kids from the ghetto are people, too

The last week I spent in complete limbo, balancing between twenty ten-year-olds I love but was struggling to teach, and the potential of everything. I haven't been very happy in my teaching job, both because of the material learned in fifth grade (of which I know nothing about and have been learning anew as I attempt to teach it), and because of the social and behavioral issues that come with preadolescence. Part of me has been dreaming about a solution. This last Friday, four days ago, things finally settled down and for the first time since August, I am ecstatic about teaching. I am full of ideas and smiles and enthusiasm and endless possibilities.

Because of Norm Day, which is when schools take an official count of their student body, I was displaced. I lost my job because my school did not have enough pupils enrolled to justify the amount of teachers. Because I was hired last, essentially the lowest rung on the totem pole, I was let go first. (But not before a full week of is-she or isn't-she which I couldn't even hint at to my students.)

The decision was handed to me on Friday morning, and I told my class right before lunchtime. A few of them started crying in class, and several more followed suit as they lined up and sat down for lunch. A fire drill rang out as our recess was coming to a close, and I arrived on the yard to find a good eighteen of my students sniffling and moaning. Lining them up for the drill was the easiest experience I've ever had with them. I took pity on them and let them sit on the blacktop so they could mourn in comfort. (And not one child complained that the asphalt was dirty or too hot, a common proclamation every time we have PE.) When the fire drill was over, we returned to our rooms. I had planned a writing assignment so that the kids could let their new teacher know about their fifth grade experiences, but it was clear from the volume of sniffles and hiccups and moans that they would not focus on anything remotely academic. I suggested I read aloud from Roahl Dahl's The Witches, and they listened for a few minutes attentively before silently organizing a classwide campaign to pile my desk with I Love You letters. It was very touching.

That very same day, I drove down to the "worse" neighborhood in the district and interviewed with a new principal. I took the available third grade position because ONE: I love third grade and TWO: She gave me the language arts program teacher's guide and a class schedule. SHE EVEN TOOK ME ON A TOUR OF THE SCHOOL BUILDING. This might seem minor and even expected, BUT IT'S NOT. Only a caring and supportive principal would make sure that his/her teachers start off their year with the proper materials. Many principals are too busy covering their asses and blaming other to facilitate quality education. I could tell this principal inspired a caring and supportive teaching staff because of the way the other teachers greeted me in the hallways and offered to help me out. (In another nameless school, fellow teachers try not to say anything in front of the principal in case s/he takes the opportunity to foist some new responsibility on them.) I could tell that she treated the students with respect because as we walked through the yard, kids yelled her name and waved. (In another nameless school, students completely ignore the principal because his/her only interaction with them is suspension.)

I don't need to repeat myself and express how excited I am at this opportunity to start over. It will be a hard few weeks as I adjust to a new curriculum and facilitate a cohesive classroom community. My dad gave me this quote that he saw on a teacher's wall, which I have printed and laminated and ready to be hung in my new classroom. It reads, "Progress, not perfection." NO ONE EXPECTS ME TO BE PERFECT.

But now I'm going to get so much closer!