind.

Now, go plan a lesson in which your students are analyzing, synthesizing, and evaluating.  And remember, they must be highly engaged.  All of them. Oh, and please incorporate a Smartboard. Or an iPad.  And ask them to turn everything in on Edmodo.  (Please make sure you remember to post it on Instruction Planner.)

See?  Sometimes teaching actually is rocket science.