On Friday, I gave my students a little quiz on multiplying by two-digit numbers and long division - the most difficult and important math concepts to master in fourth grade. We studied these concepts earlier in the year and have been doing other things in math lately, like decimals and probability. But since multiplying by two-digit numbers and long division are so important for success in fifth grade math, I want to reteach them to students who still are having trouble, so I wanted to see who needed reteaching.
For the last part of the quiz, I had students write and solve 3 division problems - one they considered easy, one they considered medium, and one they considered hard. (This is a Marilyn Burns assessment idea.)
One of my math whizzes this year is Omar. He is a rail-thin student who came to the U.S. from Mexico when he was in first grade. He is a video game master. He has twin two-year old sisters. Some teenagers pointed guns at him and his family as they were coming home from a Halloween party this year. Writing in English is hard for him, and he gets a little mischievous when he is bored or uninterested in what we're doing in class. But he just loves math and has serious math skills that come from who-knows-where. One time Omar said to me, "How come math is so much funner than everything else?" as if this was a question that really stumped him. Another time back in December when he had a few minutes to kill in class, I came upon him solving a long multiplication problem. "What are you doing?" I asked. "I'm figuring out how many hours there are until Christmas," he answered. And sure enough, that's exactly what he was doing.
For his "hard" division problem on Friday, Omar gave himself the problem 123,456,789 divided by 2. And he got it right! That made my day.
Sunday, May 20, 2007
Thursday, May 17, 2007
Day -20: Game Over
Today Juan came into my room at lunch, hysterical. "I'm scared, I'm scared," he kept blubbering through tears. "I'm afraid I'm gonna get suspended."
As the story came out, I discovered he had taught some people the Bloody Mary game, which I don't really understand but have some vague recollection of from elementary school. In Juan's version, it basically involves one student closing his eyes while the other touches the first's hands and, through some sort of voodoo power of suggestion, makes the first person feel an alleged spirit touching his hands. This game had spread like wildfire and was freaking out the entire fourth and fifth grade classes. Juan thought that he was going to be called to account by the principal. I'm not sure exactly what he thought the suspend-able infraction in teaching students the Bloody Mary game was, but he was convinced it was seriously wrong. I let him sit in my classroom until he calmed down a little. I promised that after students came back from lunch and English Language Development, we would have a little talk and we could put the game and its spooky powers to rest.
After lunch was over and I went to go pick up my class, Juan was in tears again. In a brief and interrupted exchange, he explained that he was still worried about getting suspended. When I explained that I really didn't think that he should worry about this, he told me that he had already gotten in trouble, that the principal had made him "sit on the bench" for the end of recess (our school's punishment for recess rule-breaking). The rest of my teaching day was such that I never got to fully understand what this meant. My best guess is that Juan probably went up the prinicpal and confessed that he had taught students a game that was freaking everyone out. I bet the principal, trying to dispatch with problems as quickly as possible, simply said, "Mmmm, that was a bad choice. Go sit on the bench for the rest of recess," without even thinking about it. A rule-breaker presents himself and gets punished. Why would the punisher do anything different? I'm really not blaming the principal. I like him, for the most part. I didn't have time to hear Juan out either.
Things calmed down a little, but Juan really wanted to make sure I talked to the class about not playing the game anymore, that it wasn't real, etc. I said this, and in the course of my little lecture said, "The game is over."
"Game over!" Wilfredo, an avid video game player called out.
I took the analogy and tried to run with it. "Yep, game over," I repeated. "You've gotten the high score, you gone to the highest level, and it's just not fun anymore." I tried to make my best video game sound effects, which, not being a video game player, were not very good. "Game ... over," I repeated with attempted sound effects this time.
It did at least get students' attention, if not put the game to rest permanently. And Juan had no more tears for the day.
How do Bloody Mary and Punch-Buggy and not stepping on cracks so as not to break your mother's back spread across generations and geographical areas and socioeconomic classes and ethnic groups? Nintendo and Punch-Buggy. My students have those things in common with all fourth graders in America. One is propagated via marketing, the other through what exactly?
As the story came out, I discovered he had taught some people the Bloody Mary game, which I don't really understand but have some vague recollection of from elementary school. In Juan's version, it basically involves one student closing his eyes while the other touches the first's hands and, through some sort of voodoo power of suggestion, makes the first person feel an alleged spirit touching his hands. This game had spread like wildfire and was freaking out the entire fourth and fifth grade classes. Juan thought that he was going to be called to account by the principal. I'm not sure exactly what he thought the suspend-able infraction in teaching students the Bloody Mary game was, but he was convinced it was seriously wrong. I let him sit in my classroom until he calmed down a little. I promised that after students came back from lunch and English Language Development, we would have a little talk and we could put the game and its spooky powers to rest.
After lunch was over and I went to go pick up my class, Juan was in tears again. In a brief and interrupted exchange, he explained that he was still worried about getting suspended. When I explained that I really didn't think that he should worry about this, he told me that he had already gotten in trouble, that the principal had made him "sit on the bench" for the end of recess (our school's punishment for recess rule-breaking). The rest of my teaching day was such that I never got to fully understand what this meant. My best guess is that Juan probably went up the prinicpal and confessed that he had taught students a game that was freaking everyone out. I bet the principal, trying to dispatch with problems as quickly as possible, simply said, "Mmmm, that was a bad choice. Go sit on the bench for the rest of recess," without even thinking about it. A rule-breaker presents himself and gets punished. Why would the punisher do anything different? I'm really not blaming the principal. I like him, for the most part. I didn't have time to hear Juan out either.
Things calmed down a little, but Juan really wanted to make sure I talked to the class about not playing the game anymore, that it wasn't real, etc. I said this, and in the course of my little lecture said, "The game is over."
"Game over!" Wilfredo, an avid video game player called out.
I took the analogy and tried to run with it. "Yep, game over," I repeated. "You've gotten the high score, you gone to the highest level, and it's just not fun anymore." I tried to make my best video game sound effects, which, not being a video game player, were not very good. "Game ... over," I repeated with attempted sound effects this time.
It did at least get students' attention, if not put the game to rest permanently. And Juan had no more tears for the day.
How do Bloody Mary and Punch-Buggy and not stepping on cracks so as not to break your mother's back spread across generations and geographical areas and socioeconomic classes and ethnic groups? Nintendo and Punch-Buggy. My students have those things in common with all fourth graders in America. One is propagated via marketing, the other through what exactly?
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
Day -21: Grass
Here's another poem by a former student that I discovered in my files.
Grass
The green grass
looks like money
Its dark as
cuauhcamole.
Light as paint.
Moves like
hands waving.
Looks like
spikes.
For the illustration, s/he (I don't remember who wrote it and there's no name!) drew a bunch of blades of grass, except three of the blades in the middle of the field had turned into little hands waving.
We finally finished state standardized testing today. Hooray! And I would wager that most of my students bombed the questions on figurative language. Did you know that fourth graders are supposed to be able to correctly identify similes, metaphors, personification, and hyperbole? Can the average U.S. adult do this? Plus, my students need to know the terms for these literary devices in both English and Spanish. I wish I could submit their poems as evidence that they can use figurative language in interesting ways, but nope, that is not to be. Their poems don't matter; their bubbles do.
***
Teaching high school doesn't usually sound that appealing to me, but this project, sort of related to grass, makes working with high school students seem pretty awesome.
Grass
The green grass
looks like money
Its dark as
cuauhcamole.
Light as paint.
Moves like
hands waving.
Looks like
spikes.
For the illustration, s/he (I don't remember who wrote it and there's no name!) drew a bunch of blades of grass, except three of the blades in the middle of the field had turned into little hands waving.
We finally finished state standardized testing today. Hooray! And I would wager that most of my students bombed the questions on figurative language. Did you know that fourth graders are supposed to be able to correctly identify similes, metaphors, personification, and hyperbole? Can the average U.S. adult do this? Plus, my students need to know the terms for these literary devices in both English and Spanish. I wish I could submit their poems as evidence that they can use figurative language in interesting ways, but nope, that is not to be. Their poems don't matter; their bubbles do.
***
Teaching high school doesn't usually sound that appealing to me, but this project, sort of related to grass, makes working with high school students seem pretty awesome.
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
Day -22: Being Funny
Though Juan is definitely the student in my class this year who demands the most attention, there are lots of other fascinating characters, too.
Take Alex, for example. He is obsessed with drawing SpongeBob and Captain Underpants characters; in December he drew me a whole SpongeBob Christmas scene. He always bids me farewell each day – every Friday, without fail, adding, “Have a great weekend.” In his school picture this year he is wearing a black t-shirt that says in white letters “Sometimes I Amaze Myself,” and he looks really, really amazed at himself in the picture. One day he asked me, apropos of nothing, “Do you know what Armageddon is?” He had been thinking about this and wanted to gauge whether I thought Armageddon was a real possibility in the near future, after ascertaining whether I was familiar with the concept. Another time, in the middle of something completely unrelated, he said, “Do you think we’re alone?” – as in are we alone in the universe or are there other life forms out there. You never know what he’ll say. (He’s also the maker of the harp seal drinking Coke and dreaming of a tropical paradise collage, for those who have been following the story.)
Today, when we came in the classroom, he started talking with another student about which team would win team points this week. Another student thought Team 3 might win, and Alex really disagreed. He offered a few reasons why, and then said forcefully, “I rest my case,” but under his breath added, “whatever that means.”
“I rest my case,” is the kind of idiomatic English that my students rarely use, but Alex just decided to try it out anyway – and nailed its usage on the head without even knowing it. I cracked up so much at this unexpected expression coming out of Alex’s mouth that Alex started cracking up, and soon that whole side of the room was laughing.
My class this year is by far the funniest class I have ever taught. A lot of other teachers complain about this particular group of students and how challenging they are, but sometimes I think it’s just because they’re so funny. There are at least five students who want nothing more than to make everyone laugh.
I was telling the group of students who were eating lunch with me today how funny I thought they were, and I asked if they thought I was funny. They all nodded. I told them that I’m not sure all my classes thought I was funny – but maybe it’s because my other classes weren’t as funny, I added.
***
Juan made up another joke today as we were eating turkey sandwiches for lunch. “Where do turkeys come from?” he asked us.
“Where?” we asked.
“Kenturkey,” he said proudly.
My students all know I grew up in Kentucky, and they are endlessly fascinated by that fact. Kentucky seems like Oz to them - or Pluto or Zanzibar. They have no idea what it’s like, and it has a mesmerizing hold on them.
Take Alex, for example. He is obsessed with drawing SpongeBob and Captain Underpants characters; in December he drew me a whole SpongeBob Christmas scene. He always bids me farewell each day – every Friday, without fail, adding, “Have a great weekend.” In his school picture this year he is wearing a black t-shirt that says in white letters “Sometimes I Amaze Myself,” and he looks really, really amazed at himself in the picture. One day he asked me, apropos of nothing, “Do you know what Armageddon is?” He had been thinking about this and wanted to gauge whether I thought Armageddon was a real possibility in the near future, after ascertaining whether I was familiar with the concept. Another time, in the middle of something completely unrelated, he said, “Do you think we’re alone?” – as in are we alone in the universe or are there other life forms out there. You never know what he’ll say. (He’s also the maker of the harp seal drinking Coke and dreaming of a tropical paradise collage, for those who have been following the story.)
Today, when we came in the classroom, he started talking with another student about which team would win team points this week. Another student thought Team 3 might win, and Alex really disagreed. He offered a few reasons why, and then said forcefully, “I rest my case,” but under his breath added, “whatever that means.”
“I rest my case,” is the kind of idiomatic English that my students rarely use, but Alex just decided to try it out anyway – and nailed its usage on the head without even knowing it. I cracked up so much at this unexpected expression coming out of Alex’s mouth that Alex started cracking up, and soon that whole side of the room was laughing.
My class this year is by far the funniest class I have ever taught. A lot of other teachers complain about this particular group of students and how challenging they are, but sometimes I think it’s just because they’re so funny. There are at least five students who want nothing more than to make everyone laugh.
I was telling the group of students who were eating lunch with me today how funny I thought they were, and I asked if they thought I was funny. They all nodded. I told them that I’m not sure all my classes thought I was funny – but maybe it’s because my other classes weren’t as funny, I added.
***
Juan made up another joke today as we were eating turkey sandwiches for lunch. “Where do turkeys come from?” he asked us.
“Where?” we asked.
“Kenturkey,” he said proudly.
My students all know I grew up in Kentucky, and they are endlessly fascinated by that fact. Kentucky seems like Oz to them - or Pluto or Zanzibar. They have no idea what it’s like, and it has a mesmerizing hold on them.
Monday, May 14, 2007
Day -23: Reality Sinking In
It's strange how knowing that I won't be teaching next year filters into my actions and thoughts.
I realized my second year of teaching - after coming to terms with the fact that I had saved almost nothing from my first year, or at least I hadn't saved it in a way that I could easily use it again - that organization is such a big part of teaching. But now I don't have a next year to organize for. One of my favorite things about teaching is that there's always a next time. This lesson on decimals didn't work out how I envisioned it - well, how can I make it work better next time? It seems so depressing to think that maybe I will never get to teach long division, personal narratives, the Gold Rush, etc. better than I did this year.
Another of my favorite things about teaching is always getting to try new things. Today we tried a reading comprehension strategy called "Hot Seat." It's not that deep, but I'd never really done it with my class before. The idea is that one person takes on the role of the main character of a story the class has read, and they're in the "hot seat." Meanwhile, the rest of the class thinks of questions to ask the character. My students loved this. I had each team of four students come up with a question to ask the main character, and midway through the question-asking, students really started playing up the whole interview dynamic. "Channel 4 here," a student sitting at Team 4 started off. Then students at other teams started miming cameras rolling and holding microphones out, and it just took off. It seems so sad that I won't really get to refine "hot seat" and figure out how to make it work best for my students.
But most of all, what I'm most afraid of not being able to live without, is those moments when all of a sudden, I see a students' eyes go from bored/struggling/disengaged to sparkling, when students get excited about something, when they understand something, when they connect to something we're talking about, when they see possibilities in front of them. I read somewhere recently about a veteran teacher who said that the truly great teachers were the ones who could see the face of God in all the students they taught. And I don't know if I even believe in God. But when I see that sparkle in students' eyes, I feel energy, too - a spiritual communion in a very literal sense. That's such power we have as teachers, to be able to make those moments happen sometimes, and I know I will miss it - the power and the communion.
Does that sound too wacky?
***
On Friday, Juan said to me with that sparkle in his eye, "I don't know when I started to get interested in poems."
"I do," I answered. "After you read Love That Dog."
Juan kind of nodded in agreement and then went back to writing a page-long joke-y love poem on his own time at recess. (I will try to get that poem and reprint it here - though I'm almost sure he will have lost it because he loses everything).
If you don't know Love That Dog, read it. Juan and a small group of other students read it this year with me, and it doesn't always speak to every student, but for some students, it's captivating. Maybe I'm giving it too much credit, but I think that after Juan read that book, he started checking out poetry books from the library, finding some of the poems mentioned in the book, and discovering new poets, too. You never know what will open up new worlds for students.
I know I will miss having Juans in my everyday life next year. And the chance to help open up new worlds for students.
But I am excited about grad school, too, and maybe it's just a pause from teaching ...
I realized my second year of teaching - after coming to terms with the fact that I had saved almost nothing from my first year, or at least I hadn't saved it in a way that I could easily use it again - that organization is such a big part of teaching. But now I don't have a next year to organize for. One of my favorite things about teaching is that there's always a next time. This lesson on decimals didn't work out how I envisioned it - well, how can I make it work better next time? It seems so depressing to think that maybe I will never get to teach long division, personal narratives, the Gold Rush, etc. better than I did this year.
Another of my favorite things about teaching is always getting to try new things. Today we tried a reading comprehension strategy called "Hot Seat." It's not that deep, but I'd never really done it with my class before. The idea is that one person takes on the role of the main character of a story the class has read, and they're in the "hot seat." Meanwhile, the rest of the class thinks of questions to ask the character. My students loved this. I had each team of four students come up with a question to ask the main character, and midway through the question-asking, students really started playing up the whole interview dynamic. "Channel 4 here," a student sitting at Team 4 started off. Then students at other teams started miming cameras rolling and holding microphones out, and it just took off. It seems so sad that I won't really get to refine "hot seat" and figure out how to make it work best for my students.
But most of all, what I'm most afraid of not being able to live without, is those moments when all of a sudden, I see a students' eyes go from bored/struggling/disengaged to sparkling, when students get excited about something, when they understand something, when they connect to something we're talking about, when they see possibilities in front of them. I read somewhere recently about a veteran teacher who said that the truly great teachers were the ones who could see the face of God in all the students they taught. And I don't know if I even believe in God. But when I see that sparkle in students' eyes, I feel energy, too - a spiritual communion in a very literal sense. That's such power we have as teachers, to be able to make those moments happen sometimes, and I know I will miss it - the power and the communion.
Does that sound too wacky?
***
On Friday, Juan said to me with that sparkle in his eye, "I don't know when I started to get interested in poems."
"I do," I answered. "After you read Love That Dog."
Juan kind of nodded in agreement and then went back to writing a page-long joke-y love poem on his own time at recess. (I will try to get that poem and reprint it here - though I'm almost sure he will have lost it because he loses everything).
If you don't know Love That Dog, read it. Juan and a small group of other students read it this year with me, and it doesn't always speak to every student, but for some students, it's captivating. Maybe I'm giving it too much credit, but I think that after Juan read that book, he started checking out poetry books from the library, finding some of the poems mentioned in the book, and discovering new poets, too. You never know what will open up new worlds for students.
I know I will miss having Juans in my everyday life next year. And the chance to help open up new worlds for students.
But I am excited about grad school, too, and maybe it's just a pause from teaching ...
Sunday, May 13, 2007
Day -24: Poems
My students are working on a poetry unit, and I was looking through my files for copies of poems by former students. I forgot how good some of my old students' poems were. Here are two. They probably lose something without the kid handwriting and cute illustrations that accompany them, but you'll get the idea.
Ocean
The ocean
is blue
as a
dolphin.
White as
the clouds
crashes like
cars.
STRABERRY'S
Straberry's mmm, mmm,
mmm they are so so
good. When I eat
them they are
like eating ice
cream. I can't
resist eating
straberry's
they are
so so
good
that
instead
of
selling ice cream
and loli pops
they should sell
straberry's lots
of them
Anti-childhood obesity marketers, take note. If anyone wants to license this poem for use in an ad campaign, the copyright holder is a seventh grader now, and I know where to find her. (She wrote most of it in the shape of a strawberry. I'm not sure how well that will translate to this page.)
Examples like these are priceless for teaching my current students how to write poems. Part of me really wants to just toss all my files out at the end of the school year because it will be so time-consuming to sort through them all and decide what's worth keeping. But on the other hand, I can't imagine teaching again without having files full of students' writing to use.
Ocean
The ocean
is blue
as a
dolphin.
White as
the clouds
crashes like
cars.
STRABERRY'S
Straberry's mmm, mmm,
mmm they are so so
good. When I eat
them they are
like eating ice
cream. I can't
resist eating
straberry's
they are
so so
good
that
instead
of
selling ice cream
and loli pops
they should sell
straberry's lots
of them
Anti-childhood obesity marketers, take note. If anyone wants to license this poem for use in an ad campaign, the copyright holder is a seventh grader now, and I know where to find her. (She wrote most of it in the shape of a strawberry. I'm not sure how well that will translate to this page.)
Examples like these are priceless for teaching my current students how to write poems. Part of me really wants to just toss all my files out at the end of the school year because it will be so time-consuming to sort through them all and decide what's worth keeping. But on the other hand, I can't imagine teaching again without having files full of students' writing to use.
Thursday, May 10, 2007
Day -25: Another Field Trip
Today we took a field trip to one of the missions. The best part, by far, was watching my students play, play, play at the awesome playground near the mission. They swung from super-high rings, sped down poles, jumped in unison off a wooden ship, played some sort of shark tag game they made up, and got really sweaty and glowing from the fun of it all.
Our tour guide at the mission, though, was really not what they needed. He talked to us for an hour-and-a-half about obscure bits of Catholic trivia and equally obscure bits of local nineteenth century gossip. He made no mention of any negative aspects of the missions at all. He spoke as if he were addressing a group of well-educated adults, using words like "fabricated" and "bequest" in every sentence. And instead of letting my students wander around some parts of the mission and the attached museum and cemetery, discovering things for themselves, he wanted us to move all together in lockstep so he could tell us yet another story about yet another saint. But, umm, hello ... nine-year olds like thinking of their own questions and making their own observations and inferring things for themselves, not being lectured to for 90 minutes.
Oh well. At least they got to actually see a mission. That's the important part.
And plus, they got to hear that the history of our state is so tied up with the history of Mexico, where almost all their families are from. One student, after hearing his name mentioned a lot in stories about the mission, turned to me and said, "Teacher, there are a lot of ________(his name, in plural) here. I must be rich."
I wish someone would start a consulting business helping all the museums and historical sites revamp their educational programs to be developmentally appropriate for kids, plus train their docents in how to talk with English Learners. I know docents are volunteers, but I also know that they want their messages to get across to the students with whom they're working, so I bet they would be receptive to at least some high-quality training. (I'm sure someone is probably already doing this ... but I'm still almost always disappointed by the ways docents try to get their messages across to my students.)
I think it might be really fun to be a docent somewhere when I retire.
Our tour guide at the mission, though, was really not what they needed. He talked to us for an hour-and-a-half about obscure bits of Catholic trivia and equally obscure bits of local nineteenth century gossip. He made no mention of any negative aspects of the missions at all. He spoke as if he were addressing a group of well-educated adults, using words like "fabricated" and "bequest" in every sentence. And instead of letting my students wander around some parts of the mission and the attached museum and cemetery, discovering things for themselves, he wanted us to move all together in lockstep so he could tell us yet another story about yet another saint. But, umm, hello ... nine-year olds like thinking of their own questions and making their own observations and inferring things for themselves, not being lectured to for 90 minutes.
Oh well. At least they got to actually see a mission. That's the important part.
And plus, they got to hear that the history of our state is so tied up with the history of Mexico, where almost all their families are from. One student, after hearing his name mentioned a lot in stories about the mission, turned to me and said, "Teacher, there are a lot of ________(his name, in plural) here. I must be rich."
I wish someone would start a consulting business helping all the museums and historical sites revamp their educational programs to be developmentally appropriate for kids, plus train their docents in how to talk with English Learners. I know docents are volunteers, but I also know that they want their messages to get across to the students with whom they're working, so I bet they would be receptive to at least some high-quality training. (I'm sure someone is probably already doing this ... but I'm still almost always disappointed by the ways docents try to get their messages across to my students.)
I think it might be really fun to be a docent somewhere when I retire.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
