Monday, April 16, 2012

Kindness, again.

As a teacher, I’ve had days that end in a glow – I’ve driven home from school basking in my own glory – replaying a brilliant lesson or activity that really engaged the kids. Maybe I even got to see a light bulb or two go on. What a great feeling. All the planning and effort actually paid off. They’re going to remember that for a long time, I’d think to myself.
But I also had many days that ended without any glow. With exhaustion and defeat, in fact. I remember one class in particular from 1993 that I struggled with constantly. They were absolutely the most challenging class I ever taught. That was the year someone broke into my classroom on the weekend and destroyed several of my teaching binders which represented hours and hours of preparation. Someone from that class stormed out one day and threatened to return to the school with a gun. My administrator didn’t think it was worth worrying about, and sent me back to continue teaching the class. I stood at the back of the room, away from the window in the door. Then I realized I was putting kids into the line of fire, so I returned to the front. Not a good day.
I never felt like I had done a good job with that class. By the end of the year, we were flowing along reasonably well, but I spent so much energy on the explosive dynamics in the room, that I never had enough time for individuals.
Out of the blue last month, I received an email from a student in that class. He had tracked me down to tell me that I’d made a difference in his life. And you know what he remembered? Kindness.
Somehow, my hit and miss attempts to connect with that student stayed with him. He didn’t write to reminisce about lessons or events, but to say that my kindness helped. That he got through his challenging days a little bit easier because he felt someone cared for him. And he was gracious enough not to mention how many times I blew it with that class.
I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: kindness is badly underrated. So go back to that class from hell and survive them. And when you get a chance to talk to them one at a time, be kind. Make mistakes and give crappy lessons when your tank is empty, but try, try to be kind. It’s the only thing they absolutely need and you never know what will stay with them as they become who they were meant to be.
Thank you, D.


Monica is the author of "Thanks for chucking that at the wall instead of me."

Monday, March 26, 2012

Mourning

Our school has suffered the kind of loss no teacher ever wants to think is possible; a fifteen year old boy, laughing at school on Friday, gone forever on Saturday.
My last interactions with him replay in my head: Him peeking into the classroom from about 6 feet above my head; standing up on a counter I’d kicked him off before. I opted to let it go. He was dead 60 hours later.
I’m grateful that the last time we spoke, it was about his haircut. He let me touch the mohawk. We had a laugh.
I think back about twenty years to another boy. He was a climber, too, come to think of it. Drove me crazy. I spent a lot of time with him, working one-on-one. He was supposed to be memorizing his multiplication tables and in spite of my best efforts, progress was dismal. One morning he came in to report he had finally memorized the 4’s.
“Great!” I said. “What’s four times four?”
It’s either 4,8,12,16,20,24,28,32,36 or 40!” He was very pleased.
I looked at him, wavered for a moment between frustration and amusement . . . and laughed. Thank God.
The next morning the principal came into my office and told me my student had been in an accident and was not expected to live. He didn’t, and I’m grateful every day that I laughed with him when I had the chance.
Laugh with them, let things go now and then, enjoy them.
You just never know.


Monica is the author of "Thanks for chucking that at the wall instead of me."

Saturday, February 4, 2012

Time Out

We have survived January! Here on our remote little island, we’re celebrating the beginning of February with another power outage—the third one in as many weeks. It’s calm this morning; looks like a beautiful day. It is pretty common here to survive the storm and then have the trees finally give up and fall over, taking out a power line. So the sky is blue, there isn’t a wisp of wind and the power is off. The “calm after the storm” is very quiet indeed.
It’s quiet here all winter . . . but when the power’s out, school’s been cancelled , the fridge motor is mercifully silenced, and you have thrown up your hands and exclaimed, ”Well so much for vacuuming!” (even though you had no intention of doing so) . . . the lull in the action lends itself to reflection.
Being at the end of a three-week teaching assignment, I sit by the woodstove and think about the last three weeks which have been uncharacteristically stressful for a variety of reasons, not the least of which was my battle with a nasty flu bug. I’m looking back at this stint and all I can say is that I’ve survived. I was sick the whole time; I was not creative, not fun, and did not enjoy myself. Needless to say, the kids probably didn’t enjoy themselves either.
So what will I do with my one remaining day tomorrow? With three days of instructional time lost to school closures, we are not going to be at the neat and tidy spot I had hoped to reach for the returning teacher. Will I charge ahead tomorrow and try to tie up loose ends with the work? Or will I slow down, relax, and focus on leaving the kids with a positive and enjoyable day?
Not such a hard question is it? But I’m struck with the fact that I had to ask it of myself. So if I didn’t have this quiet morning by the fire to reflect, would I have plowed ahead, trying to get those curriculum outcomes met? Probably—I get like that when I’m stressed . . . put your head down and keep moving forward (it’s a prairie thing!)
So, I’m gonna pick one work project to focus on and we’ll go at it together at a reasonable rate. I will—as my partner reminds me regularly to do—look for the giggles in the day.
And in the big picture, I will think about how to create my own ‘power outages’. When life gets busy and I start motoring ahead, driven by my ‘shoulds’, how will I build in my own lulls? How will I create time to stop, zoom out, and refocus on what’s important?
I don’t remember anything from the curriculum of my own Junior High school days, but I do remember every teacher.


Monica is the author of "Thanks for chucking that at the wall instead of me."

Sunday, January 22, 2012

Are we The Borg?

On a shopping trip to the Apple Store several months ago, my partner observed a young couple trying to purchase an i-Pad that would attach to their toddler’s stroller. This was a revelation to us; an absurd notion that slowly morphed into an acknowledgement of the new reality.

More recently, I heard about a You Tube clip showing a baby trying to enlarge a picture in a magazine as though it were an i-Pad, and looking around in frustration when the magazine failed to respond. I went looking for the clip and found lots of them; toddlers on diapered bottoms, i-Pads sitting across their chubby little thighs, heads bent over screens like goose neck lamps, scrolling through apps, selecting icons, and changing screens with the efficiency of adults.

Computers arrived in my life when I was in University. The computer lab was in one building and THE printer was in another, and if you had suggested the concept of laptops to us, you’d have been laughed out of the room.

And now here we are two generations later, beginning to live what we dreamed on Star Trek, and kids are computer savvy before they can talk. Imagine the skills they’ll have. Imagine how much further ahead this generation will be in technological expertise because of our single-minded dedication to becoming a technology-based society. It is truly amazing.

So . . . what if we had committed those forty years to becoming a compassion-based society? What would this generation of children be like if they were born into families and communities that encouraged kindness, equipped themselves with all the latest and best implements of generosity available, read magazines about the best way to use those tools and practiced constantly? What if everyone was connected by a world wide web of emotional intelligence and empathy?

If we had committed those same years to love, would proud parents be filling the net with home videos of little ones, still in diapers, expressing their amazing acumen for sensing the needs of others? Maybe the video of the little girl with the magazine would have shown her looking about to see if anyone else wanted the magazine first, or to see if anyone wanted to look at it with her. And maybe we would have seen an expression of joy on her face rather than one of frustration.