Narcissus

One year, Narcissus was in my class, a self-identified Mean Girl. “I’m a mean girl,” he said. “I tell it like it is.”
Helping Narcissus learn compassion and how not to be the center of attention was  challenging. He was funny, and kids laughed at his antics. But they also were weary and wary. Would he turn on them next?
Instead, he turned on me.
What happened was this: One day I called Narcissus in to discuss behavior. It did not turn out the way I planned. He was a fast talker, slick as wet pavement. He said, “You should know that I’ve taken a poll, and everyone agrees that  YOU need to change YOUR behavior.” His head bobbed back and forth in that cool way kids have on T.V. when they’re being smarty with their t.v. parents. “Oh, yeah, baby.”

Then he pulled out a list, and a pile of letters. “All of these kids wrote letters.” He looked down at one. “This one says, — Oh. I can’t read that,” he smirked.”It’s private — watch your language, girl!” He shuffled papers. “This one says you’re too strict.” He dug another one out. “This one — ” he smiled to himself, looking it over, “you don’t EVEN want to know what this person says about you.”
I ignored the letters and patiently went over our class rules again, what it means to be a respectful member of our classroom community, and how he was being disrespectful with his constant talking, and ..yada yada yada. But inside I felt defeated. This savvy kid had defeated me.  Again. My mind spun out into the painful places teaching has taken me at times. “Nothing will change,” the voice told me. “You  can’t teach.” My mind went where it has often gone over the years: I shouldn’t be a teacher. I should just quit. This was too painful.

I thought about all the methods I had used to help manage his poor behavior and outbursts — the checklists I had given him that he simply would not check off when he was misbehaving. The moments stepping out of the classroom that brought only laughter and hoots from other students, and the focus of attention squarely where Narcissus wanted it to be. I really didn’t know what to do. And steely eyed as I tried to appear, I felt awful, like an awful teacher.

And then two things happened that saved my day — and saved my career:

Another teacher found one of the letters a student had written. “This is NOT acceptable,” she said. And she named the behavior: “This is bullying. He has no right to treat you this way. If he were treating a student this way, he would be suspended. And it is even worse to treat an adult with this kind of gossip and unkindness.” I was stunned. I was being bullied. It had never occurred to me. I felt embarrassed, but liberated at the same time, like a truth had been illuminated. I felt grateful that she had named the behavior.

Then the principal came in. She was stern. I was a little afraid. How had I lost such control of a situation? I was sure she would criticize me.

“You are doing everything right,” she said. “You are teaching really well. He has no right to treat you this way and he is in BIG trouble!”
I almost cried. At that moment, I realized that  never, in any teaching job since my first one 25 years ago, had I seen a principal so fully support a teacher. I felt only gratitude.

Hearing such support, I felt completely empowered to seek new solutions. I saw Narcissus’s behavior as a challenge that could be solved with support, not as a sign of my own failure. It was an amazing feeling.
So the next day, I sought the help of the Speech and Language Pathologist. I didn’t know if she’d ever had a student who was hyperverbal and manipulative, or if Speech was meant to deal with such people at all. But I described to her the situation and what I had done to help him change his behavior so it did not disrupt class. And she pointed out that everything we had done so far with him was verbal reinforcement. It gave him the attention he craved. She suggested I use a nonverbal system to help him curb his behavior, and more importantly, that all the teachers use the same system with him in a consistent way. We began the next day.

The principal also modeled how she spoke with him: “I will speak now and you are to remain silent. Then it will be your turn to speak.” and then cut off the conversation. The result was beautiful. I did not tell him what we were doing that first day. I did not remind him of his behavior. I simply watched him and conducted my class, and ignore him, and at each misbehavior,  I put a button in a jar. At the end of the day, he and I counted buttons. He had accumulated 64 buttons in one hour by getting up and walking around, calling out, interrupting other kids, throwing things in the air, and generally being disruptive in a way no other child was being in class. After we counted buttons, I asked him, in order to give him some sense of choice, how many buttons he felt he should reasonably expect to accumulate in an hour. 20, he said. The other teachers disagreed: 10, they said. the limit would be 10. After that, he would be on detention for disruptions. I also added, I know you like to get “rewarded” for good behavior. We will recognize that, too. If you do something great — not just something expected — you will get a button in another jar.
During our next class, his behavior was much better — down to 30 buttons. The next day, 27. The next 13. the next 7, and finally, one day, he had no negative buttons. Only two — in the positive jar, for sharing his wonderful writing.

Each day after that, he would come into my class to share something beautiful he had written — something positive, something life-affirming, something that showed the ways that a gregarious person can contribute to the world. Over time, he  learned to curb his behavior and act more appropriately in class. As an adult, I am sure he will look back with gratitude on this small clipping of wings, as a time when someone finally found a way to say to him, “Enough.” and helped him learn to work with others in a healthier way.

No Bad Days in the Garden

One of the things I love most about teaching in the garden is finding critters. It’s amazing what kids see with their fine eyes — the tiniest creatures! This week, while we pulled weeds, one child found a stick insect no more than a centimeter long, as thin as a few strands of hair, crawling across dirt exactly the same color as the bug. On the underside of a leaf, I found a Green Lynx spider and her hatched egg sac with tiny babies. Worms! pill bugs; tiny centipedes. The garden is a thriving place!

One Month To Learn

In one month, setting up my own classroom for the first time ever, and losing it in the end, I learned…

How to create a classroom space, finally, that works — and that not every space can work for every class.

I learned that no matter what I set up, one child and one parent will love it, and one will hate it. And if I change it to please one, another will be disappointed.

I learned how to run really good Responsive Classroom morning meetings with greetings and activities, afternoon meetings with sharing and music and appreciations, and occasional class councils to work out difficulties.

I learned how to organize a long-term project-based learning project  based around students interests.

I learned a bit about how to manage high-sensory need students and autistic students.

I learned how to run a good math group based on Cognitively Guided Instruction principles.

I learned and practiced accurately assessing reading levels and writing levels, and how to start and maintain a portfolio of work that keeps track of what students are learning.

I learned that I am a wonderful singer and guitar leader with my students, and that they can partake in my joy of music.

I learned to use music to signal transitions and to make transition requirements clear.

I learned how to collect and organize student work.

I learned how to create wall displays that are not distracting to ADD kids.

I learned how to set up a library based on the real reading levels of my students and not what I think they would be.

I learned that I can create some really good, engaging literature-based projects that grab students’ imaginations.

I learned to create a schedule that works through flexibility and consistency.

I learned to ask friends and colleagues for help, and to avoid, when possible, the influence of negative people. And when they can’t be avoided, I learned that negative people can’t destroy me.

I learned that sometimes things are not fair and there is nothing you can do about it except maintain your own integrity and wholeness and walk away.

I learned that I have a need for boundaries and that I respect my own need and the needs of others for healthy boundaries, and that I can’t thrive in a place where boundaries are unclear or unhealthily intrusive or loose.

I learned that no matter what someone says to me, I can learn from them, but I don’t have to believe that their opinions are always correct. I have learned to seek the second opinions of people I trust.

I have learned that there are people out there who want to help me learn. And those are the people I can choose to surround myself with.

 

 

 

Nice Classroom…I guess

The difference between judgementalness and  curiosity is sometimes just a small change in the tone of your voice. The difference between “Nice classroom!” and “Oh. Nice…uh…classroom.”

I experienced both recently, when experienced teachers came into my classroom to offer critical assistance in one case, and an unsolicited critique in the other.

“I love how colorful it is,” the first said. “It looks inviting. I see how you have honored children’s words on the walls by showing their work and the words they chose to make the class rules. I see responses to literature, science inquiry and a word wall.”  Then she proceeded to help me change around my room to make work flow better.

Contrast this with:

A slow look around the room, expression arch. First words:”Where’s your couch? This isn’t really the kind of room they’re used to.” Then the paced quickened:  That’s such a traditional word wall. Where are the children’s words? They should get to choose what words they want to learn.” A quick glance at the two science labs we have done: “Are they really interested in that?”

It’s so easy to learn when we start with appreciation. It’s so hard to learn when it all comes from a space of criticism.

Even With Help….

…it all falls apart sometimes. To me, there is no worse feeling in the world.

A falling apart classroom is like standing in quicksand. You feel the earth moving beneath your feet, feel yourself being sucked down into  a vortex, and if you can’t figure out what to do fast enough, the momentum sucks you, and your entire class, into a whirlwind of chaos. That’s how I felt the days that my class fell apart. One year, with a class full of undiagnosed special needs, my assistant abruptly left due to budget cuts. The kids simply fell to pieces. Some, not understanding the loss, blamed me. Others whom she had helped just could not handle the lack of one-on-one assistance. Once the slide starts, can it be reversed?

 

Getting help

I have called two friends in the last week to seek help with my classroom. Two friends, three special ed teachers, four other teachers. Lots of people taking an objective, non-judgmental look to answer the question: what can I do to bring my wild bunch under control? What sensory adaptations can I make to my room and curriculum to meet the needs of these  students? How can I offer rich, deep thinking, a strong curriculum in reading, writing and math and science, and yet also offer sensory play and art?

I am hoping that with friends looking out for me, analyzing my classroom, that I can find a balance that works for this population of children.

The Pink Tank House

Today in my project-based learning classroom, my second graders began the Not-a-Box project, based on the book Not a Box. We read the book, and students gathered in groups of four or five, based on their table numbers, and began to create something out of a box. They had to work together to decide what it should be. Then they worked together to create it.

One group consisted of three girly-girls and one very boy-ish boy. He’s into army guys and explosions. They’re into Barbies. He wanted an army box. They wanted a Dream House. they wanted pink. He wanted brown. Yesterday, they completely over-rode him. The result: a very frustrated boy, four busy girls, and one very pink box.

Today when we began to work on it, I asked him, “What is your idea for this box?” “Armies,” he said. “War.”

“War gives me bad dreams,” one girl said. “War makes me feel sad,” said another.

“Fine,” he growled, and stormed away. I found him outside the classroom at a picnic table. “What would you like the girls to know?” I asked.

“Nothing,” he growled, his hands over his ears, teeth gritted.

“Your voice counts, too,” I said. “You need to tell them what you want. Do you want me to help you?”

Slowly he got up, and we went inside. “Bradley has a message for you,” I told the girls. “Tell them what you would like to see in the box.”

“I want there to be some army parts in the box,” he said.

The girls began to protest, like crows cawing.Bradley put his hands over his ears.  I put up my hand. “Bradley’s ideas matter, too,’ I said. “How can you include his idea into your house?” The girls looked at each other. “Well….”

“We could put army guys inside the house.” He shook his head.

“We could glue army guys on the outside, like guards.” He looked up. Suddenly, his eyes were alive. “I know!” he said. “We could put army rollers on the bottom, like a conveyer belt!”

“It could be a tank-house!” a girl cried.

“With a gun on top!” he said. “A shooter on top of the house!”

In the end, the guns were nixed. But the house went onto cardboard rollers, like a tank, and the house became a dreamy, pink tank-house.

And everyone was happy.