Just below the knuckle of my left-hand forefinger there is a dime-sized bruise growing steadily darker. It is the result of my feeble attempt to break up two students who were aggressively play(?)-fighting by slamming each other into the wall. I don't know how it happened, this bruise. I only remember strained faces and grunts, a laughing audience, and one of them stopping the fight because they lost their balance.
"Damn, I tripped over Mr. W's big-ass feet", he breathlessly reassured onlookers.
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
Friday, May 18, 2007
Interesting Sketchbook Entries, part 4
ASSIGNMENT: Read the quote below and respond in two short paragraphs. First, what does he mean - how does a "painter" become an "artist"? Second, according to him, are you an "elephant" or an "artist"?
DE, grade 10: "You can paint but I think it would be hard 2 teach a elephant 2 paint not less he little. aint no big elephant going 2 listen 2 u not less u train them when they are baby's"
Painting is one thing but art is another. You can teach an elephant to paint, but you can't teach it to be an artist. (Warren Criswell)
DE, grade 10: "You can paint but I think it would be hard 2 teach a elephant 2 paint not less he little. aint no big elephant going 2 listen 2 u not less u train them when they are baby's"
Saturday, May 12, 2007
Friday, May 11, 2007
A Teacher Detached
Lowered standards? New perspectives? A war veteran's tolerance for traumatic experience?
How else can I explain the matter-of-fact comments that I enter in my book labeled "Student Contact Info", which is really a notebook in which I catalog student (mis)behaviors to justify points docked or earned on their daily process grades. Sometimes I cannot believe what I am writing - what I am willing to accept to get a student to create art. A sample, DM, 4th period, 5/11:
"Used excessive profanity and pulled pants down to expose his behind, but was otherwise on-task and respectful"
How else can I explain the matter-of-fact comments that I enter in my book labeled "Student Contact Info", which is really a notebook in which I catalog student (mis)behaviors to justify points docked or earned on their daily process grades. Sometimes I cannot believe what I am writing - what I am willing to accept to get a student to create art. A sample, DM, 4th period, 5/11:
"Used excessive profanity and pulled pants down to expose his behind, but was otherwise on-task and respectful"
Rate My Teacher
Time to grade the teacher!
I have been mentally compiling a report card for myself, to be completed at the end of the year as a tool for reflection and to identify things to work on over the summer. Now that I have finally put pen to paper - or finger to keyboard, as it were - I am posting the report card in advance so that I can keep these areas in mind, and also share with folks who might be similarly inclined. Here 'tis:
TEACHER NAME _________________
SCHOOL _______________________
SCHOOL YEAR __________________
YEARS OF EXPERIENCE ___________
SUBJECTS:
I have been mentally compiling a report card for myself, to be completed at the end of the year as a tool for reflection and to identify things to work on over the summer. Now that I have finally put pen to paper - or finger to keyboard, as it were - I am posting the report card in advance so that I can keep these areas in mind, and also share with folks who might be similarly inclined. Here 'tis:
TEACHER NAME _________________
SCHOOL _______________________
SCHOOL YEAR __________________
YEARS OF EXPERIENCE ___________
SUBJECTS:
- Developing Meaningful Lessons A B C D F
- Engaging Delivery of Instruction A B C D F
- Making Personal Connections With Students A B C D F
- Effective Behavior Management A B C D F
- Effective Discipline A B C D F
- Consistency A B C D F
- Attitude A B C D F
- Professionalism A B C D F
- Developing Relationships With Colleagues A B C D F
- Additional comments:
FINAL GRADE (AVERAGE): _______
STRATEGIES FOR SUCCESS:
Monday, April 30, 2007
"These Things Are Sent To Try Us"
Before school begins, B pulls me aside to ask a "huge, huge favor". Can she take 30 minutes to finish typing a paper that is due the following period, she asks. She was absent on Friday when we started this new unit on color theory and today is Monday. I tell her that I would like to help her but she has to be here for all of the work we are going to do today. Distressed, she says she will "just leave, then, because I have to do this". Why didn't she do it over the weekend, I ask? She says her computer wasn't working. I apologize, but tell her she needs to be here today - I don't want her to fall behind in my class (she is very often absent or late).
She walks out.
I write an administrative referral before the day has even begun.
During the next period, SH ignores the warm-up activity to methodically pick out her hair weaves, leaving them in a pile on the table in front of her. When I (politely) ask her to stop, she reminds me that "it's just hair" and that apparently I have hair, too. When I, in calm and friendly voice, tell her she has to stop grooming herself and instead do her work, she becomes indignant and defensive. "I'm not grooming myself, Mr W! God! Why do you gotta be like that??"
Why do I gotta be like that, I ask myself? For a moment, I try to think if it's alright that there is a pile of hair in front of my student, who is not doing any work. Ultimately, I resolve that it is still not OK, even if it means in deciding so that I'm going to have to continue this absurd conversation.
"This isn't Cosmetology class", I jab. "I know that! Duh!" she parries. After discussing the way she talks to teachers ("I've got to work on that, I know"), she sweeps the hair debris into the trash can and starts to draw.
This was only a quaint warm-up for what would happen in fourth period.
As students filed in after the late bell for fourth period, a crowd began to gather around perennially disengaged SP (an anecdotal aside: she is the only student I've ever had who has not turned in a single project). They were watching - loudly watching - the bootiest of booty-shaking rap videos on a video iPod. One of the more cavalier boys shows me the video on the iPod, certain I will get swept away in its charms. Without giving a customary and admittedly wimpy warning, I confiscate the iPod. Goes straight into a drawer in my locked office.
After getting the class settled, I begin to give a brief introduction to color theory when I am interrupted by JH, who is raising his hand. This class never raises hands, unless there is a joke or a bathroom request.
"What is it, JH?"
He farts.
The rest of the class reacts in the only natural way a room full of teenagers could react. And inside I am cracking up. But I've got to keep it together - I am supposed to be in charge. I stammer through some more requests for order while going over the quickest, most abbreviated intro to color theory ever performed.
JH farts again. SP says I am "boring". Other conversations continue, oblivious to the art class that has stalled out. If pairs of eyes looking at a teacher indicate the number of students paying attention, then I have zero students paying attention.
I conclude the color theory lesson (with a few token, reassuring "I was listening Mr. W"s) and move back to my desk. Out of the corner of my eye, I see an altercation in the corner. It is JH. He is wrestling... no, humping a girl in the corner. It is playful, I hope, and everyone seems to be laughing, but I have actually spoken to him about this at least a half-dozen times ("Sexual harassment, JH! You don't want to mess with that!"). I tell him to gather his things, he is going to CHOICES (a kind of separate setting time-out). He makes big stage tears and cries "boo hoo!" and preens his way to the door.
While I am filling in the CHOICES form, SP has discovered a passion for her confiscated iPod, and is demanding it back immediately. And in no uncertain terms (unless "motherf***in" is an uncertain term). She wants it back right now, and is not going to wait for me to finish what I'm doing.
"SP, you will get it back at the end of the period, now have a seat, please."
"No, this is bulls**t, I want my g**d*** iPod!". She is now opening the drawers of my desk.
"SP, you need to sit down!"
JH continues to mock me with big baby cries, rubbing his eyes that he has to go to CHOICES.
Meanwhile, a student is walking around the class with his pants around his ankles. It is KM. He wants to go to CHOICES, too, to be with JH. He is putting on an act. Other parts of this act will include incredible sailor-like profanity, dancing on the counter, and making himself gag in the sink. I make him suffer through having to stay in art class.
JH is on his way to CHOICES (I will later learn that he never made it there). SP is also out the door. She is cussing me out, saying I need to take control of my "motherf***in class", that my class is "bulls**t", and that she is not coming back. An assessment I understand, but can only feel is ironic coming from the most out-of-control element.
Later, it is revealed that the iPod did not even belong to her. It was borrowed from another student in the class. The day begins - and now ends - with an administrative referral.
"These Things Are Sent To Try Us"
This phrase often runs through my head on days like today. It is the title of a song by the band Clearlake, and actually it is the lilting chorus featuring the title that runs through my head. The song is about romantic dissolution: not my particular problem today, thank goodness, but after a day like today I can share the sentiment that the things we endure must be the product of a curious and mischievous higher power.
There are 27 days left until summer. I count them down now, but there will soon be 180 days until the next summer. And then another 180 days. And another. I must remind myself that the goal is not to get out of this, but to be in it in the best possible way. These things are sent to try us. And it can be won.
Right? ... Right??
Is Target still hiring?
She walks out.
I write an administrative referral before the day has even begun.
During the next period, SH ignores the warm-up activity to methodically pick out her hair weaves, leaving them in a pile on the table in front of her. When I (politely) ask her to stop, she reminds me that "it's just hair" and that apparently I have hair, too. When I, in calm and friendly voice, tell her she has to stop grooming herself and instead do her work, she becomes indignant and defensive. "I'm not grooming myself, Mr W! God! Why do you gotta be like that??"
Why do I gotta be like that, I ask myself? For a moment, I try to think if it's alright that there is a pile of hair in front of my student, who is not doing any work. Ultimately, I resolve that it is still not OK, even if it means in deciding so that I'm going to have to continue this absurd conversation.
"This isn't Cosmetology class", I jab. "I know that! Duh!" she parries. After discussing the way she talks to teachers ("I've got to work on that, I know"), she sweeps the hair debris into the trash can and starts to draw.
This was only a quaint warm-up for what would happen in fourth period.
As students filed in after the late bell for fourth period, a crowd began to gather around perennially disengaged SP (an anecdotal aside: she is the only student I've ever had who has not turned in a single project). They were watching - loudly watching - the bootiest of booty-shaking rap videos on a video iPod. One of the more cavalier boys shows me the video on the iPod, certain I will get swept away in its charms. Without giving a customary and admittedly wimpy warning, I confiscate the iPod. Goes straight into a drawer in my locked office.
After getting the class settled, I begin to give a brief introduction to color theory when I am interrupted by JH, who is raising his hand. This class never raises hands, unless there is a joke or a bathroom request.
"What is it, JH?"
He farts.
The rest of the class reacts in the only natural way a room full of teenagers could react. And inside I am cracking up. But I've got to keep it together - I am supposed to be in charge. I stammer through some more requests for order while going over the quickest, most abbreviated intro to color theory ever performed.
JH farts again. SP says I am "boring". Other conversations continue, oblivious to the art class that has stalled out. If pairs of eyes looking at a teacher indicate the number of students paying attention, then I have zero students paying attention.
I conclude the color theory lesson (with a few token, reassuring "I was listening Mr. W"s) and move back to my desk. Out of the corner of my eye, I see an altercation in the corner. It is JH. He is wrestling... no, humping a girl in the corner. It is playful, I hope, and everyone seems to be laughing, but I have actually spoken to him about this at least a half-dozen times ("Sexual harassment, JH! You don't want to mess with that!"). I tell him to gather his things, he is going to CHOICES (a kind of separate setting time-out). He makes big stage tears and cries "boo hoo!" and preens his way to the door.
While I am filling in the CHOICES form, SP has discovered a passion for her confiscated iPod, and is demanding it back immediately. And in no uncertain terms (unless "motherf***in" is an uncertain term). She wants it back right now, and is not going to wait for me to finish what I'm doing.
"SP, you will get it back at the end of the period, now have a seat, please."
"No, this is bulls**t, I want my g**d*** iPod!". She is now opening the drawers of my desk.
"SP, you need to sit down!"
JH continues to mock me with big baby cries, rubbing his eyes that he has to go to CHOICES.
Meanwhile, a student is walking around the class with his pants around his ankles. It is KM. He wants to go to CHOICES, too, to be with JH. He is putting on an act. Other parts of this act will include incredible sailor-like profanity, dancing on the counter, and making himself gag in the sink. I make him suffer through having to stay in art class.
JH is on his way to CHOICES (I will later learn that he never made it there). SP is also out the door. She is cussing me out, saying I need to take control of my "motherf***in class", that my class is "bulls**t", and that she is not coming back. An assessment I understand, but can only feel is ironic coming from the most out-of-control element.
Later, it is revealed that the iPod did not even belong to her. It was borrowed from another student in the class. The day begins - and now ends - with an administrative referral.
"These Things Are Sent To Try Us"
This phrase often runs through my head on days like today. It is the title of a song by the band Clearlake, and actually it is the lilting chorus featuring the title that runs through my head. The song is about romantic dissolution: not my particular problem today, thank goodness, but after a day like today I can share the sentiment that the things we endure must be the product of a curious and mischievous higher power.
There are 27 days left until summer. I count them down now, but there will soon be 180 days until the next summer. And then another 180 days. And another. I must remind myself that the goal is not to get out of this, but to be in it in the best possible way. These things are sent to try us. And it can be won.
Right? ... Right??
Is Target still hiring?
Sunday, April 15, 2007
The Wiz
My job-within-a-job at this school is one I did not see coming: set designer. A couple friendly conversations at the beginning of the year with my department head, the theater director, and I am asked to design the set for our fall musical, Dream Girls. Sure, sounds like fun, think I. Plus the design is to be a half-dozen abstract obelisks. Right up my constructivist alley, I beam. After trying to orchestrate the energetic and oh-so-untrained hands of student volunteer painters, I am smacked with the reality of just how much work I have signed up for. The "design" part only lasts a few hours in the quiet of home over a sketchbook. The sketches are consulted with a builder who constructs the pieces and returns them to me where the grunt work is done with drop cloths, paint rollers, ladders, fussy teenagers and lots of loud noise. And did anyone mention that it would take place every day after school for 2 weeks?
Reluctant to revisit the experience, I agree to help paint (but not design) the set for the Black History Month play, Joy's Story. An altogether different experience, this time I am working alone after rehearsals are done. Just an art teacher with a paint roller and some headphones. It is a completely different experience. How can it be possible that one person alone can do the work faster than 6 untrained teenagers? And does this confirm my growing suspicion that I am a sociopath?
The spring musical, The Wiz, was promised to be the biggest production yet (in celebration of our director's twentieth year and looming retirement). With complicated choreography and a raucous soul/funk score with full chorus, it was an ambitiously elaborate (by high school standards) production that required an equally ambitious set. My original design was much more ambitious than realistic, apparently. It was significantly scaled back by the budget-conscious builder and the director who was sensitive to elementary-school children who might possibly be scared off by the headless mannequin torsos on the evil witch's throne (oh, but it looked so cool in the drawings!)
So what you see below is a compromise, but that is all part of creation in collaboration, and it was an outstanding experience from start to finish. In my year at this school I have been fortunate to work closely with this team of talented professionals, and I am proud to represent the visual arts in a school with such a successful performing arts legacy. It is a kind of synergy and solidarity that may be a rare thing (my last school was quite the opposite), and it is one of the things I think of when I question why I teach where I teach.
And oh yes, the kids involved in this play were fantastic.
A special thank you belongs to H, whose invaluable assistance went largely unrecognized. Pictures and notes!:
The cornfield where Dorothy encounters the Scarecrow. (By the way - do you know what a "scary tree" looks like? In the background is my attempt to answer this request)
Kansas farm house, front.
Kansas farm house, back.
Munchkin dwellings
Emerald City gate
Emerald City gate
Emerald City (really just the back of The Wiz's throne. Original design prohibitively large)
The Wiz's throne. (Or is it Flash Gordon's throne?)
Evillene's throne. The pipes emit smoke, and the chair is a false chair that pulls back when the evil witch melts and disappears. Again: original design several times bigger and to incorporate mannequin parts and working televisions tuned to static.
Fairground columns for the good witch's appearance
Reluctant to revisit the experience, I agree to help paint (but not design) the set for the Black History Month play, Joy's Story. An altogether different experience, this time I am working alone after rehearsals are done. Just an art teacher with a paint roller and some headphones. It is a completely different experience. How can it be possible that one person alone can do the work faster than 6 untrained teenagers? And does this confirm my growing suspicion that I am a sociopath?
The spring musical, The Wiz, was promised to be the biggest production yet (in celebration of our director's twentieth year and looming retirement). With complicated choreography and a raucous soul/funk score with full chorus, it was an ambitiously elaborate (by high school standards) production that required an equally ambitious set. My original design was much more ambitious than realistic, apparently. It was significantly scaled back by the budget-conscious builder and the director who was sensitive to elementary-school children who might possibly be scared off by the headless mannequin torsos on the evil witch's throne (oh, but it looked so cool in the drawings!)
So what you see below is a compromise, but that is all part of creation in collaboration, and it was an outstanding experience from start to finish. In my year at this school I have been fortunate to work closely with this team of talented professionals, and I am proud to represent the visual arts in a school with such a successful performing arts legacy. It is a kind of synergy and solidarity that may be a rare thing (my last school was quite the opposite), and it is one of the things I think of when I question why I teach where I teach.
And oh yes, the kids involved in this play were fantastic.
A special thank you belongs to H, whose invaluable assistance went largely unrecognized. Pictures and notes!:
The cornfield where Dorothy encounters the Scarecrow. (By the way - do you know what a "scary tree" looks like? In the background is my attempt to answer this request)
Kansas farm house, front.
Kansas farm house, back.
Munchkin dwellings
Emerald City gate
Emerald City gate
Emerald City (really just the back of The Wiz's throne. Original design prohibitively large)
The Wiz's throne. (Or is it Flash Gordon's throne?)
Evillene's throne. The pipes emit smoke, and the chair is a false chair that pulls back when the evil witch melts and disappears. Again: original design several times bigger and to incorporate mannequin parts and working televisions tuned to static.
Fairground columns for the good witch's appearance
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