Gladly Would I Teach

On my way to school each morning before daybreak, I used to pass the same man walking down the road, a sweater swung over his shoulder, lunch bag in hand, eyes glaring at the pavement, never looking up. Instinctively, I waved, but he never responded.

Weeks passed and it became a game to see if I could get his attention, but even a single, admonitory horn blast in the still morning air caused him only to take a step off the road and continue his conventional walk toward – I never knew where.

I wanted to yell “Wake up, old man; the world’s passing you by,” but rational responses prevailed. It’s a sinuous, hilly road, and scenery is limited before dawn. I made up stories to pass the time. One day he was a stockbroker, the next day a hit-man, a poet, a cellist, a traveling preacher, and a tenor for the local operatic society on his way to the VFW. Once, I even considered the possibility that he was a philanthropist who had given away millions in an effort to live closer to nature. I was young and idealistic. I couldn’t accept the fact that the man was merely a laborer, probably minimum wage, a workman with no future other than walking every day to work, a man who never truly touched life.

Months passed, and I named him Bartleby – Bartleby on his way to death. It was cruel, but semi-darkness evokes sinister feelings. I drove on. “Have a good day, Bartleby!” In the stifling morning air before sun-up as I followed the man’s shape in my rear-view mirror, I could almost hear his response: “I would prefer not to,” as darkness enveloped his body.

“Wake up, old man!  The world’s passing you by!”

I received my best advice about teaching that year, my first year in the classroom, but, like most advice, it came much too late.

Randy sat on the back row in my third-period class. He was a wall-hugger, content with anonymity. Meanwhile, I was a pure English teacher in those days. I taught the parts of speech; simple, compound, complex, compound-complex sentences, onomatopoeia, alliteration, personification, and epiphany. I moved quickly; there was so much to learn and so little time. “Better keep up, kids, or I’ll leave you behind!”

Randy hugged the wall, and I listed the zeros daily. The kid was fifteen years old, several years behind in reading and failing every class, but his parents never called the school. They just didn’t care!

By spring, the biography unraveled. Randy lived right up the street in a run-down shack, its sagging front porch propped up with concrete blocks. Forgotten, long-ago useless cars spotted the yard where daffodils and geraniums should have bloomed. Randy caught the bus down the road so that other students wouldn’t see where he lived.

In all of the years that Randy and his brothers and sisters had been in school, no teacher had ever made contact with the parents. There was no phone, and letters mailed home were returned the following day by one of the embarrassed children who reported that no one in the house could read.

Often, food was short.

I felt sorry for him. His childhood was so different from my own. Poverty was something I recognized only in magazines. With a callow, black-and-white assessment, I thought I understood Randy. He had enough anxiety in his life without me creating more. He hugged the wall, and I rarely intervened. If he found trouble in the work I gave, I patted him on the shoulder in the condescending way that rookie teachers exhibit so frequently, and I gave him an easier assignment. When he turned in a paper, I automatically gave him a much higher grade than the other students, even when I knew it was not his best work. When he was tired and put his head on his desk, I allowed him to sleep right through my class. At no time did it ever occur to me that a TRUE teacher would have sat down beside Randy and said, “I know you’re having trouble, but I also know you can do the work. Let me help you get started.”

Randy dropped out of school the last day of spring quarter, and that is when an “old-timer” a “lifer” in teaching who had grown up in Techwood Homes, America’s first public housing unit, approached me. Despite terrible odds, with the help of a few good teachers who were willing to take extra time with her, she had graduated from high school, graduated from college, and dedicated her life to helping students. “Don’t ever give up on a kid like that,“ she told me. “Too many people already have, and he doesn’t need anyone else feeling sorry for him. You’re all that stands between that kid and the future.”

The report card shows that he failed my class, but I know how much I failed Randy. He needed encouragement, and I taught him symbolism. He needed direction and someone to show him how to succeed, and I talked about hyperbole and assonance. He needed someone to care, and I marked zeros and watched him hug the wall. It was so easy to do; everyone else had also given up on him.

As trite as it sounds, experience is often the best teacher.  Today, whenever I’m tempted to give up on a student, I think back to Randy. The day that memory no longer arouses action, I’ll walk away from my classroom forever. Perhaps I couldn’t have changed him, but the most haunting memory of all is that either through lack of effort, misguided compassion, or insufficient desire, I never really tried.

Full of hope, one morning in the following fall, I watched as the headlights captured two approaching figures on the side of the road. In the darkness of the early morning, it was impossible to differentiate father from son as they walked toward – I never knew where.

I wish I had a second chance with Randy.

  Copyright secured by Digiprove © 2010 Edie Parrott

We are experiencing the coldest weather in 25 years in Georgia. This morning as I sat here drinking tea in front of a fire, I started thinking about an earlier time of very cold weather.

In the early 1980s when I was a young teacher, I rented a house adjacent to an elementary school in the system where I taught. It was a great deal for me because the school district charged very little rent because they wanted a teacher in the house in the hopes that he or she would watch over the school.

One January morning I awoke to the lovely news “Cobb County Schools are closed today.” There was a little snow and ice, but the schools were closed primarily because of the cold. If I remember correctly the temperature was in the single digits. Those of you who live in areas where it gets really cold will probably laugh that we close schools because of single-digit temperature, but school heating systems, particularly in older schools, are just not equipped to handle such weather.

I went back to sleep.

About thirty minutes later, Mrs. Burrell, the secretary at the elementary school called me and told me that a parent had called her at home to tell her that she had spotted a handful of young children waiting at the school. Since the secretary was home and didn’t want to drive in the bad weather, she called to ask me to walk over and check on the kids. I immediately told her I would be happy to do so . . . and then grumbled as I hung up the phone, climbed out of bed, and got dressed in my warm clothes.

I had to walk all around the building, but I finally found five little boys (kindergarten to third grade) standing together behind the school. I can’t remember that much about them except that two of them were not bundled up well for the cold weather, and Billy, the youngest one, had no gloves or mittens and as his nose ran, it actually froze on his face.

I brought all of the kids back to my house and had them call their parents to pick them up. Four of the parents arrived within 30 minutes to pick up their children, but not one of them even thanked me.

Billy and I sat in my kitchen as I tried to get the 5 year old to tell me his phone number. No luck!  Then I asked him to tell me his last name. Still no luck! When Mrs. Burrell called me back, I had to describe Billy in the hopes that she could figure out who he was. Sure enough, she responded with his last name and then said, “Now, we’ve got a problem.”

According to the secretary, Billy’s parents were not very supportive of the school so teachers usually dealt with the grandmother, but she was out of town for the week. Because Mrs. Burrell knew it would be impossible to reach the parents, she decided that she would come pick up Billy, keep him at her house, and then take him home at 11:45, his normal time to return home after half-day kindergarten.

I told her not to worry about Billy because I would keep him at my house and take him home at the proper time. So, Billy and I spent several hours watching cartoons in my den and waiting for the time when I could take him home. He was so cold that I had to remove most of his clothes and bundle him in a blanket while I dried his clothes. I also realized very quickly that women in their twenties without children rarely have food or drinks in the house that appeal to five year olds!

At 11:30, I dressed Billy in his nice warm clothes, put him in my car, and set out to take him home according to the directions the secretary had given me. No one was on the road!

I drove into a seemingly deserted neighborhood of lots of little houses and very few trees. As I pulled into Billy’s driveway, however, I experienced a surreal scene that I hope to never again witness. Two police cars pulled in quickly right behind me, and officers jumped out of their cars, drew their guns, and screamed for me to get out of my car with my arms raised.

The experience would be unnerving for everyone, but it was particularly upsetting to someone whose greatest transgressions prior to this moment involved overdue library books and a speeding ticket for driving 58 in a 55-mph zone in South Carolina!

After telling Billy to stay put, I stepped out of the car and raised my arms high in the air, just as I had seen in cops-and-robbers television shows. The policemen lowered their guns, and an angry woman jumped out of one of the police cars and screamed, “What did you do to my baby?!!” She ran over and pulled Billy out of my car. I discovered that the parents and policemen had been searching for Billy all morning, but I have no idea why they would not have talked to neighbors who lived right beside the school!

After explaining the situation to the police officers and giving them Mrs. Burrell’s name so they could check my story, they told me I could go. They also told me that they were planning to charge the parents with abandonment for leaving a 5 year old child outside a locked school on a morning of single-digit temperature.

A little upset, a little angry, and very cold, I drove home.

So much for being a Good Samaritan!

Would I do it again? Absolutely!  What makes this story interesting is that it is such an anomaly, and it pales in comparison to the hundreds of other times when I have helped students and parents who thanked me profusely.

I just hope the next time I have to help doesn’t come on a snow day when I am nice and warm and planning to sleep late!

  Copyright secured by Digiprove © 2010 Edie Parrott

Earlier in my career I used to hear boys complain about reading and writing. They considered most of the books we read to be GIRL books and most of our essays to be essays for GIRLS. Math and science and even history were true BOY subjects.

Many parents also considered English to be a subject that boys had to endure: “He’s never liked English, but we tell him just to push through it, and it will be over before he knows it.”

Along with most English teachers, in the past I included works that I thought would interest males. A Separate Peace by John Knowles, Golding’s Lord of the Flies, Shelley’s Frankenstein, Huxley’s Brave New World, and lots of Shakespeare, particularly Macbeth and Hamlet, became staples of English classrooms because the works were timeless and sufficiently interesting to males. In other words, they were not GIRL books or plays.

In the past two to three years, however, I have seen and heard a change in how males regard English classes. I no longer hear “girls’ subject,” nor do I see boys trying to evade English classes. Instead, most of the males that I teach like English and have a favorable view of English teachers.

What has prompted this change and is this a trend across the country or something only happening at my local school? I have a few theories, but no real answer.

Since I teach all seniors, possibly older students are more interested in reading and writing than younger boys.

Since I teach AP English Language and Composition, a course that stresses nonfiction reading and writing, maybe the boys are more interested in nonfiction literature instead of novels, plays, and poetry. Authorities on teaching boys emphasize the need to include more nonfiction literature in schools.

Is the Internet with its emphasis on reading and writing indirectly increasing boys’ interest in English?

Although I have no proof of the rationale behind the change I am experiencing in the attitudes of boys, I have a sneaking suspicion that the real reason may revolve around the English Department in my high school. For years I taught in schools where the English department was composed almost exclusively of female teachers. Usually, we would have one or two male English teachers, and they were men who worked well with low achieving students or reluctant readers.

Today, eight of the fifteen English teachers in the department where I teach are male. What a change!  Throughout their high school careers, male and female students will have both male and female English teachers, and I suspect that is one of the main reasons why we rarely hear the complaint that English is a girls’ subject. When boys have a coach who loves Shakespeare, why would they regard literature as only for girls? When boys have an English teacher who can quote 18th-century British poetry with as much enthusiasm as he spouts NCAA college football statistics, why would they consider poetry as a feminine subject?  When boys have a male teacher who plays in a band and also loves to write, why would they believe writing is a subject just for girls?

Is English still considered a girls’ subject in your school? Have you seen a change in how boys regard reading and writing?

A couple of days ago, I wrote about how shocked I was to find that one of my elementary schools had been closed and abandoned.

Hours after I walked around the deserted grounds of Cedar Grove Elementary, I drove into Atlanta to find West Manor Elementary, the first school I ever attended. Although I attended the school almost 50 years ago, it is still shiny, still pretty, still just as welcoming as it was so many years ago when I walked into Mrs. Newby’s kindergarten class and cried when my mother told me I had to be a big girl and stay there by myself.

I walked around behind the building and discovered that several wings had been added to the building, and, unlike so many new projects, they blended in with the original building and looked as though they had always been there. If one of the wings had not been placed right on top of a large sandbox where I remember playing, I may not have even noticed the “new” additions. (For all I know, the wings could have been added 30 years ago! In fact, since I spent second grade in Mrs. Likens’ classroom in the adjacent church, I suspect the additions must have been added many years ago.)

When I walked around to the back of the school, the area I most wanted to see was the huge playground at the bottom of a hill. To my relief, it was still there in all its splendor. The paved area for basketball remained as well as a large swingset and play area. The ramp leading down to the playground was just as I remember except in my memory, it had been much steeper. Six and seven year olds view the world quite differently from adults. Interestingly, a fence now confines children to the walkway and prevents them from falling down the hill, something that probably should have been installed when I was in school there.

In response to my post about the abandoned school I visited, John Spencer stated,

I think there is a powerful pull to geography and memory. Schools are not simply “places” but entities in and of themselves.

John is absolutely right.

As I walked around West Manor, I didn’t just see an old school; I saw my childhood.

I saw the area where we used to have May Dances every year.

I stood on the spot where I joined my first private club, complete with a secret handshake, and then learned how wrong it was to exclude people from clubs.

I stood in the parking lot and remembered those terrible days in the early 1960s when we were told to leave school early and walk home so we would know how to get home on our own in the event of a nuclear attack. (Oh, we were all, even adults, so naive in those days!)

I remember crying when the head fell off of my elephant costume during my performance in a play, and I remember Mrs. Guy, the principal, who put her arm around me, led me into her office, and convinced me that I had been a spectacular elephant in the play.

I remember getting into trouble for sneaking down the hall to another teacher’s classroom because she had a visitor who had fought in World War II, and HE WAS STILL ALIVE!  (My mother had to explain to me later that my own grandfather had also fought in WWII and was still very much alive.)

I remember standing in line with my classmates and picking up sugar cubes that inoculated us against polio.

I remember loving Wednesday mornings, long before the cumbersome dictates of No Child Left Behind, because Mrs. Farner’s husband came to school and taught ballroom dancing to her third graders and then gave us candy.

I remember sitting in the classroom floor listening to my teacher read a book to us after she told us, “President Kennedy has been shot, but I know he would want us to keep working hard and learning.”

I remember gathering with other classes around the few black and white televisions available and counting down 10-9-8-7-6-5-4-3-2-1 as rockets launched at Cape Canaveral, long before Neil Armstrong walked on the moon.

I remember singing “She Loves You, Yeah, Yeah, Yeah” just like the Beatles with my friends while standing in the cafeteria line and waiting as the “lunchroom lady” pulled the handle on the big machine that said “Atlanta Dairies” and filled our glasses with cold, cold milk, long before plastic containers and milk cartons entered school cafeterias. And, I remember sitting at the cafeteria table and not being allowed to leave until all of our glasses were empty.

Most of all, I remember being happy.

When I attended West Manor Elementary School from 1961 to 1966, all of the students were white. When Atlanta’s schools were integrated in the late 1960s, my family, along with hundreds of other families who were afraid of declining property values, afraid of other races who did not look like them, afraid of change, flocked to the suburbs. Today, this beautiful school in a gorgeous tree-lined neighborhood is composed almost exclusively of African-American children. I would like to believe we have learned something about getting along with each other since the tumultuous 1960s, but I’m not too sure.

As I returned to my car after walking around the school grounds, a female security guard approached me. I explained that I had gone to school at West Manor many years before and that I was just taking photos for myself. I don’t think she quite understood how exhilarating it was for me to find “MY” school preserved so well. We talked for a few minutes as I told her that I attended the school almost five decades before. She very sweetly and innocently responded, “I guess you didn’t expect it to be standing after so many years!”  I had to laugh, but it brought me back to reality.

After enduring the disappointment of seeing an abandoned Cedar Grove Elementary School (See Sunday’s post.), it was refreshing to drive up and see West Manor just as I had first seen it the day my mother drove me to school on the opening day of school. My dad had given me a dollar bill because I promised that if he gave me the dollar bill that I would go to school every day and graduate from elementary school, high school, and college.

I upheld my end of the bargain and even picked up a PhD along the way.

I think my father got his money’s worth.

During the final week of the semester, I sat in my classroom after class and talked to two of my students. We laughed about things that had happened during our class and plans we had for the holidays. Amid our discussion, Cortney stated, “I want to ask you a personal question.”

Like any good teacher, I always brace myself when students say that because I never know what they will ask, and, too often, their personal questions pertain to what I think about another student, information I would never disclose to students.

“Sure, ask me whatever you want to know,”  I responded.

“You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to,” Cortney added. “It’s just something that has bothered us all semester, and no one would ever ask you.”

Intrigued, I encouraged Cortney to ask her question.

“We just want to know why you always pour your tea into a paper cup and then put that cup inside a real cup.”

I’ve taught these students for 18 weeks, and their most pressing concern is how I drink my tea?!!

I explained that I put the cup inside another cup so I don’t have to wash the cup or worry about it getting too hot for me to hold or tipping over on my desk.   I started the practice when I used Styrofoam cups in the past that often leaked after a few hours of use.

“Oh,” Cortney responded. “I thought about the cleaning part, but then we wondered if you were just OCD or something.”

I suppose we can never see ourselves as our students see us. I consider myself easy going and approachable, someone students would have no trouble asking such a “personal” question, but I guess I’m wrong.

“We just want to know why you always pour your tea into a paper cup and then put that cup inside a real cup.”

Now, I wonder what I can do with my tea next semester to drive another class crazy!

Sunday night I started writing my final round of teacher recommendations for college acceptance. For as long as I can remember, I have had to spend part of my Christmas vacation writing college recommendations, primarily for The University of Georgia.

UGA and Georgia Tech are the most popular college choices for my students. Students who apply to UGA for early admission do not find out if they have been accepted until the weekend before the final week of school before Christmas Break.

Students who are not accepted must then write several essays and obtain a teacher recommendation by Jan. 15th. So, on the final week of the semester when teachers are swamped with final grades and worried about submitting grades on time, we must also try to sound happy and offer encouragement as  crestfallen students approach us during our final week and ask us to write recommendations for them.

Sunday night I opened my large folder to review the files of 14 students whose recommendations I must write. They are all good students, but several of them forgot to attach a stamped, self-addressed envelope. Two students neglected to attach forms that list their extra-curricular activities, and one student gave me a counselor’s form to complete instead of a teacher recommendation form. I sent emails and asked for the needed items.

Twenty-four hours later, only one student had responded.

I worked on recommendations all day yesterday, and I’ll spend another day writing letters today.  Thankfully, this year UGA provided a way to submit recommendations online.

At least I don’t have to spend part of my vacation standing in line to buy stamps at the post office. Besides, if I didn’t have good students, I wouldn’t have to write any recommendations.

As I was writing thank-you notes this weekend, I started thinking about my first year of teaching when I was so young and so inexperienced.  Milky the Marvelous Milking Cow was a new toy in 1977, and the commercials for the toy seemed to air every ten minutes. Milky was a simple toy in these pre-computer days. Kids fed water with milk tablets to Milky and then milked him.

And he mooed.

And mooed!

And mooed!

In class I kept joking about Milky the Cow and claiming that I was dreaming that Santa would bring him to me for Christmas.

As I learned much too late, teachers should never make such statements to eighth graders. When the final day before Christmas break arrived, my kids presented me with a big box to open. After carefully peeling away the wrapping paper, I discovered Milky the Cow, a much too expensive toy for a silly joke.

We spent the rest of the afternoon milking Milky the Cow.

That’s the last time I joked with students about what I wanted for Christmas.

The generosity of students at Christmas always amazes me. I spent most of the day yesterday writing thank-you notes for all of the gifts I received on Thursday and Friday.  Judging from the gifts, it’s hard to believe we are still in the throes of a major recession.

From hand soap and cream, to books, to gift cards, to tea, home-baked sweets, teacups, socks, note cards, tree ornaments, candles, an iced tea pitcher, earrings, and candy, the gifts are as varied as the students I teach.

The most creative gift came from a student who actually made me a personalized serving spoon by wrapping beads around the handle.

One thoughtful gift came from a student who gave me a copy of Jeannette Walls’ new novel, Half Broke Horses. We read The Glass Castle, her first book, earlier in the semester.

The final gift came from a former student I cherish who sent me a beautiful Christmas wreath that I found on my front porch when I pulled into my driveway at the end of the day.

My favorite gifts are always the poignant words students express in the cards and letters that they give me at the end of the semester. Like most teachers, when the semester closes, I am so tired and wonder if I will regain the strength and enthusiasm to begin yet another new semester in January.

Just when I think it’s time to retire, I read notes from students, and, perhaps it’s a sign of age, but it’s hard not to cry when students express gratitude.

I would like you to know I have never had a teacher who has impacted me as much as you have. You found a way to connect to all of my personal needs and struggles.

The world needs more people like you and I feel privileged to know you as my teacher, mentor, and friend.

Yours is a kind soul coupled with a spirit of joy and a readiness for laughter. I look forward to third period each day because I know, no matter how down I may be, no matter how bad my day has been, Dr. Parrott will always do something to make me feel better, be it playing with a camera or becoming all of a sudden fascinated with my love for the color purple.

Your class has changed me, Dr. Parrott, in more ways than can fit on this paper. It has brought values which lived deep inside me to the surface and has truly changed the way I live my life.

After you gave every student that book with the class picture and saying posted inside, it made me realize that I am a different person than I was on the first day of senior year. You have taught me that I have a voice and people will listen to what I have to say.

Oh, the presents are nice, and the baked goods and candy are delicious. Nothing, however, surpasses the lovely notes that make us remember why we became teachers!

I think I’m going to bookmark this post and refer to it in the future when I have one of those “What am I doing here” days!

Of all of the education courses I have taken, all of the books about teaching I have read, and all of the discussions about students I’ve held over the years, I still have not learned how to say good-bye to students at the end of the semester.

Of course, I tell them good-bye when they leave my classroom, and I wish them good-luck, but I have never learned how to actually let go. When students sit inside my classroom for 90 minutes every day for 18 weeks, classes become like families with all the laughter, love, arguments, and drama.

After so much time spent together, how do we go our separate ways, knowing we will never again gather as a class?

I’m excited as the Christmas season unfolds.

I’m thrilled that my seniors are completing their first semester and moving on to their final semester as high school students.

When they walk out of my classroom on Friday and I sit alone in my empty classroom, however, I will once again curse the fact that I teach only seniors. When they leave my classroom, I will never again have the chance to teach them. Because I teach in a large school with a huge campus, I won’t even see most of them unless they make it a point to stop by my classroom just to say hello.

What’s the hardest thing about my job?

Teaching all seniors and having to say good-bye at the end of the semester. (The only thing more difficult is saying good-bye at graduation.)

Friday is the final day of the semester. Unlike most teachers, however, I’m dreading that day.

I always end the semester with a special activity that allows students to share their thoughts about each other and thank members of the class who have helped them through the semester.

I wrote about this assignment a few weeks ago and explained how I have students write notes and comments to each other.

Want to Give Your Students a Gift?

Today, after we take our final vocabulary quiz and complete the self-evaluation for class participation, I will read aloud the final essay that we will discuss for the semester. It’s a simple essay that is extremely poignant for high school seniors. I read Robert Fulghum’s “Credo” from All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten.

Credo

Afterward, I’ll pass out small gifts that I have for students and distribute the comments that students wrote for each other. We’ll sit around and eat cake and discuss the semester and laugh and bring the class to a close. (Our final exams start tomorrow.)

Most of all, we’ll end the class with laughter and happiness, a memory that I hope will remain with students for many years. It’s my favorite day of the semester.