Recompense

Sometimes, I think I must seem like a crazy person.

One day, I think my kids are funny, smart, and quirky. The next, I think that if I have to set foot in that building one more time, I might commit harakiri. Or, as I told Howard the other day, "I need you to go out in the hallway for a few minutes, or I might pull my head off." (It made us both giggle, even though I really thought I might pull my head off, and then we managed to make it through the moment.)

Yesterday and today are examples of this bizarre fluctuation. Yesterday was an immeasurably hard day. I felt beat up. I felt maligned. I felt so, so, so tired that I could barely stand. I felt a few twinges of resentment upon hearing, that evening, about teaching awards being bestowed upon Harvard professors. Yeah, I thought sarcastically. It's really hard to be a good teacher at Harvard. Boy, they really have to work hard over there. They get awards for sitting around on their side of the river and reading and thinking about education, while I'm over here on my side of the river in the trenches. (This, while my partner in crime spends all his days, in fact, reading and thinking about education on that side of the river... I really will get the Harvard chip off my shoulder, soon. I promise.)

Today, though, was conference day. No kids. (Which, obviously, makes it an easier day in some ways. No temper tantrums!) As I sat there, conference after conference, I thought about how much I like each kid. Are they quirky? Yes. Needy? Yes. But smart, funny, with personalities of their own? Absolutely.

And, this is the most amazing part. These kids, who often make me feel as if I spend my days herding cats instead of teaching, have learned. They've learned a lot. They are writing: pages. They are reading: chapters. They are subtracting: double digits. Not only that. They are inferring, synthesizing, and looking for evidence. Higher-level thinking, I tell you! Kids who started second grade unable to sound out the word "stick" are writing words like "dismayed," moaning when they have to stop science to go outside to play, and asking me sophisticated questions about the Civil Rights Movement.

A mom came in my room today and, when I started by asking, "What do you want to make sure we talk about today?" answered, "I want to talk about how much my son loves school."

"Really?" I answered dubiously. Is she talking about her other son? I wondered. Who could love coming to this classroom full of competing, overwhelming needs and a mean, cranky teacher?

Out loud, I said, "That is good to hear, because this has been a really challenging year for me, and I can't tell if the class feels good to the kids or not."

This time it was her turn to say, "Really?! He loves it here! He is so excited about what he's learning. He's thinking about conflict resolution, and how to solve problems. He knows more about Boston than I do. He's excited about this comic book he's writing, and the chapter book he's reading-- oh, and he loves insects!"

It was such a relief to hear. Apparently he doesn't go home and complain about his insane teacher. Apparently he doesn't go home and mention that they didn't learn all day because Ms. Swamp was bossing everyone around and no one was working. Apparently he doesn't think his class is dysfunctional. No, he loves it there.

"I know you say you're having a hard year," she said to me. "But it never looks like it when I come in here. You seem so calm. Everyone seems to be working and having fun."

But I go home and my back is all knotted up with tension, I want to tell her.

But I don't. I beam.

So many days, I work so hard, and feel like there's still so much work to do. Kids whine at me, or scowl, and forget to tell me which parts of the day they liked. I forget to tell them when they said something brilliant, or how in the middle of the night I woke up and thought of something they did and it made me smile. We all forget to appreciate each other in the toughness of the moment, in the struggle to co-exist.

Anyway, take that, Harvard. Awards for teaching -- pshaw. Today I got my reward.

Overheard

Last week, my student Javier was having a bad day. All morning, he wandered around the classroom, muttering under his breath, refusing to do what I asked. As a result, he ended up eating lunch alone in the classroom with me.

I sent his mom an email to let her know how his morning had been. I tried to ask him what was up, but he wouldn't tell me -- he just acted pissed. His mom wrote back and said, "If you have a chance, call me so I can talk to him."

Since we were alone at lunchtime, I called her and put him on. As I puttered around the classroom, he talked.

He put the phone to ear and said, "Hi, mom."

After listening for a second, he explained, "I didn't get enough sleep last night, so I'm really tired."

Another moment of listening, then: "Yes, but I was feeling frustrated."

As she answered, the mouthpiece of my cellphone dangled closer to his eyes than to his mouth.

"I don't feel like talking to you about that right now," he said in a low voice.

Another quiet moment.

"Yes, I understand what you're saying." His voice was calm and resigned.

I was amazed. I had never heard him talk this way before -- so measured, so clear, so self-aware.

"Javier," I said to him. "All morning you've been letting me know that you're having a hard day. You've been letting me know by not doing your work, by not following directions, and by stomping around the room. But I just heard you talk to your mom in a clearer, more mature way than most grown-ups know how to communicate. Now if you could just talk to me that way when you're having a bad day, we could figure out how to help make your day better."

So far, he hasn't been able to talk to me this way. But I know he has it in him.

Phones

My student Raheem brought a cell phone to school yesterday. It was real, and it worked, and it was his. His dad bought it for him. Sigh.

He didn't mean to take it out at school. His dad told him to keep it in his pocket just in case. But it fell out on the bus, and someone saw it, and they told me.

It's against the rules for students to have cell phones at school. Raheem is a terribly conscientious student -- serious, thoughtful, and very, very empathic. (He's the one who raised his hand one day at Morning Circle and said, sadly, "Ms. Swamp, I saw on the news that there are women and children starving to death in Africa.") I had to ask him for the phone. He hesitated a minute, with a sad look on his face, and then reached in his pocket and gave it to me.

"Raheem," I said. "The rule is that you can't have cell phones at school. I have to take it to the office."

"But can I have it back at the end of the day?" he asked.

"You can have it back when a grown-up from your family comes to get it," I said.

He looked dismayed.

"I didn't know I wasn't supposed to bring it to school," he said.

"I know," I answered. "You won't get in trouble. We'll just make sure your family knows you can't bring it to school."

He walked away dejectedly. Later he asked again if he could just have it back, if he promised not to bring it to school again. I told him I just couldn't give it to him, and I explained that one of the big reasons for the rule was that other kids might take it, or it could lost, and then he and his family would all be upset.

He was straightening up his desk before heading to art.

"Ms. Swamp," he asked curiously. "Did you ever have a phone taken away from you when you were little?" I couldn't tell if he was trying to appeal to my sympathies, or just thinking about what a hard day it was and wondering if I had ever felt like him. "Oh no," he answered his own question. "I guess not, because you didn't have cell phones back then, did you?"

This was not meant as a joke. It was a thoughtful awareness of how my experience was different from his, and how things have changed over time (not all second graders are so aware of this). He was putting himself in my shoes (and perhaps wishing I would put myself in his).

His dad came, I explained the cell phone situation, and everyone ended up feeling fine about it. I got a cute little story out of it. And Raheem got to feel disappointed and worried, and then have everything come out okay, and realize it wasn't the end of the world. Which isn't a bad thing.