Let it Flow, Let it Flow, Let it Flow

When I began to student teach, and throughout that year in the classroom, there were days (a few in a row, if I was lucky) when things would click, when all the planning and strategizing, thinking and rethinking I had done would feel natural, effortless. "The Flow", I called it. Some days it was there: I was on fire, in the zone, running on all cylinders. Other days, not so much, if at all. I thought it an awesome happenstance, a rarity, revered its sacred powers as one would a beloved deity; it was always inches out of reach, recognizable, omnipresent, but beyond comprehension and impossible to manufacture. This phenomenon is what I believe is meant by Momentum.

"Momentum," as is described, "is maintaining a steady sense of movement throughout lessons and throughout the day. Effective classroom managers conduct their lessons at a brisk pace, providing a continuous academic signal for students to focus upon." So this is it! I thought as I read these words. The Flow unveiled.  Here was the key to unlocking that which I thought purely divine. In these lines I see myself, my classroom, materialize, take shape at both ends of the spectrum; I think back to those lessons that flowed, and to those that stuttered and stopped; I laugh at my overdwelling, the pompous folderol spouted to the benefit of no one save myself; and I marvel at the times I was lucky enough to pull it off.

But marvel will I no more, for this explicit account, this break down of Momentum in the classroom has given me a way to more clearly define the velocity, the speed and direction, of each lesson, activity, and assessment. No longer must I bet the odds, pray that chance is that day on my side, or enter uncertain of how each class will go. These slow downs in the classroom have made themselves to me more visible, so too have the fragmentations, the lengthy directions, unnecessary steps, and other procedures that oppose the general movement of the lesson. On the other hand, I am now aware of those practices which have indeed been working. Rather, I knew that they worked, but now understand why and for what purpose. I find myself already working to trim the fat and build muscle, so to speak, when it comes to thinking through and executing each lesson, and I look forward to starting this new semester with Momentum...and keeping it.

-James

Response to "Effective Group Management Practices"

I will be the first to admit that I have a long way to go before I become an “effective teacher” as described in the “Effective Group Management Practices” segment.  The pacing of my lessons could certainly be more brisk, my students less “satiated,” and I probably have slowed the momentum of my classes on more than one occasion to deal with a minor issue.  In fact, there were some points that I never even thought of such as the first component in “group alerting” in which a teacher attracts students’ attention by asking a question before calling on a student.  Since I want to be the best teacher I can be, I will do my best to implement these management techniques into my classroom and reduce off-task behavior.

That said, there is a concern I have about one of the practices: avoiding satiability.  Of course, I would love it if my students were engaged all the time and never felt sick of any activity I presented them with.  When I think of my students being prepared for college, however, I fear that in teachers’ well-meaning attempts to make lessons more interesting, they might also be lowering their tolerance of educational approaches and subjects that might not be perceived as stimulating.  In college, most people experience sitting in lecture halls and taking notes for two or more hours – and that’s it.  There is often no variety.  Unfortunately, I do not see some students faring well in such an environment in which their stimulation is clearly not a priority.

A Treatise On The Importance of Genuine Student Relationships In Successful Classroom Management

As I began my teacher certification program, my advising professor told me to buy the book “The First Days of School” by Harry Wong. I read and re-read the book…several times. There was a lot of great, practical information that I took to heart. I endeavored to use that advice and make all good things happen once I started teaching. I can see a lot of the same advice here in “Beginning of the Year Classroom Management.”

Though I did not have much time to prepare before I started working this year, I was determined to make a plan and stick to it. When I began teaching at an inner city high school, I was shocked to see how many of my classroom concepts did not work. They needed to be spelled-out, reworked and adjusted. The student body was far more challenging than any one I had ever encountered before.  I reviewed all of my classroom management techniques and tried to figure out how to proceed.

I did eventually find that my rituals and routines needed tightening and that I needed to form better student relationships.  It has surprised me how a class can improve when a teacher has real and genuine relationships with his or her students. Especially in teaching students from difficult circumstances, I have found that fostering these connections has allowed for more opportunities for the classroom management techniques to succeed. 

When the new school year comes around, I hope to return with an even better plan to manage my classroom . Next year, however, I’ll be armed with a lot more knowledge of students than I started with and I feel that will make a major difference. 

Beginning of the Year Classroom Management (Greer)

Thinking about the beginning of the school year, especially as a new teacher, is overwhelming.  A new group of students, a new next door neighbor, new administrators, and the cloud of unlimited challenges hanging overhead.  I think I speak for all teachers when I say that at some point, we wonder, "What do I need to do to get off on the right foot."  I don't think anyone has the answer, but this article, "Beginning of the Year Classroom Management," published by the AFT Education Research and Dissemination Program, certainly provides some interesting insight on the issue.

We know that we must consider how we are going to teach, and re-teach the rules and procedures of the classroom, and we must understand that our consistency, and reinforcement is essential to success.  A significant point mentioned in the article, which we live every day, is the impact of positive relationships with our students and how significantly that can diminish behavior problems in the classroom.  To see suggestions grounded in research, to me is refreshing.  To know that teachers who were strong classroom managers have 31% fewer discipline issues is refreshing.  I feel that we are often told to do things, and that things are important.  In trying to do what I am told, I often wonder why, and this solidifies the importance for building strong relationships.

After having read the article, I felt that the most relevant to my situation, and struggles to be honest, is promoting positive behavior in students.  I am teaching Algebra 1 to 8th graders who are far from ready for an Algebra class.  Promoting positive behavior when student engagement is not strong is very difficult.  The article, on page 11, lists the two purposes for classroom management: 1) to establish and sustain an orderly environment so students can engage in meaningful academic learning; and 2) to enhance students' social emotional growth.  Both purposes I feel were jumping off of the page in neon letters.  I feel my students are immature (not just because they're in middle school), and how can I help them to grow in this area? The lists on pages 12 and 13 will stick with me for a long time.  The lists of strategies, that seem so easy and obvious, are essential to us building positive relationships, which will allow us to have strong routines, which will make our students invested in our classes, and ultimately will fulfill the purposes of a classroom management system.

The Truth About Santa Claus

I stopped believing in Santa Claus when I was 10 years old.  I was probably the last kid in my 4^th grade class to do so.  My fellow classmates had long since given up on the notion that one lone fat guy in a red suit could successfully travel ‘round the world carrying a sack laden with presents for all the “good” boys and girls in one night. I was different. Perhaps I was a bit more naive, a bit more gullible—or maybe a bit of both.  But, as I look back now, I think maybe the real reason I was so reluctant to let go of the fantasy known as Santa Claus was because I really did believe in magic.  I believed that one man could visit every house in the world in a sleigh pulled by flying reindeer; I believed that toys were made by elves at the North Pole; I believed that Rudolph’s bright red nose led Kris Kringle through the night and to my very own front door.  I believed it all—as deeply and strongly as I believed that the half-eaten plate of cookies and empty glass of milk left for me to find was evidence of the truth about Santa Claus.  And it was fun!

The night I heard my parents pulling my brother’s and my Christmas presents out of the attic and then whispering frantically as they tried to quietly carry them down the stairs changed all that.  That Christmas morning was the worst one I can remember.  I don’t recall one gift that was under the tree that year.  It didn’t much matter; after all, it wasn’t the gifts themselves that were important, although they were the impetus for everything else.  For me, the most important part of Christmas was the anticipation.  The getting up early in the morning—long before my parents’ eyes had left their pillows—to sneak a peek at the cornucopia of avarice which awaited under the tree, the sitting in the kitchen with my Grandma—unable to eat—until I heard the footsteps of my Mom and Dad at the top of the stairs, and finally the studying of each present, right before its contents were unveiled, intoxicated by its wrapping and bow and the strange signature on the card. THAT was the best part of Christmas; that was the part that was gone forever.

Or so I thought. 

About 19 years later I had a daughter of my own.  Things change when you’re a parent.   But I had promised myself that night, lying in bed, so many years ago, feeling betrayed and disappointed and angry, that I would never do to my own child what my parents had done to me.  I would be honest with her about Christmas.  I swore I would never make her believe in fantasies only to have them crushed; I would never tell her stories about people and places which do not exist; and I would never lie to her about where all the gifts came from that she was lucky enough to have waiting for her under the tree.  I swore that she would know the truth about Santa Claus.  By the time she turned two—old enough to really “believe” in Santa—my second daughter was born.  It was now time to honor that promise. 

Just like every other middle-aged, middle-income mom, I took my kids to get pictures taken with department store Santas.  My daughters grew up watching Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, Miracle on 34^th Street, and Frosty the Snowman, and, like all young inquisitive kids, they asked me questions about what they saw and heard.  And I wanted to tell them the truth.  I wanted not to break the promise I’d made to that ten year old child those many years ago on that fateful Christmas night.  Then I looked into my daughters’ eyes.  And what I saw there, changed my mind.  I saw a child that believed an old man in a bright red velvet suit could make her Christmas dreams come true; a child that looked up into the sky on Christmas eve night and swore that the blinking red light she saw there was the reflection of Rudolph’s nose; a child that thought the footprints outside our house on Christmas morning were left by Santa’s boots.   I saw a child that believed in magic.  I saw myself.  And I just couldn’t do it.  I broke my promise.

I made a similar promise when I first became a teacher.  I promised myself that I would be "that teacher"-- the teacher who would make a difference.  I believed I could change the lives of every one of my students; every bit as much as I believed in the Santa Claus of my youth.  My class would be the one students ran down the hall to get to; my class would be the place where learning was fun; my class would be the place where nostagia was born and dreams came to life.  I made that promise as a fledgling teacher long before the harshness and realities of this profession were known to me.  Then that first day of school finally came when I stood in front of my own students in my own classroom with my own future right in front of me...and I broke that promise, too.

My class wasn't the place students were running to get to; they were just running period...all over me!  I couldn't even get them to sit down.  I couldn't make learning fun because I couldn't make learning happen at all.  And the only thing I was nostalgic for back then was the weekend.  I counted down the days, hours, and minutes each and every week until it arrived.  As the days turned into weeks and the weeks into months, I swore to myself that if I couldn't have that "perfect" classroom (the one I had imagined inside my head those many years ago when all I ever thought about was being a teacher) I would give up on my promise and find a new profession.  That first semester was the hardest.  I remember crying alone in my bathtub every Friday night, praying to God he'd give me the strength to go back into work on Monday.  Somehow, each Monday morning, I'd find it. 

Around Christmas time that year, one of my students gave me a Christmas card.  It wasn't anything fancy; in fact, if I remember right, she made it herself.  But I can still see the front cover as clearly today as I did when I first held it in my hand.  It was the color of custard cream, like the inside of donut, and adorned with cut-out pictures from coloring books that the child had obviously cut herself and then glued onto the paper.  Red and green crayon marks scurried across the page.  I smiled when I opened it, amused by its honesty and simplicity.  Inside was a simple message:  "Mrs. Skweres, thank you for being my teacher.  You help me when I need it." 

I thought to myself as I read it that this sentiment was a far cry from the impact I had hoped to make as a new teacher.  It was small in scale; a minute success hidden amongst a plethora of failures.  But isn't that how it comes to us in the world of education?  Successes rarely hit us like a ton of bricks, but more often than not, brush our faces like  feathers blowing on the breeze.  It's our job to recognize them when they're there.  Otherwise, they just blow by...unnoticed. 

I'm learning now, 15 years later, to take pride in the small things.  Those, after all, are the things that truly matter.  Truth is, the "ideal" teacher that I had in my head was no more real than Santa Claus.  They were an illusion. As a child, I believed in them both. I'm not sorry, though.  Because it is that belief that has kept me going all these years; my belief that I may still keep my promise to myself and become the teacher I once dreamed I'd be.  Until then, I keep that Christmas card handy--to help remind me.

I’ve also lived through eight Christmases—going on nine—and I’m proud to say that my girls still believe in Santa Claus.  I know all too well though, that it won’t last long.  I know one morning that my girls will trickle downstairs, wearing their wrinkled nightgowns and over-sized slippers, a somewhat disappointed look on their faces, to a tree covered in ornaments and surrounded by presents, and everything will have somehow changed.  The magic will be gone.  But I’m okay with that, too. Because I know that they, like me and so many parents before me, will find the real magic of Christmas again. When one day they look into the face of their own child and see that wonderful anticipation of Christmas morning, they will believe.  They’ll believe in Kris Kringle, in Rudolph’s red nose, in the North Pole…they’ll believe in it all.  Then they’ll discover that the magic of Christmas rests not in what we believe, but in the hopes, hearts, and happiness of our children.  Then they’ll know the real truth about Santa Claus.  Until that time, our plate of cookies and cup of milk will sit on our counter—waiting.    

Footprints

Messes make me crazy.  I can’t stand them.  I like things to be neat; to have a place. In fact, I keep baskets all over my house to collect clutter. I have baskets for my shoes, baskets for my jewelry, baskets for my garbage; I even have baskets for my baskets.   The problem is, life isn’t often neat.  It’s chaotic. It’s unpredictable.  It’s messy.  Especially when you have kids. 

                I was just starting to get to the point where my life felt clean again.  I had lived through five years of messes with my first two children, growing up just two years apart.  In fact, my husband and I had accumulated so much “mess” during those first five years, that we built a new house…one with an extra bedroom, a two car garage, and a master bath for my husband and me ONLY.  For a while, things were good.  We had lots of space to move around.   My girls had even begun to pick-up after themselves.  Everything was falling into place.  Then the boys came along. 

When the twins were born, they brought their own mess with them...the kind of mess left behind after a hurricane.   Messes made from diapers and bottles and pieces of plastic toys.  I had forgotten what it was like to come home from work and have to step over mountains of mayhem on my way to the kitchen table.  Now footprints and fingerprints cover my carpet and garner my glass doors.  My house is full of footprints. 

We all want our kids to follow in our footprints.  I was tickled when my eldest daughter emphatically stated that she wanted to be a teacher…just like her mom.  And I get such a kick out of taking walks with my youngest and teaching her about the same bugs and butterflies that fascinated me as a child.  However, the footprints I’m most proud of have been made my students.  Two of my former students work at Children’s Hospital; two are graduates of CAPA and used my class as the impetus for their majors; and one recently published three poems online after finishing our class unit on poetry.  These footprints last a lot longer than the ones in my carpet; and they have a greater impact, too.  Windex or Hoover can’t clean these marks away.  They’re likely to stick around for quite some time. 

When I’m alone in my “new” house, I sometimes sit and wonder what my life would be like without my children.  It’d be less messy, that’s for sure.  There’d be no dents in my walls, no food on the floor, and no stains on the carpet.  The only footprints found would be those left behind by my own stocking feet.  But those aren’t the footprints that last.  Those don’t stick around.  They only survive until the next good cleaning…then they’re gone. But I’ll have the memories of my children’s laughter, hugs, and kisses forever.  Those footprints I don’t mind so much.

 I wonder sometimes too, what my life would have been like if I hadn’t been a teacher.  What would I have done?  Who would I have been?  Maybe a writer.  Or a homemaker.  Perhaps—if my mother’d had her way—a nurse.  Those professions may have been “cleaner.”  I mean, my desk wouldn’t currently be cluttered with post-its and pencils and folded up love letters; my bag wouldn’t be pregnant with piles of papers waiting to be graded and returned.  Life would have been less messy.  But a lot less happy.  Like my children, my students are my legacy; they’re the footprints I leave behind.  They’ll  last, too.  But, these footprints I can handle.  Even if they do make my life a little messy.