A bigger deal than cheating.

It happened finally. Cheating, in front of my very eyes. I was giving a test and saw a kid toss a paper to the desk behind him. When I asked him for the paper, he tried to tear it and crumple it. But he gave it to me, and when I opened it I saw the answers for two of the test questions. Not that they were correct, but there they were.

Our conversation after class left me shaken. I could tell he was a good student and had done this just to goof off, not out of any real intensity to share answers. Still, it was wrong, and I told him his teacher would be finding out. "Look," I said. "I know you're going to have consequences from this and they might be tough, but if you live through that now I can almost guarantee you'll never do it again." The student begged me not to tell. He asked and asked with a shy intensity. Finally I said, "I have a teenage boy and as much as I want to protect him, I would want him to learn this lesson now."
The boy turned away from me. His teeth were gritted tight together and the tears were beginning to form. "But would you beat your son?"
"Never." The word fell truthfully and blithely from my lips.
"In my culture they do it differently," he said bitterly and his words hit me in the gut.
Already the next class was waiting at the door, but I wanted to be clear about what I was understanding. "Who are you more afraid of, the school or your parents?"
He answered without hesitation. "My parents."
I knew I had to report him to the teacher. I also knew that when his parents found out, they would beat him. It was no good pretending otherwise. I felt trapped, but knew I couldn't just let this go now that it was out there. And the truth was, their method of punishment, although culturally acceptable, was one that required reporting to child protective services. I called the teacher, a lovely woman, who was so matter-of-fact and clear about what had to happen and the process she would go through to report the incident, that she gave me confidence the right thing would happen for this boy I was feeling so badly for.

And I think it has. At least I hope it's the right thing. After the counseling office met with the student, they did bring the state into it. Apparently they are working with the family to help them find more appropriate (and legal) methods of keeping their kid on the straight and narrow. In the process the school discovered that corporal punishment was indeed a practice among this cultural group. So what really gave me hope was finding out the school principal would be talking to the PTA club for that group and suggesting some parent training for those families. Maybe one boy's courage in speaking up about his culture's practice can make a difference for many students. I hope it will be a lesson well-learned.

An op-blog-ed to an op-ed piece.

Look at this, an entire op-ed about substitute teachers:

http://www.nytimes.com/2010/01/03/opinion/03bucior.html

Her basic message is that substitutes are not trained properly, are given obtuse plans, and are often uninformed about needs of the students in classrooms. She is concerned about absenteeism among teachers and feels substitute teachers are poor replacements for actual teacher.

I'm sure what she says if often true, but as a sub, I have also seen a different view as well. In the district I work in, I usually have strong, clear lesson plans left for me which include seating charts in middle and high school. It is always best to have the regular teacher in the classroom, but when they have to have a sub, I consider it my duty to enhance the student's education. Perhaps it means I wander and help with one-on-one tutoring for students who are struggling, something a regular teacher may not always have time for. When I'm explaining math, writing, history, science, I believe I bring another way of presenting information that might be useful or more engaging to some of the students. I try to use my strengths to build student knowledge or their interest in the subject matter. I always follow the lesson plans left for me, but bring what I know and who I am to what we are doing.

And, I work to build relationships with teachers so that by coming back again and again to the same classrooms I can also build relationships with students.

So while I understand Ms. Bucior's concerns about the state of substitute teaching, I don't choose to live it.

Tradition

I attended two promotions last week. Maia had her sixth grade promotion and Chongo finished up eighth grade. Both were flawless and smooth (my kids had come home sunburned from their hours of rehearsing), and neither was unbearably long or boring. It was in fact a lovely, meaningful transition, marking the end of one school and the beginning of another. And I was reminded of how important these traditions are, that it's worth the clothes shopping and the hour spent on the hair and the rush to be on time and orderly.

We live in a world where change is an everyday occurrence. We change jobs, schools, churches, spouses, neighborhoods, friends, wardrobes and cars far more often than our fore bearers did. Psychologists say change creates stress for most people, and if that's true we are getting more and more stressed out as a culture. But there are some traditions that honor these times of transition, because we know that it's important to celebrate and embrace change. To take time out to recognize that our lives are in flux, and that we feel a great deal at these moments. To say goodbye, to cry a little, and to let our stomachs flutter with anticipation at the new.

In our family we have been walking down to our local school for nine years. On the last day of school the 6th grade teachers led their kids through the school to say goodbye to the places and people they had spent the better part of their lives with. As a family, we sadly say goodbye to those days and the community we experienced at our neighborhood school. But we also welcome the new opportunities, the challenge of middle school and high school.

And there was one more ceremony. Chongo had a church party for the eighth grade graduates. The youth leaders presented each eighth grader with a journal spoke about each of them with words that affirmed what they saw in them and appreciated about each of them.

In each of these transition ceremonies I felt the right-ness, the beauty of honoring this passage in my kids lives. In those moments I could not imagine any better place to be.

Wrong numbers

Today I had three calls which were wrong numbers. One was the standard "hello?"
"Is Maria there?"
"no, I think you have the wrong number" sort of call.
Two were messages on my answering machine. The first was the lovely voice of a receptionist from a local spa reminding me about a massage appointment for someone named Elizabeth. I called them back to let them know Elizabeth hadn't gotten the message. The only thing worse than not getting a massage is getting a phone call for someone else who is. The next message was actually for someone by my name, and this time, thankfully, NOT for me. Apparently my namesake had bounced the check she'd written to her cabinet maker. I called him back too, and wished him luck. He sounded pretty bummed out.
What do they say about things happening in threes? I tried to imagine what the universe was trying to tell me in three wrong numbers. But the only thing I understood was that I was not Maria, I did not have a massage appointment and I had not bounced a check.
Maybe that was enough to learn in one day.

Tears

I'm in a kindergarten class. We're at the end of a good day, everything having moved along well, and I'm feeling my kinder mojo might be coming back. Kindergarten is so hard for me, just hitting all the marks of work and time and the right amount of explaining and encouraging. We were doing math centers, everybody working on task. I have a group I'm helping, another group doing a worksheet and the lucky red group playing a math game on the carpet.

Suddenly, next to me is a boy crying, his mouth opening and closing like a fish, but no words or sobs coming out. Hardly a breathe going in. "What is it?" I asked, alarmed but trying not to panic. His mouth opens and closes a few more times and the tears keep rolling but still no words. "Are you hurt?" I ask and he just continues his silent sobbing. Clearly he's in terrible pain and the worst thoughts run through my head. Are his eyes okay? Do I see any bumps? Is it internal? The lucky red group on the carpet where he was playing are oblivious. If he was serious injured they are not alarmed. I get back down to his level and finally he speaks, eeking out the words between tears. "They aren't going in order," he sobs. Ahh, right. No broken bones, no punctured skin. They just weren't going in order.

I tell this story at dinner that night, dramatizing my fear and my reaction. "Mom," says Maia. "Don't ever panic. You'll scare all the other kids."

"Really?" I'm interested in what she thinks ought to happen. "What should I have done."

"Get down at his level and look him in the eye. Then say 'Are you okay, honey?'" Her voice is high and teacher-like. Why does my ten year old have better instincts than I do?

Widespread Panic

At one of our local middle schools, a student let off a series of firecrackers during Friday lunch. It happens once, maybe twice, a year -- not too unusual. Except today. Today 1400 kids sat in silence for two seconds, and then ran. They ran out onto the upper fields and up towards the classrooms. Some jumped the fence and kept running up the streets. Others tired before the fence and waited out on the grass, regaining their calm, telling themselves it really couldn't have been gunfire.

The thing is that on Monday, all of these students sat through an intense assembly entitled Rachel's Challenge (www.rachelschallenge.com) that recounted to these students who had been preschoolers at the time, the story of the Columbine shootings. It was a moving assembly, which I'm sure had a profound affect on many students in its call for spreading compassion and kindness. But on this day, the reality of that story literally scared the crap out of 1400 middle schoolers when they heard a series of firecrackers explode.

It was a little reminder that timing can be everything.

Grades

Chongo got a 93% on his last math test. Exciting news in our house since his math grade has been dogging him this year. It's 8th grade Algebra and he needs an A or B to take Geometry next year. We're in the car when he tells me this and I raise my hand, "High Five!"

"Mom, don't high five me."

"Why?"

"It hurts me. It hurts me inside." The rascal, he's teasing me.

"I'm happy for you," I say. "What should I do to celebrate?"

"How about $5?" he suggests. Right. I'm not paying for test scores. I already pay for semester grades and at $20 per A and $5 per B sometimes it costs me a chunk.

"Consider it a donation to the the "Cause for a Better Chongo." We both laugh out loud at this and he starts to riff on an ad for his new cause.

Inside myself I celebrate his sense of humor. Today I like it even better than A's on math tests.