School Dreams = Slender Man

Last night, my thirteen year old son interrupted our viewing of the closing ceremonies from London by racing into the bedroom clutching his laptop, giddy and out of breath.  No, he hadn't finished his summer reading assignment (let alone start it), instead he wanted his mother to try a video game: Slender Man.

"Is it scary?" my wife asked.

"Ah, no, Mom, just try it," he said, grinning a.k.a. Cheshire Cat-like.

She immediately passed the laptop to me.

In essence, the game involves traipsing through the woods with tunnel vision perspective, your view illuminated only by the light of a flashlight you control, searching for eight notebook pages before Slender Man (always in tow) finds his way into your field of vision (the screen turns snowy, Slender Man's opaque figure manifests and he catches you).  I found three pages and bit the dust.  It's an unsettling game and churns the adrenalin.  After about fifteen minutes of losing repeatedly, I tossed the laptop back to my son.

At midnight, I went outside with our special needs poodle, Rudy, to watch the meteor shower.  I saw three streak across the northeast sky, Rudy stood next me, head hung low staring at a dead beetle on the deck.  It's a toss up on which of us was more excited.

Bed time...and the the school dream began (insert Twilight Zone music here).

Normally the dream takes shape in my classroom, always overflowing with students, faces I've never seen before.  It's the clinical I-don't-have-control-over-my-students-dream.  It begins simply enough, I am usually just trying to take attendance or get students to settle down and then it escalates.  Actually, now that I reflect on this recurring dream, the only thing that escalates is me.  The students are always calm, but noisy.  I always end up storming out of the room, filling out an application for Wal-Mart, or in the fetal position under my desk, murmuring incoherently, a puddle of drool soaking into the blue carpet.

Dream analysis: I-don't-have-control-over-a-damn-thing-in-my-life and we-are-at-the-mercy-of-our-students-every-day-we-enter-the-classroom.

But last night's dream was different.... (cue Twilight Zone, again).

It began with me hiking in the woods, searching for the professional day workshop.  I arrived, late, but was soon interrupted by the ninth grade counselor.  I was now late for a PPT.  I remember feeling frustrated that I had to leave the workshop.  We were about to sit in a circle on the rug and share donuts and punch.

 I followed the guidance counselor to the main office.  It was over run with activity.  The principal, now superintendent, was showing the assistant principal, now principal (which is true) a book on how to be a principal.  Students were complaining about classes,  secretaries were scrambling about with boxes of staples and paper clips, and in the corner of the chaos sat a circle of old wooden chairs.  Seated about the circle were two students, what I perceived to be the parents, the counselor, and...... Slender Man.  At least I think it was Slender Man, because I didn't want to make eye contact, because then it would be game over.

The counselor handed me two folders explaining that the twin boys would be in my ninth grade English class and there were many modifications. I thought I recognized the students, and remember rationalizing in my mind that I couldn't possibly know them because they were entering ninth grade.  Mom interrupted my thinking, handing me some sort of purple crystal.  She said it plugged into my car radio.

"Here, you need to use this to update us on the boys' progress every hour of the day," she said to me, handing over crystals and adapters.

"What?" I murmured.

Dad chimed in.  "You need to update us every hour on the hour.  It's all in the folders."

"Using my car radio and purple crystals?"

"New state requirement," the counselor chimed in.

The room froze.  Complete silence.  All eyes were glued on me, waiting for my response.

Slender Man coughed.  At least I think he did.

"New state requirement?" I asked.

Everyone in the room smiled, nodding their heads.

"Purple crystals and a car radio.  Well, that makes sense."

That's when my vision clouded and Slender Man got me.

Game over.

Dream analysis:  I-don't-have-control-over-a-damn-thing-in-my-life and we-are-at-the-mercy-of-our-students-every-day-we-enter-the-classroom.

Thank God they're good kids.

And So It Goes

So... after a year of virtually no word from my literary agent, i finally received an email response...she is no longer representing clients.

Back to square one, as the cliche goes.

Coincidentally, I just finished reading And So It Goes, the Kurt Vonnegut biography by Charles Shields.  So, in my state of disbelief and detachment from good thoughts, I've been driving my family crazy by ending all of my sentences with that catch phrase...and so it goes.  It's reaching a critical point in the household. I can tell by all of the doors closing as I near the end of speaking a sentence aloud.  Everyone runs for the other room like scurrying ants trying to avoid a can of Raid. Even the poodles are avoiding me.  (Sigh). And so it goes.

After receiving the news of losing my agent, I spent the next couple of days re-evaluating the whole writing career.  It's a dismal time to be in the book writing business.  Book stores are closing, publishing houses downsizing, and apparently the world is ending on December 22.  How will one ever meet that deadline with all this pressure?  Blah, blah, blah... see where this line of thinking leads me?  To the Mayans.

So, I face two choices.  Give up and become a professional Fantasy Baseball player owning thirty-five fantasy teams and driving them into the ground, or roll-up my cliched sleeves and begin anew.

(crickets chirping)

And so it goes.

Our Noble Profession

Recently, I attended two retirement parties for colleagues that have taught 30+ years in the Connecticut public schools.  As expected, both celebrations were well attended. Banquet rooms filled with family, friends, administrators, colleagues, former students....all sharing in the recollections and accomplishments of both educators.

As I reflect on the speeches and presentations at each separate party, one recurring theme plays out over and over again: Think of the impact you have made on countless children over your career.

And this is so true.

No one can dispute the impact a good teacher can have on his or her students.

It is the connection and positive relationship we build with our students that sparks the learning process.  For if there is no connection between the teacher and his or her students, there is no environment for growth, no desire for the students to learn.  Sometimes these bonds we build with our students transcend the classroom. Some are even inspired to the point where they follow in their favorite teacher's footsteps (the greatest compliment of all).

For 30+ years both of these educators played an important part in every students' day. They were there to pick them up when they needed it, to counsel and guide, to challenge and nurture.

I wonder why we wait so long to celebrate in the work that good teachers do every day?  Why does it come at the end of one's career with a certificate and granite apple?

Teacher bashing is on the upswing.  Take our governor's reform (if one can call it that) for example.  One piece (45%) of the new teacher evaluation process is data showing growth in student performance. What exactly does this mean? What is to be measured?  How will this be measured?  Standardized testing? And if so, how can one measure the intangibles that teachers bring to the classroom every day?  How can one measure the true impact we make in our students' lives?

It reminds me of a scene in the movie Dead Poets Society when Robin William's character, the English teacher Mr. Keating, asks a student to read the textbook definition of poetry.  As the student reads the scientific method of scoring poems, Mr. Keating draws a graph measuring a Shakespearean sonnet.  When the student finishes reading, the class stares at the graph on the board.  Keating breaks the silence with one word: Excrement. 

You can't measure poetry.

And you certainly can't measure the quality of a teacher based on a standardized test, at least in the way the governor suggests.

Teaching is an art, not a science.

And we just said goodbye to two gifted artists.

Connecticut Teachers Need to Relax

Governer Dannel Malloy has recently come under fire for comments he made regarding teacher tenure.  In essence, the governor stated that under the current tenure law all teachers need to do is "show up" for the first four years of their teaching career.

Wait...I just had to show up?

I'm actually quite upset this was never pointed out to me when I started this teaching gig nineteen years ago.

No BEST portfolio? No three formal observations a year? No mentoring/mentee situation? No extra meetings? No juggling planning, grading, correcting? No grad classes?

Teachers shouldn't be angry about what Governor Malloy said, they should be angry that previous governors didn't tell us we just needed to show up!

This is a breath of fresh air!

I feel as though all of the pressures of this teaching gig have slipped off my desk.  CAPT starts next week...so what! PSAT prep...phewie!  NWEA progress reports....hahaha!  Data team....schmata team!  Professional goals, LTF training...please!  Core Values, Anti-bullying training, suicide prevention workshop, blood borne pathogens....out the window!  Budget, planning, scheduling, curriculum revision, grading, sorting, shredding, stressing, inspiring, bettering, bleeding from the eyes....teaching no more!

Yes, Connecticut educators, our governor should not be reviled.  He should be celebrated!

Now, by my calculations, the State of Connecticut owes me four years of "just showing up" starting...now (insert sound of stop watch clicking).

Ah...you hear that?

It's the sound of nothing.

Cause I'm just showing up.

You Know Things Aren't Going Well When...

You know things aren't going well when your garbage company picks up everyone else's garbage in the neighborhood but yours (even the container directly resting alongside yours,the one less than two feet away was emptied, yeah, I kid you not). Same color container, same company.

Something stinks here and I'm not just talking about at the end of the driveway.

Oh... and then the town officials suddenly decided to take away my one claim to fame, the misspelled road sign:

                    F-R-A-N-L-K-I-N...is now F-R-A-N-K-L-I-N.

                           (strike that, reverse it)

Oh the horror, the horror.

No warning to prepare, no letter of apology in the mailbox.  No, "I'm sorry for the mistake and thank you for pointing that out in your blog and sending us 100 letters reminding us to fix it."  Nope, none of that. Just some midnight run with Mag-lights. The hum of rechargeable drills biting through the frigid air.  Zip. Zip. "Shhhh, it never happened."

Now I have to correct the incorrection after redoing the correction.  New business cards for all! Have to call the credit card companies, utilities...

"Yes, I know I just changed it from F-R-A-N-K-L-I-N to F-R-A-N-L-K-I-N but I had no warning, really. You want the outrageously high cable bill to reach me, right?"

Wait a minute, hold on now (insert epiphany here)  Maybe this is why I haven't heard from the editor.  Yes!  That's it.  It's the road sign!  The mail is not reaching the correct destination.  It's being returned.  That's why I haven't heard anything for six months! The damn road sign!

But I digress... I haven't written a blog post for months and all because I've been trying to put my mind at ease over two questions that have haunted me since back in December when I traipsed through the mall Ch****mas shopping (If you are wondering why I wrote Ch****mas instead of the complete word, see previous blog post).

I have questions, perhaps someone out there can provide the answers? Place my mind at ease?  Help me get back on track and break through this writer's block?


#1)  Please explain the existence of the following merchandise displayed for purchase:

                                      There must be a reason, I'm sure.  Someone tell me....

#2)  And what about these?

                                           KISS Pandas?  Please explain.

                Until I find the answers to the questions that plague me, until my road sign returns to F-R-A-N-L-K-I-N, I fear all is lost.  I may never write again.  I may just pine away in the corner of the garage, rocking gently in the fetal position.  Wasting away, melting, melting... At least until Boardwalk Empire starts up next season.