I Can't Be Serious...And Why I Shouldn't Be

My seventh grade math teacher told me to wear all black the first day of school, even the first week. To tie my hair into a high, severe knot. She advised me to invest in faux librarian glasses – the ones with the pointy corners - to make me look more serious. I was not to laugh or smile. I was to be stern. I could do it.

I don’t think she knew me very well! Or, she saw already that I have absolutely no poker face and am prone to constant smiling, boisterous laughter, and snark.

There was no hope for me to be serious.

Fortunately, not only am I not able to be that bland and monochromatic for a day or a week, but I also realize that I shouldn’t be. I don’t want students to see me as a robot or machine or ice queen. They should see me as real. Because that’s the way I see them. Real. Honest (sometimes frighteningly so). Kind. Hilarious. Struggling. Depressed. Mine.

High school students are people first. And, they are growing people. There is a prevalent attitude that somehow they should already be fully formed human beings, responsible for ALL of their choices as if they’ve been paying electric bills and federal taxes since their elementary days. The problem is, they are still kids, still human. Yes, they will goof up and make mistakes. However, instead of destroying them for the error of their ways, it is our primary job to reteach them. In the same way that we revise and reteach academic skills and content, we should also revise and reteach behaviors and choices. Talk it out. Ask questions. Offer advice. Students aren’t fully grown adults yet. They still have time to learn and thrive, and they deserve the chance to do so.

Don’t we all?

Comments

Dude. Be nice.

It's in the air like the scent of burnt popcorn from the teacher workroom fogging the halls. It's on our faces like thick blue cupcake icing that will never, never wash off. What is it, you ask? The spring slide. The end of the year blues. The how-many-more-days-do-we-have weekly question. Yup, it's that time of year. It happens annually. Spring Break concludes, and it takes all of our patience and enthusiasm with it. Students go off for a week and leave any interest and motivation under the blankets where they slept their break away. We teachers leave our efforts to collaborate and abilities to reason in the pages of our reads and on the beaches of our trips. And there is just never. enough. coffee. Ever. That sad and disappointing part of the spring slide/endofyearblues is that it leaves us snarking at each other and our students. Our patience is minuscule and our tempers are pre-lit. And everyone - everyone - we encounter wears a target gleaming, waiting ...

A Fish Tale

Last weekend, I went fishing with my dad. I packed the kids in my silver mommy van, waded through the 5 o'clock Friday traffic, and arrived at Lake Fork in time to meet Dad coming off the water. He'd found the "honey hole" and snagged two - one over six pounds, the other over seven! He knew where to take us the following day. Saturday, he took out Ian, my ten year old, first at six AM. Ian going out for his first official early morning bass fishing with Pops is enough to melt my daddy's girl heart, and as expected, they had a blast. After they came in for lunch, Emily, my seven year old, and I crawled into the boat with Ian and my dad, and we returned to Lake Fork, the Big Bass Capital of Texas for another round. Initially, we cruised around in the hot Texas October sun. We found solace in the shade of an old bridge. We "wet a hook" as Dad would say but, sadly, with no luck. Then, evening hit. Fishing frenzy time. Dad returned to the "honey h...

My Emily

One evening a few weeks ago, my almost 8 year old, Emily, was having a night. The scream, pout, tantrum kind of night. Drama was high, and I was doing my best to remain calm and avoid an explosion of anger or a fit of giggles. I'm about 50/50 when it comes to kid fights. I can never predict if I'll react in yelling or laughing. Anyway, this particular incident dealt with toothbrushing. I have come to believe that brushing one's teeth - at least at elementary age - must be akin to chewing shiny metal thumbtacks. Hearing my children protest, one may conclude that I torture them frequently with the help of Crest and Oral-B. This night was no different. Emily was NOT going to brush her teeth no matter what I suggested. Typically, she puts the paste on her brush, clicks two minutes into the timer, and off she goes. But not that night. Her protests grew, her voice reaching higher and higher octaves as her eyes bulged and her face sizzled. She slammed her bedroom door. She th...

The Usual Chaos

Search This Blog