SLICE OF LIFE

I'm participating in the Slice of Life at Two Writing Teachers this month. 

Every day, for the month of March, 

I will be capturing a slice of my life.

I'm on a borrowed PC computer while my Apple is in the shop. 

I can't figure out how to download the SLICE graphic on this computer.

Last year she wowed the sixth grade with her creative hair styles. I couldn't wait to get to school on Mondays and see what new design was shaved into C's hair, or what new color scheme was featured.

And she plays basketball, but her favorite sport is soccer. This year she petitioned the head of the DPS athletic department to see if she could play on the boys' team  because she feels like she needs more opportunities to practice and her family doesn't have the money for her to play on a competitive team, even though she would probably do really well.

And she has a killer voice and is a lead in our school Mariachi band.

Last May, she told me she was most proud of having perfect attendance, because in fifth grade she had not taken school seriously, and she had worked really hard to do better in sixth.

But today, she is falling apart.

Fifteen minutes before the beginning of Blessed Event, Unit One. We are in pre-test mode, all of the middle schoolers have been sorted and are in their testing rooms, but materials have not been distributed and doors have not been closed. Kids are finishing their sausage biscuits and starting to wipe off their desks when I arrive in the classroom. The social studies teacher greets me with a slight nod and I follow his eyes to C's desk, where a small crowd has gathered.

C is in tears.

I walk over to her desk.

"You doing ok?"

C nods, but I can tell she is not.

"You want to take a walk?"

She follows me out into the hall, where I attempt to find a quiet corner. It's not easy this morning with all 120 middle schoolers taking a bathroom break before the test.

"What's going on?" I ask.

C doesn't respond.

"Are you sick?" She shakes her head no.

"Did something happen before school this morning?"

No again.

"Here at school?" She shakes her head yes.

"With someone in class?"

No.

"Someone in the other seventh grade?"

Yes.

"A girl?"

No.

"A boy?"

Another yes.

"You want to talk about it?"

She does. The story comes out in a rush. She liked a boy. She won't tell me his name, but I have seen them on the playground, hanging out in the adolescent version of parallel play. A really nice kid. Smart. Respectful. A fellow athlete.  But now soccer season is starting and she wants to concentrate. She broke up with him. His feelings were hurt. He said something mean about her. Called her a name. He is supposed to be her friend. Friends don't say mean things about each other. Her shoulders shake with silent tears.

We are interrupted twice during the story. L, the biggest guy in the seventh grade, comes up the stairs. He sees her crying, and wraps his arms around her in  a bear hug. Then R comes out of his eighth grade classroom, all energy, bouncing from one side of the hall to the other in his usual pinball ekfashion. He is on his way to the drinking fountain, but stops when he sees C crying. "You want me to beat someone up for you? Just tell me. I can take care of it." He is only half kidding.

I ask if she wants help solving it. She doesn't. She wants to talk to him herself. I tell her that there are people who can help if she needs us. Me. The principal or assistant principal. The male teacher. Our fabulous school social worker.

She wants to handle it.She doesn't need any help.  She will do it at lunch recess.

My boss walks by, eyebrows raisedWe are now at five minutes until test time. I wonder, as upset if she is, if we should pull her and have her do a makeup. I ask what she wants to do.

"I can take it," she says, drawing in a deep breath and squaring her shoulders. "I just need a drink of water."

I ask if she is sure. She is.

She heads down the hall for the fountain. I head back into the middle school classroom, wondering whether she will really be able to pull herself together, knowing that sometime within the space of the next two minutes, C must switch from total emotional mode, into total academic.

There are so many layers to life in school. So many stories that test scores don't tell.

I just wish people really knew what we do every day.

SLICE #11- On Poetry and Parking

I'm participating in the Slice of Life at Two Writing Teachers this month. 

Every day, for the month of March, 

I will be capturing a slice of my life.

I'm on a borrowed PC computer while my Apple is in the shop. 

I can't figure out how to download the SLICE graphic on this computer.

Another super full day ahead.
First, I will facilitate a 45-minute session
on word solving strategies.
After that I will proctor two sessions of the blessed event.
With 45 minutes of lunch duty in between.
Tonight, I will give a guest presentation
more on infusing poetry into the curriculum
to a master's class at CU-Denver.
Because of that presentation
I'm thinking in poetry today....



"Some Thoughts on Parking"

You can---
      Take a walk in the park.
      Knock it out of the park,
      Put it in park
      Parallel park
      Park it
      Or just plain park .
      (if you are a love crazed adolescent)

But please avoid
at all costs
 "Park-ing " a child.

(c) Carol Wilcox, March, 2015

********************

A list poem

"Words I Hate Right Now"

Standard
Common
Active
Proctor
Measure
Data
Device

Park

(C) Carol Wilcox

*****************************

And a letter poem after being disappointed by several (former) favorite authors yesterday...

Dear Famous Author,
You have published more than fifty books
Written an award winning series,
Won a Newberry,
and a couple of Newbery Honors besides.

Are you really so cash strapped
that you had to betray
teachers and children
by selling your soul
in pursuit of the almighty dollar?

I won't be buying your books anymore.

Your former fan

SLICE #10

I'm participating in the Slice of Life at Two Writing Teachers this month. 

Every day, for the month of March, 

I will be capturing a slice of my life.

I'm on a borrowed PC computer while my Apple is in the shop. 

I can't figure out how to download the SLICE graphic on this computer.

I am a literacy coach.
I help teachers refine their craft.
Most of the time I love my job.
I love planning with teachers.
I love modeling lessons.
I love watching lessons and giving feedback.
I love gathering resources.
I love being a sounding board,
a safe place for teachers to think aloud.
I love being there to celebrate the successes
and to help pick up the pieces
on the hard days.

But there are parts of my job I really do not like.
Take yesterday, for example.
I walked into a classroom.
Students were just finishing a shared writing lesson.
They had done a science experiment.
The kids were so, so, so excited.
Couldn't wait to explain to me what they were doing.

The lesson was almost over
and the teacher was collecting writing journals.
One little guy had drawn his picture
then written in green crayon.
He was supposed to write in pencil.
The teacher was not happy.
She made him change his card
(a practice which I totally DESPISE
and would eliminate if I could)
She ripped the page out of his notebook.
Made him write it again.
 I watched his face.
A flash of confusion.
A shaking lip.
Delight turned to sorrow.
And I knew that little guy
had learned a lesson
he would never forget.

And then I asked
if I could pick up my kids.
It was not my regular time.
We are in the middle of PARCC
Everything is topsy turvy.
And the teacher said,
in a voice loud enough
for the whole class to hear
"Sure.
Take them.
They can't do this writing anyway."
I am not sure any of my four
were paying attention.
But if they were
they learned a lesson.
I cannot unteach.

I do not like confrontation.
It's really hard for me.
But this morning
I will go into that teacher
we will exchange pleasantries
I will ask about her sweet,
dark-eyed toddler
who will go to kindergarten
in a few short years.

And then we will have a hard conversation
 I will probably frame it in the context
of the things I would not want said
to my own boys.
I will explain to her
 that the lessons
those kids learned yesterday
are not lessons
I ever want my kids
or anyone else's to learn.
I will remind her
How damaging words can be
How we write in wet cement
every. single. day.

It will be a hard conversation.
She will probably be embarrassed.
She might get mad.
And this relationship
which is often tenuous
will be even more so
for a few days
or a few weeks

But I cannot live with myself
If I do not have this conversation.

Some days
I do not like my job.

SLICE #9

I'm participating in the Slice of Life at Two Writing Teachers this month. 

Every day, for the month of March, 

I will be capturing a slice of my life.

I'm on a borrowed PC computer while my Apple is in the shop. 

I can't figure out how to download the SLICE graphic on this computer.

Today was a very long day.

It started with a PARCC meeting this morning. 

It finished tonight, fourteen hours later,

helping organize PARCC materials.

The highlight of my day--

Kindergarten reading group this afternoon.

Today's text was I CAN JUMP. 

"I can jump,"

said the grasshopper.

"I can't jump,": 

said the snail. 

"I can run,"

said the spider. 

"I can't jump,"

said the snail.  

Pretty much every day I  take a running record.

Today is S's turn. 

She has struggled with this reading thing,

but today she is going strong, 

using pictures, 

rereading, 

cross checking picture against beginning sound.

She knows she is doing a good job

and her grin gets wider with every page.

She gets to the last three pages. 

"I can fly,

said the butterfly. 

'I can't,'

said the snail, 

'But I can slide.'

Somehow, though, the ending gets just a little mixed up.

"I can fly,

said the butterfly. 

'I can't,'

said the snail, 

Then, instead of reading

'But I can slide.'

S makes a minor change.

"I can slide on my butt!"

she says triumphantly

giving me a big grin. 

After this, 

I am supposed to give feedback

tell her what she has done well,

give her a little constructive feedback.

I can't today. 

I am laughing too hard.

"I did great, didn't I?" says Syiah.

There really is nothing better 

than kindergarten reading group

especially the day before PARCC.  

SLICE #8

I'm participating in the Slice of Life at Two Writing Teachers this month. 

Every day, for the month of March, 

I will be capturing a slice of my life.

I'm on a borrowed PC computer while my Apple is in the shop. 

I can't figure out how to download the SLICE graphic on this computer.

Not sure why, but I thought parenting 

would get easier

as the boys got older.

That hasn't been the case.

At all.

Both boys are incredibly gifted athletes.

Went to college for a while. 

But they are both home now. 

Supposedly looking for jobs.

But mostly, as far as I can tell,

sitting around doing nothing

except hanging out on the internet

taking advantage of Colorado's legal substance rules

and eating me out of house and home. 

They need to do something. 

Son #2 tells me he wants to join the Air Force. 

My heart leaps into my throat.

I am not excited about my boys joining the military.

The world is an unstable place right now.

I think about all the stories I have read. 

I worry about them being killed.

Or coming back with limbs missing.

Most of all, I worry about PTSD.

My boys already have some pretty serious scars

from being abandoned by their biological mom

and living for years in an abusive foster care situation.

I can't imagine them any more damaged

or less functional.

But they need to do something.

I ask why the Air Force.

K tells me it would be a career.

His basketball coach,

 probably the most significant male in his life,

is the son of a 26-year veteran.

It was a good career for him,

K tells me.

He has clearly done some investigating.

Talked to a recruiter.

He would go to Lackland for eight weeks.

Come back here for a short break.

Then go to technical school.

The Air Force would pay for college.

And his goal, eventually,

is to join the special forces.

I try to remain calm.

Do you understand 

that this is a commitment?

Once you join,

 they don't let you quit.

How long would you have to stay in?

I try to breathe.

To be the mom he needs. 

He doesn't know.

But tells me 

he thinks it would teach him 

to persevere.

That's definitely something 

I have not been able to teach him. 

The problem is, he continues

that he has an outstanding traffic ticket.

He can't enlist until he comes up with the money to pay it.

I had previously told him

That I wasn't going to pay the ticket.

 I was done paying for stupid mistakes.

He has actually secured a job

working security at concert and sports venues

and can start as soon

as I loan him

three hundred dollars

for uniform clothes and shoes.

If I would pay the $179 ticket

he could go.

A lot of scenarios dance through my head.

I could loan him 

the money for the clothes

chances are slim to none I would

ever see that money again

so he could work

and pay off the ticket.

That's what I said I was going to do. 

If I paid it, he could move forward 

with the Air Force thing.

I try again to breathe. 

If he doesn't like the Air Force

I know he will say

it's my fault

that I forced him into something

he didn't want to do.

If I tell him he shouldn't do it

He will sit at my kitchen table 

horsing around on the internet

and smoking and chewing tobacco

for the next _____ years,

telling me that I kept him 

from doing what he wanted to do. 

Parenting is the hardest job I have ever done. 

And it doesn't get any easier. 

In fact, I think it gets harder

Every. Single.  Year.

SLICE OF LIFE- #7

I'm participating in the Slice of Life at Two Writing Teachers this month. 

I'm on a borrowed PC computer while my Apple is in the shop. 

I can't figure out how to download the SLICE graphic on this computer.

Yesterday was my birthday. I am not big on celebrating, and yesterday was a pretty low-key, normal  Friday- up early to respond to ELA papers (I teach for our English Language Acquisition department as my second job), 11 hours at work, a glass of wine with a colleague, a long walk with the dog, slicing, and then crashing on the couch, just like every other Friday night.

Except, for some reason, the secretary decided she should announce my birthday over the PA first thing in the morning. Which she never does for other teachers or staff members. Which led to discussions about my age. Which is old. All. Day. Long.

In Kindergarten, where they are currently working on place value:
O: How old are you Dr. Carol?
Me: 148
O gleefully throws her hands up in the air. "Oh Dr. Carol, that means we get to use the flat!" (The hundreds block, for those who aren't primary grade teachers, is a square block, called a flat. The kindergartners usually don't get beyond the tens blocks, which we call sticks).

First grade:
S: How old are you, Dr. Carol?
Me: 118
Most of the first graders oooh and aah.
S, however, is not so sure. "If you were that old, Dr. Carol,  you wouldn't be here. You'd be dead."

During lunch, the seventh graders query me.
"How old are you, Dr. Wilcox?"
I respond, again with a random number. "117."
W, "Really? That's cool."
His friend B, sitting across the table. "Think about it dude. She's not that old! That's like, that's really old. She's probably about 28."
J, who just enrolled at our school a couple of weeks ago, "That's not enough. She's not 28. Look at her hair. She's probably about 94."
Note to self: Discuss number sense with the seventh grade math teacher on Monday.

Right after lunch duty, the principal pages me on the walkie talkie. "Carol, they need you in sixth grade right away. There was another problem in the lunch room. Inwardly, I groan. The sixth graders are my responsibility at lunch time. They are good, good, kids and I totally enjoy them, but this has been a hard week. They have been inside most of the week. They are frisky. There have been lots of issues and hurt feelings. Almost every day after lunch, I have spent 20 or thirty minutes trying to help kids work through problems. Now what? I run up stairs from the basement. The sixth grade teacher is waiting at the door. "Carol, I'm sorry to bother you, but there was another problem in the lunchroom." I take a step in the door, and the  room explodes. Another birthday surprise.

At 3:00, I get paged to the office. A student needs to talk to me. It is Abby, a fifth grader. My birthday twin. "We had cupcakes in my class. I saved this one for you." She gives me a hug. "I hope you have a great birthday." Her sweet smile almost brings me to tears.

Yep, yesterday was my birthday. And I don't really like birthdays, but this one was full of surprises- a fourth grade serenade, in Spanish, gift cards to Starbucks and bookstores and dinner, and hugs, and kind words, and laughter.

A pretty special day after all.

SLICE OF LIFE #6

I'm participating in the Slice of Life at Two Writing Teachers this month. 

I'm on a borrowed PC computer while my Apple is in the shop. 

I can't figure out how to download the SLICE graphic on this computer.

So we've had a rocky, rocky year.

Three colleges. 

Traffic tickets. 

Issue after issue after issue.

And now he's home.

Has been home for three months.

Still doesn't have a job. 

Doesn't have any idea of what he might want to do. 

Doesn't always do his own dishes.

Drives me crazy on a pretty regular basis. 

Still,  every once in a while,

 I see a glimpse of the man K might become. 

I saw that man last night. 

Son #1 was giving me a hard time.

A really hard time.

And I had had a long day.

And I was really tired.

And I went down the basement. 

And burst into tears.

K followed me down the stairs.

"I'm sorry, Ms. W.

I'm sorry he's acting like that.

You don't deserve to be treated like this.

And then he sat down.

Just sat there for about twenty minutes.

Not saying anything.

Just sitting there 

keeping me company. 

Compassion?

That's new for him.

I like it. 

It's really nice

after years and years 

of narcissism. 

I really like this man

my son 

might become.