My moments are spent thinking and rethinking. Planning and re-planning. Trying to fall asleep at night is
pointless. I reflect on the day. Each lesson.
Each class. Each student. Each response. I am so thrilled when students participate,
attempt questions, “get it”, and share a little bit of their lives with me, but
these moments, are just that – moments.
I can’t stop thinking about the students who didn’t write, who didn’t
talk, who say, “I hate this shit,” under their breath. The students who stare off into space. These students, the ones who “don’t care”, are the ones that consume every ounce of free
time and “free” thoughts. What can I do
differently? How do I engage someone who
refuses to be engaged? Some days, I feel
like I would do anything short of selling my soul to just find something –
anything that they enjoy, but yet these things, no matter how you turn them,
shape them, try to make them work, don’t fit into the classroom. You can discuss, read, write, and watch
videos on just about anything. BUT, it’s English class, therefore it fails in
their opinion. And I, therefore, fail in
my opinion.
“Just write…,” I say. “I did,” they tell me. “Keep writing. Just write. It makes you smarter!” I tell
them. “No it doesn’t. Math makes you smarter!” one yells out from
the back. Maybe there’s truth to that,
but as I struggled with math, I surely wouldn’t ever know. The five minute battle of writing wages back
and forth. Twenty versus one. I surrender – “Okay, so let’s talk about it. What do you think? What words of wisdom and life advice have
your parents or grandparents passed on to you?”
They return my question with blank stares. I glance behind me, reassuring myself that
this very question has been displayed on the board for the past seven minutes
now. “Nothing!” one shouts out. “My mother hasn’t taught me anything.” I try to wade through the water of these
comments, knowing it’s their way of not having to write to any of the follow up
questions. Getting answers is literally
like pulling teeth. 10 minutes down – 35
more to go.
I take a deep breath, trying
to slow my mind that’s racing. If the
first 10 minutes were this rough, these next 35 minutes will certainly be a
gauntlet. “Poetry;” I tell myself, “They’ve
got to learn the basics before we can do more fun things. Just bear with me. We are almost done with it. Have a little faith in me. It could be worse. I’ve had worse.” So I tell them to open their packets to where
we left off. I know allegories aren’t
fun, but I bet they know the Hunger Games. I think, “Hey this might work! Maybe they will be interested once I can
connect the two.” Well, maybe three
people were interested. “Let’s just get
through this. We are almost onto the fun
stuff,” I assure them. I’m immediately
met with, “Yea, whatever. I hate
English. I hate poetry.” I begin to think, “Maybe I should have them
write a poem about hating English and poetry,” but then I remember we’ve
already discussed this. Once I teach the
lesson and give their short assignment, I’m immediately met with, “How long
does it have to be?” “What?” “How many
points is this worth? Will it change my
grade?” I try to entice them. “Make it your own. Make it funny. Be creative.
Write about honey badgers for all I care.” I send them on their “creative” journey for
the last ten minutes of class. I sit
down. Look at tomorrow’s lesson
plan. Hit “DELETE”. Start over.
