Most of my visits lasted somewhere between 10 and 30 minutes. Only one has taken an hour and it was a joy. I don’t know when I consciously realized how different this family felt, but once I did, it was truly overwhelming.
Most of my families have been very engaged in the conversations, but this family took it to another level entirely. Beyond simply hearing what I had to say, it immediately became a powerful family interaction. I quickly realized that I was simply an informant, a living bulletin. The meaningful dialogue, at least at first, was going on between the parents and the kids, through me. Instead of me using the family as another device to reach the kids, I realized that I was being used by the family as a means to reinforce their values; a dynamic I greatly prefer.
It was masterful communicating. Through the discussion, with me, of the not-an-extended-day program, the father was building his own daughter’s investment in the extra hours of school. He had read the expectations letter already; he knew what was coming. At first I thought he wasn’t going to let his daughter go, he talked so gravely about how early he and the mother went to work, how tired they were. Then he “told me” that it was his children’s job to work equally hard. Finally, I realized that the discussion of whether or not M--- could make it and the inconveniences that were involved were not hesitations for my understanding, but for M---‘s, for her to realize how important it was to take this time seriously.
Our conversation about science camp was the same. Again, I at first thought this was another family that was reluctant to let their 10 year-old out of sight for the first time. But the father quickly corrected me on this. I was told that he wasn’t saying his daughter couldn’t go, we were simply having the conversation. As he explained his concerns, his reluctance, I again realized that this wasn’t for my benefit but for his daughter. Perhaps he was reluctant to be so expressive of his fears and heartache directly with his daughter, or perhaps he simply thought it was more effective to be indirect.
In the end, the father asked me for a favor. He told me that he had always been at the front of his class, “Not second or third,” his son translated with a smile, “The First.” Dad wanted me to do whatever it took to get his daughter there as well. I have little doubt that the father was asking me to give M--- special treatment, but simply conveying his expectations to his daughter.
As I sat there, I was mesmerized by the intensity of the discussion. The best part was that the son and daughter really seemed as though they got it, they knew they were being spoken to and they listened. M---, usually a firecracker of words in class, was silent and wide-eyed. Her brother, the translator, was glowing, smiling and nodding with respect for his father and satisfaction with his translation. The kids’ rapt attention to and warm consideration of their father’s words melted me in my chair. They didn’t have to be forced to take a seat at the table, they wanted to be there, they cared about what their dad had to say.
I don’t think for a moment that the intensity of this conversation was exclusive to my presence. I don’t want to call it intellectual or emotional wealth, though I suspect that is part of it, but simply a cornucopia of affection and attention. Despite being in the worst neighborhood I visited and having one of the most impoverished looking homes, I would certainly call this my richest family.
Tuesday, September 27, 2005
Sunday, September 25, 2005
The Have Nots (Home Visits, 3/4)
The bottom of my class, in terms of reading scores, ironically consists of three English only students. Two of them are there because of specific learning disabilities. One of them, at least so far, has no such explanation. She is there because, in my humble opinion, she comes from a most truly dysfunctional family.
Please note that I use that loaded term, dysfunctional, carefully and without any connotations beyond its literal meaning: does not work. The J---'s are dysfunctional because, after getting to know the mother and care-taking aunt, and getting to know the home this year and last, I'm struck by the perception that this is a family that cannot function properly. At least where properly is defined as adequately nurturing the young.
For example...
Parents are in and out of jail with seeming regularity. Cumulative files are littered with truancy notices, including those proceeding all the way to the point of referral to the District Attorney. Families move constantly to and from the grandmother's house, a few blocks from our school, yanking students around the district and the state. The house was packed and unusually dirty; dirty, I presume just like my house right now, dirty with too much traffic that is too busy to care. From a surreptitious observation at Back to School Night, the mother sincerely tries to be involved with homework and classwork, but struggles with reading as much as my student. The girl's grammar, vocabulary and verbal expressiveness are frighteningly immature, outpaced by most of my lowest ELLs, but immediately sensible after conversing with her family. More worrisome, the mother's unbelievably thin body suggests an unhealthy lifestyle that cannot be a good model for her daughter.
I have three current students operating out of this house and I had another one last year. I recognize and respect the sincerity with which all of the parents have discussed their interest in their children's education, and the deep affection I've seen between the parents and kids. Unlike some of my families, who disagree with the whole project of public education, the J---'s seem to appreciate the importance of learning, but cannot support it. They get it, they just can't do it.
I realize that it's not my job to judge parents, only to deal equitably with what they produce. But even in this case, I find that I'm not contemptuous but sad. Everything I can observe tells me that, outside of the truancy, they are not abusive or neglectful. I earnestly believe they love their kids as much as anyone else, they want the best for their kids. I think their idea of "the best" even lines up with mine, high school graduation and the option of college. But they cannot help M--- get there.
I found it oddly appropriate that this is the only house where I saw, or even smelled, smoking. I find it difficult to imagine that any adult in the nation doesn't know that smoking is bad for you and bad for your kids, and certainly no one here in California, where we've all but banned it from the state. But the J---'s can't stop, just like they can't keep themselves out of jail, just like they can't get their daughters to school, just like they cannot help the girls learn division. They are the real have-nots, the truly impoverished in our poor community. For what more base poverty is there than the inability to provide a future, whether physical or mental, for the children?
Please note that I use that loaded term, dysfunctional, carefully and without any connotations beyond its literal meaning: does not work. The J---'s are dysfunctional because, after getting to know the mother and care-taking aunt, and getting to know the home this year and last, I'm struck by the perception that this is a family that cannot function properly. At least where properly is defined as adequately nurturing the young.
For example...
Parents are in and out of jail with seeming regularity. Cumulative files are littered with truancy notices, including those proceeding all the way to the point of referral to the District Attorney. Families move constantly to and from the grandmother's house, a few blocks from our school, yanking students around the district and the state. The house was packed and unusually dirty; dirty, I presume just like my house right now, dirty with too much traffic that is too busy to care. From a surreptitious observation at Back to School Night, the mother sincerely tries to be involved with homework and classwork, but struggles with reading as much as my student. The girl's grammar, vocabulary and verbal expressiveness are frighteningly immature, outpaced by most of my lowest ELLs, but immediately sensible after conversing with her family. More worrisome, the mother's unbelievably thin body suggests an unhealthy lifestyle that cannot be a good model for her daughter.
I have three current students operating out of this house and I had another one last year. I recognize and respect the sincerity with which all of the parents have discussed their interest in their children's education, and the deep affection I've seen between the parents and kids. Unlike some of my families, who disagree with the whole project of public education, the J---'s seem to appreciate the importance of learning, but cannot support it. They get it, they just can't do it.
I realize that it's not my job to judge parents, only to deal equitably with what they produce. But even in this case, I find that I'm not contemptuous but sad. Everything I can observe tells me that, outside of the truancy, they are not abusive or neglectful. I earnestly believe they love their kids as much as anyone else, they want the best for their kids. I think their idea of "the best" even lines up with mine, high school graduation and the option of college. But they cannot help M--- get there.
I found it oddly appropriate that this is the only house where I saw, or even smelled, smoking. I find it difficult to imagine that any adult in the nation doesn't know that smoking is bad for you and bad for your kids, and certainly no one here in California, where we've all but banned it from the state. But the J---'s can't stop, just like they can't keep themselves out of jail, just like they can't get their daughters to school, just like they cannot help the girls learn division. They are the real have-nots, the truly impoverished in our poor community. For what more base poverty is there than the inability to provide a future, whether physical or mental, for the children?
Tuesday, September 13, 2005
Home Visits - 2 of 4
"Antiques Roadshow" or "The TV Stayed On"
It didn’t start well; it didn’t end well. I was a few minutes late to one house, a student I’ve had great difficulty connecting with due to the fact that his behavior is simply bizarre. I was a little disconcerted when no one opened the metal grill-door despite my knocking, though I could hear people in the very near room. I shouted through, “It’s the teacher from H----. Did A---- tell you I was coming?” and a voice answered, “Yes, he said you’d be here at 7:30.” I checked my watch: 7:37. Biting through pride, I apologized, but still waited to be let into the house. A minute or so later, another guest left and he opened the door to let me in.
The mother and father were seated on the couch, watching “Antiques Roadshow.” They gestured to a seat, which I took, and then they rose. The mother went to the kitchen and the father took a seat next to me, but still facing the television. The television stayed on. (No, I don’t care if it was PBS.) I introduced myself, vainly tried some pleasant openings, and then pulled out my page of class expectations. I talked about the homework and about the intervention programs, speaking mostly to the side of the father’s head. The father asked and answered a few questions but would continually return his attention to the television. At one point, as I paused for him to decide which enrichment programs would best suit his son, I got the strange feeling he was waiting for a commercial.
Eventually, the mother returned and gave me some cake and Coke, but she took a seat and resumed watching television. For a few awkward moments, we just sat there. Me staring at the parents, the parents staying at the T.V. I asked after the student and was told he was embarrassed to come out. I asked them to call him out and they made a perfunctory effort but he never appeared. Later, he came through the front door and went straight to his room.
Throughout the rest of the meeting, I vainly tried to convey to the parents a sense of urgency about improving their son’s lackluster performance, but gave up as I saw that this talk was losing out to KQED’s broadcast of the International Dance Festival. The father recognized me for being “gung-ho” and said he was not surprised I was “so young.” I felt like I could see under the thin veneer of praise a thick layer of contempt or, at the very least, disbelief. I was tempted to ask if he could possibly meet me halfway, be just a tiny bit gung-ho himself, but I held my tongue. Soon, I excused myself and apologized for the intrusion.
Despite my tremendous frustration, there is one small benefit from this encounter. Today I walked up next to A---, son of the T.V. Zombies, and started to listen to him read. I noticed his arm was covered in snot and as I stood there, he wiped some more onto it. Instead of verbally lashing the poor child for his disgusting behavior, I remembered his parents, imagined “No, no has ever taught him to use a Kleenex,” and sent him to the bathroom to clean up.
It didn’t start well; it didn’t end well. I was a few minutes late to one house, a student I’ve had great difficulty connecting with due to the fact that his behavior is simply bizarre. I was a little disconcerted when no one opened the metal grill-door despite my knocking, though I could hear people in the very near room. I shouted through, “It’s the teacher from H----. Did A---- tell you I was coming?” and a voice answered, “Yes, he said you’d be here at 7:30.” I checked my watch: 7:37. Biting through pride, I apologized, but still waited to be let into the house. A minute or so later, another guest left and he opened the door to let me in.
The mother and father were seated on the couch, watching “Antiques Roadshow.” They gestured to a seat, which I took, and then they rose. The mother went to the kitchen and the father took a seat next to me, but still facing the television. The television stayed on. (No, I don’t care if it was PBS.) I introduced myself, vainly tried some pleasant openings, and then pulled out my page of class expectations. I talked about the homework and about the intervention programs, speaking mostly to the side of the father’s head. The father asked and answered a few questions but would continually return his attention to the television. At one point, as I paused for him to decide which enrichment programs would best suit his son, I got the strange feeling he was waiting for a commercial.
Eventually, the mother returned and gave me some cake and Coke, but she took a seat and resumed watching television. For a few awkward moments, we just sat there. Me staring at the parents, the parents staying at the T.V. I asked after the student and was told he was embarrassed to come out. I asked them to call him out and they made a perfunctory effort but he never appeared. Later, he came through the front door and went straight to his room.
Throughout the rest of the meeting, I vainly tried to convey to the parents a sense of urgency about improving their son’s lackluster performance, but gave up as I saw that this talk was losing out to KQED’s broadcast of the International Dance Festival. The father recognized me for being “gung-ho” and said he was not surprised I was “so young.” I felt like I could see under the thin veneer of praise a thick layer of contempt or, at the very least, disbelief. I was tempted to ask if he could possibly meet me halfway, be just a tiny bit gung-ho himself, but I held my tongue. Soon, I excused myself and apologized for the intrusion.
Despite my tremendous frustration, there is one small benefit from this encounter. Today I walked up next to A---, son of the T.V. Zombies, and started to listen to him read. I noticed his arm was covered in snot and as I stood there, he wiped some more onto it. Instead of verbally lashing the poor child for his disgusting behavior, I remembered his parents, imagined “No, no has ever taught him to use a Kleenex,” and sent him to the bathroom to clean up.
Monday, September 12, 2005
Home Visits - 1 of 4
These last two weeks I have been visiting my students at home, a big part of the reason I have been so scarce in the edu-blog-sphere. 34 students at 30 minutes a-piece is still 17 hours of home visitation. But I wouldn’t trade those hours for anything, even sleep. In discussions with my principal last week, he recognized and I agreed that the greatest benefits of these visits is probably for me, both professionally and personally.
On the tactical professional level, there is nothing better than going to a kid’s home to make them really believe you’re really, truly, deeply serious. What is a phone-call home to a teacher who’s willing to come to your house? What is the inconvenience of a daily note home to someone willing to schedule 34 visits in two weeks? Doing something that none of my students’ teachers have ever done before creates a sense of the exceptionality of this year that is very powerful. It gives me license to suggest that students who have never worked before should begin now, that students who have never achieved before can begin now. I only hope that I can sustain this momentum.
For me, the professional development has been even more tremendous. I now know a little of the subtle variations in shades of poor that separate my students. I now know a little more about who has what and whom in their home. I now know what it means for a student to live on C---- or D----, or G---- Ct. or S---- Ct. I now know the feel of my students’ kitchens and living rooms. I now have a sense of the cultural milieu that I’m teaching in. It is a little bit of knowledge and a little bit of sense, but it is a whole lot more than I had a year ago.
Personally, the 6 evenings of experience has etched some indelible memories of my school’s community into my mind. Please know that I share them here with the greatest of respect for the families they depict.
Cars, cars, cars
I generally conduct my visits from 4:00PM to 9:00PM. As I zip back and forth across the neighborhood, I watch as the streets fill, and fill, and fill with cars. This is California, even the poor have to drive, and when you live 12 people to a house, that means at least four or five cars. By my later visits, I am parking blocks away, skirting fire-hydrants and the edges of driveways in hopes that my car will be unnoticed for the 20 minutes I am in each house. As I drive home, the density of cars and people collected in driveways and front-yards make each block look as host to a dozen parties. Which, looking merely at the numbers, it is.
Cup of Noodles
Only one time have I felt like the family I was visiting was poor, poor in that not-possible-in-my-America sort of poor that we generally inflict on our visions of developing nations and exclude from even the deepest ghetto in our own. It was the cups of noodles that did it. I was at yet another kitchen table, in the midst of explaining “science camp” when I noticed myself surrounded by small children eating Cup of Noodles. Thin, tiny children slurping down Cup of Noodles. Tiny, thin children with terrible, rotten teeth. I looked past one and saw the living room, filled with 3 sets of bunk beds, usually closed off from the kitchen with a curtain. I looked down the hall and saw mail, doubtlessly belonging to each family that inhabited each room, stuck into each door.
Confusion
Probably the most frequent sensation I encountered in these visits was confusion. For all my families, this was the first time a teacher had offered to come to their home. Only one parent declined, but many parents seemed more than a little wary. Certainly, this could be because of their immigration status, possibly simply due to the awkwardness around our language barrier or other cultural divide, or perhaps even because of concern that I was there to check on their parenting. More than a few times I arrived at a home to find the mother frantically cleaning. One family went so far as to actually walk to campus during the meeting time; the student’s mother was unable to believe that the teacher was actually coming to their home.
No Surprises
A wise teacher warned me once, when in high school angst I complained of my mom and dad, “We become our parents.” I fear that even this distant inevitability is too much. We are our parents. Perhaps it’s my own projection, but I really feel like I could’ve drawn each set of parents from each kid. Warm, generous kids have warm, generous parents. Awkward, bizarre kids have awkward and bizarre parents. I’m still waiting for that Matilda, that bright little mind whose home I peek into and think, “How did you possibly happen?”
Worse yet, however, is the mapping of academic performance onto the subtle substrata of social-economic status. All of my students are poor, but some of them are clearly poorer than others. The visible wealth of the student, the neatness and quietude of the home, equates all too perfectly with their achievement scores. This is not projection, you could formulate an equation based on interruptions per hour, trash per square foot, and the cost of the always-center-piece T.V. I find this far more troubling than anything else I’ve seen, because this erodes my belief in the ability of education to intervene.
Part 2 of 4 tomorrow: Antiques Roadshow, or The TV Stayed On
On the tactical professional level, there is nothing better than going to a kid’s home to make them really believe you’re really, truly, deeply serious. What is a phone-call home to a teacher who’s willing to come to your house? What is the inconvenience of a daily note home to someone willing to schedule 34 visits in two weeks? Doing something that none of my students’ teachers have ever done before creates a sense of the exceptionality of this year that is very powerful. It gives me license to suggest that students who have never worked before should begin now, that students who have never achieved before can begin now. I only hope that I can sustain this momentum.
For me, the professional development has been even more tremendous. I now know a little of the subtle variations in shades of poor that separate my students. I now know a little more about who has what and whom in their home. I now know what it means for a student to live on C---- or D----, or G---- Ct. or S---- Ct. I now know the feel of my students’ kitchens and living rooms. I now have a sense of the cultural milieu that I’m teaching in. It is a little bit of knowledge and a little bit of sense, but it is a whole lot more than I had a year ago.
Personally, the 6 evenings of experience has etched some indelible memories of my school’s community into my mind. Please know that I share them here with the greatest of respect for the families they depict.
Cars, cars, cars
I generally conduct my visits from 4:00PM to 9:00PM. As I zip back and forth across the neighborhood, I watch as the streets fill, and fill, and fill with cars. This is California, even the poor have to drive, and when you live 12 people to a house, that means at least four or five cars. By my later visits, I am parking blocks away, skirting fire-hydrants and the edges of driveways in hopes that my car will be unnoticed for the 20 minutes I am in each house. As I drive home, the density of cars and people collected in driveways and front-yards make each block look as host to a dozen parties. Which, looking merely at the numbers, it is.
Cup of Noodles
Only one time have I felt like the family I was visiting was poor, poor in that not-possible-in-my-America sort of poor that we generally inflict on our visions of developing nations and exclude from even the deepest ghetto in our own. It was the cups of noodles that did it. I was at yet another kitchen table, in the midst of explaining “science camp” when I noticed myself surrounded by small children eating Cup of Noodles. Thin, tiny children slurping down Cup of Noodles. Tiny, thin children with terrible, rotten teeth. I looked past one and saw the living room, filled with 3 sets of bunk beds, usually closed off from the kitchen with a curtain. I looked down the hall and saw mail, doubtlessly belonging to each family that inhabited each room, stuck into each door.
Confusion
Probably the most frequent sensation I encountered in these visits was confusion. For all my families, this was the first time a teacher had offered to come to their home. Only one parent declined, but many parents seemed more than a little wary. Certainly, this could be because of their immigration status, possibly simply due to the awkwardness around our language barrier or other cultural divide, or perhaps even because of concern that I was there to check on their parenting. More than a few times I arrived at a home to find the mother frantically cleaning. One family went so far as to actually walk to campus during the meeting time; the student’s mother was unable to believe that the teacher was actually coming to their home.
No Surprises
A wise teacher warned me once, when in high school angst I complained of my mom and dad, “We become our parents.” I fear that even this distant inevitability is too much. We are our parents. Perhaps it’s my own projection, but I really feel like I could’ve drawn each set of parents from each kid. Warm, generous kids have warm, generous parents. Awkward, bizarre kids have awkward and bizarre parents. I’m still waiting for that Matilda, that bright little mind whose home I peek into and think, “How did you possibly happen?”
Worse yet, however, is the mapping of academic performance onto the subtle substrata of social-economic status. All of my students are poor, but some of them are clearly poorer than others. The visible wealth of the student, the neatness and quietude of the home, equates all too perfectly with their achievement scores. This is not projection, you could formulate an equation based on interruptions per hour, trash per square foot, and the cost of the always-center-piece T.V. I find this far more troubling than anything else I’ve seen, because this erodes my belief in the ability of education to intervene.
Part 2 of 4 tomorrow: Antiques Roadshow, or The TV Stayed On
Wednesday, September 07, 2005
Honeymoon's Over, Time To Blog
Up until now, I was afraid that consigning the happiness of my first few days of school to blog would somehow “jinx” my class. As of today, Day 7, The Honeymoon Is Over and I’m free to report on the goings-on in my class without fear of carmic reprisal.
What I like most about this class is that they are still kids. Last year I had 5 students who had been retained and I was told by a mentor teacher that I had the largest ten-year-olds he’d ever seen. The pseudo-sophistication of my 5th-cum-9th graders was an incessant irritant. This year I have a set of truly recent 4th-grade graduates who are, while far from perfect, at least very willing to have fun. The most tangible example of the difference: My read-aloud last year was at first greeted with significant sighs and grumbles, taking a few weeks to catch on. This year they loved Maniac Magee from Day One, immediately setting their head downs and listening intently. Nothing is too corny for this bunch, my hammy reading elicits not glances of how lame but whispers of “Mr. AB is so cool.”
For better and for worse, this has been true across the day. T.P.R. charades were adopted immediately and enthusiastically. The use of “tracking,” universal and constant eyes-on-the-speaker, was readily picked up as a game. There is a willingness to act, to sing, to chant that could only slowly be developed with last year's "mature" bunch. The price, however, is paid with the negative aspects of immaturity. In place of bitchiness, I have bratty-ness. Instead of obnoxious students who are too cool to act out grammar, I have giddy students who cannot recover from a fun or silly activity. Instead of group work that degrades into teasing and social in-fighting, I have group work that degrades into the idle confusion of students not-yet-ready to work independently.
At this point, I have a number of students who are really starting to test the lines, to see how much they can get away with, how much they can stand out. But with one or two exceptions, they are students I understand. They are kids.
What I like most about this class is that they are still kids. Last year I had 5 students who had been retained and I was told by a mentor teacher that I had the largest ten-year-olds he’d ever seen. The pseudo-sophistication of my 5th-cum-9th graders was an incessant irritant. This year I have a set of truly recent 4th-grade graduates who are, while far from perfect, at least very willing to have fun. The most tangible example of the difference: My read-aloud last year was at first greeted with significant sighs and grumbles, taking a few weeks to catch on. This year they loved Maniac Magee from Day One, immediately setting their head downs and listening intently. Nothing is too corny for this bunch, my hammy reading elicits not glances of how lame but whispers of “Mr. AB is so cool.”
For better and for worse, this has been true across the day. T.P.R. charades were adopted immediately and enthusiastically. The use of “tracking,” universal and constant eyes-on-the-speaker, was readily picked up as a game. There is a willingness to act, to sing, to chant that could only slowly be developed with last year's "mature" bunch. The price, however, is paid with the negative aspects of immaturity. In place of bitchiness, I have bratty-ness. Instead of obnoxious students who are too cool to act out grammar, I have giddy students who cannot recover from a fun or silly activity. Instead of group work that degrades into teasing and social in-fighting, I have group work that degrades into the idle confusion of students not-yet-ready to work independently.
At this point, I have a number of students who are really starting to test the lines, to see how much they can get away with, how much they can stand out. But with one or two exceptions, they are students I understand. They are kids.
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