Defining life through little red wagons

That second year of teaching regular education was one of the best teaching years I ever had.  Because of the selection of students I had my first year, I think everyone felt I had “paid my dues” by surviving and rewarded me with a wonderful group of kids for my second year.  I felt like I had died and gone to heaven.

In addition to my Squanto play and stone soup opera, I expanded the curriculum by assigning “Projects of the Month.”  These were special projects I designed for parents and students to work on together.  They were optional fun.  If a child chose to complete the project, they received extra credit in the subject area on which the project focused.  Each month would focus on a different subject area.  In December, they were asked to keep track of sunrise/sunset times, make some predictions, draw some conclusions, record their data in chart form, write up a report, and present the information in an oral report to the class.  In March, they were asked to keep track of daily temperatures, make some predictions, display the trend in a bar graph, draw some conclusions, write up a report, and present all their information in an oral report to the class.  During January they could choose the subject area and were asked to design a board game to teach about the area they chose.  There were requirements on what it must contain (must be able to fit into a certain size box, must have instructions how to play and rules written out, etc.)  We concluded that project with an afternoon of playing the games created.  I was amazed at how the kids (and parents) responded so positively to this kind of assignment.  Parental involvement varied, but even when the kids brought in something that the parents “obviously” helped with, the kids were invested and I felt I had provided parent-child time together that appeared to be positive. 

One month, focusing on science, the project required that the student design something that would make our world a better place.  They were to complete a questionnaire on their project, write a summary, create a physical model of some sort, and give an oral presentation on their project to the class.   Peter, one of my favorite boys in the class, presented a model of a “hovercraft” that he had designed.  Using his little red wagon and magnets, he explained if roads were magnetically lined with repelling magnets, the craft would hover and would only need a small motor to propel it forward.  I was fascinated with his creation and realized at that moment that in the schools we were barely touching the potential of students.

I recently found Peter on Facebook and sent him a message asking if he remembered me.  His response:

Lori~ Of course I remember you! To this day you remain my favorite teacher and one of the positive archetypes I've drawn from in my own experience as a teacher. I taught in the Rio Grande Valley for three years (middle school science), and I have many friends in the Delta corps. Rural region corps members tend to bond. :) I met my wife down there at the very first induction event just days after moving down. Last year, we moved to Boston so I could attend Harvard's Graduate School of Education, where I earned my Ed.M. and principal's license. I'm currently working as a program director for TFA. My wife was just accepted to the graduate school of social work at University of Chicago, so we are heading back to the Midwest this fall. I'm so glad you contacted me - I can hardly believe it's been 20 years! You really had a huge impact on me, the way I viewed myself and the world. I know as teachers we don't always see the impact we're making, but I want you to know that year opened doors for me and turned me onto life in a way that guided me for the rest of my schooling. I hope all is well with you and your family. God bless, Peter.

A side note:  TFA is Teach For America—an organization that my own daughter has been a part of for the past two years and an organization that is making a HUGE impact in education today.

As I reread Peter’s note to me, I feel emotional.  I feel like maybe the hovercraft model made out of his little red wagon, encouraged by a Project of the Month assignment written by me might have made a difference in this young man’s life.

My response to Peter’s message:

Peter,

Wow, this i the kind of note every teacher dreams of receiving. Thank you. You have made my day (maybe even my teaching career). Good luck to you and your beautiful wife in Chicago.

Peace.

lori

Top percentage on a life test

My students performed “average” on the state testing that year.  I figured since I started with the kids that were the lowest in their class and the ones that had behavior issues that this was pretty good.  This was at the beginning of the “testing frenzy” phase and I was unprepared for the staff meeting where the results were passed out and discussed, giving high marks to the teachers who managed to have test results in the top percentages.  To this day, I cannot comprehend how that is a fair evaluation of the skills of a teacher.  I liken it to giving a person a dog to train.  Yes, if you have a certain breed of dog, it will be easier to train.  It doesn’t necessarily mean you are a better trainer if you are able to train a german shepherd better than another trainer can train a mutt.  So much of it depends on the breed of the animal.  I know there is some merit in being able to train a dog at all, but to evaluate the trainers on such unequal criteria is, in my opinion, kind of stupid.  So, it was at this point in my teaching career that I decided that I would always try to stay true to myself and the kids I taught.  I was pleased that the group of kids that were chosen to be a part of my “last minute” family performed at an average level and I never regretted for a minute the time I spent on activities that stretched them beyond the curriculum (funerals, operas, plays, etc.).

My second year of teaching regular education was at the same school but with a class of 18 second graders. I was pumped to teach one grade level and was psyched to stretch the kids even further beyond their comfort zones.  That is, until the open house two days before school.   I was at the door of room 108 to greet the kids and their parents as they entered the room to gain further information needed before the “official” first day of school.  A mother came into the room with her reluctant daughter.  She sat her at a desk and then asked to speak to me privately.

“Mrs. Tupper?  My daughter is supposed to be in your class this year, but I am going to try to get her with a different teacher and I just wanted to make sure you knew why.”

“What is your daughter’s name?” I asked.

“Jill.”

“Okay, why don’t you want Jill in my classroom?”

“Well, she knows that you do ‘plays’ in your classroom and she is very shy.  She doesn’t want to be in any plays or operas.”

I intentionally led Jill’s mother close to where Jill was sitting.  I looked at this small, pretty, quiet girl sitting nervously at a desk too big for her frame.

“Jill,” I knew the minute I looked in her eyes that she needed to be built up as a person and I wanted her in my class.  “Your mom tells me that you are scared to be in my class because of the plays we do.”  She nodded slightly as she looked at the floor. 

“Let’s make a deal.”  She looked up at me.  “I won’t make you do anything in this classroom that you don’t want to do when it comes to plays and operas.  If you choose not to be in a play or opera we are doing—that will be just fine with me, okay?”

“Okay,” she agreed.  I shook her hand and told her I was looking forward to seeing her in two days.

Six months later when the kids were picking their parts for our stone soup opera, Jill CHOSE to sing the lead part.  She had built enough relationships and confidence within our class that she was comfortable with the limelight and pulled off a wonderful performance. 

I went back to visit that school 10 years later and met up with Jill’s mom working in the school office.

“Mrs. Tupper?  I don’t know if you remember me, but you had my daughter, Jill, in second grade.”

“Of course, I remember.  How is Jill doing?” I asked.

“She’s graduating this year,” she said.  “She’s already been accepted at Purdue University.”

“Oh my goodness, I can’t believe she is graduating already!!  Has she thought about what she wants to pursue?”

“Well, she is considering education, but you know how that can change.”

“Yes, I know.” I turned to go, waving goodbye to the other staff with whom I had visited.

As I reached the building exit, I heard my name again.

“Mrs. Tupper?”  I turned.  Jill’s mother was walking quickly toward me.

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”  She said, touching my arm lightly.

“Thank you?” I questioned.

“Yes, thank you.  I don’t know if you remember how shy Jill was when she came to your class, but you did that little Thanksgiving play and that opera and it really shaped who Jill became.”

I stood there, my heart pounding.

“You know, Jill changed after that year.  She has been in plays every chance she’s had since then.  In fact, in high school she has been the lead in several plays and has had at least some part in every play they have presented.  I attribute her passion for drama to that opera you did when she was in second grade.  Thank you for that.”

“I just planted the seed.  You watered it by giving her additional opportunities and it sounds like she has worked hard to grow.”

I walked to the car feeling 10-feet tall.  One of my students had just reached the top percentage on a life test.  THAT is what teaching is really about!

Caterpillars, Butterflies, and Operas

Once I told my students about our upcoming opera, I saw my remaining task as a teacher clearly—to provide them with the opportunity to successfully complete this production in a way that might change the course of their lives.  Of course, the administration of our school district saw my remaining task just as clearly—to provide them with all the knowledge they would need to successfully complete the statewide test in a way that might change the course of the school district.  Nobody seemed to appreciate my “confidence” when I would say, “I have taught what was laid out for me to teach and if I have done that well, my students will succeed on the state test—why get so obsessed with it?”

Although I continued to teach the curriculum each day and reviewed concepts we had learned earlier in the year, we spent our afternoons practicing the songs from our “opera” which told the story of the “stone soup” fable.  The songs were fun to learn and the kids loved singing them.  Once they learned the songs, we added actions and character parts.  Once a week, we would work on props.  We made a huge cooking pot out of paper mache’ and made the town homes and buildings out of huge cardboard boxes.  As we began to put all these parts together, the kids changed from helpless first and second graders to empowered soon-to-be second and third graders.  Their reading skills were improving on a daily basis as they sung the dialog in the opera and acted out the words they saw printed in their scripts.  The week after spring break found us once again performing for each class as they came to Room 108 to see our Stone Soup Opera. 

An interesting side note to this story is that I am not a singer.  I can kind of carry a tune and if you have been following my blog for very long, you know I can play a very rough version of “Happy Birthday” on the saxophone, but as far as actually being able to lead people in a musical “project,” well—I never thought to question whether or not it was possible. 

Finally the day to perform for the parents arrived.  It was magical to me.  We borrowed chairs from the janitor and packed our classroom full of parents and some extra staff—including Mr. G, our principal.  But the real magic happened when the kids performed the opera.  We had solos, duets, trios, and songs sung by the “chorus.”  It was perfect.  Oh, there were mistakes, miscues, and I vaguely remember a cardboard tree collapsing at the most inopportune moment—but it was perfect.  I watched as 18 first and second graders took the world in their hands and created moments that they would remember forever.  I can’t explain the feeling I had, but I would liken it to the awe I felt the first time I watched the film in science class showing the different stages of a Monarch butterfly.  I felt I had lived to watch these wonderful students move from caterpillars to beautiful winged creatures emerging from a chrysalis, to testing their wings in a world so much bigger than they were and finding strength in the knowledge that they could fly!  I was in awe of each of my students, astounded at how drama empowered them to be different people, and I felt I had handed them an opportunity that might change the course of their lives.  I felt like a REAL teacher and I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that what I was feeling and what they were experiencing would NEVER have happened just by scoring high on a state test.

Later, Mr. G evaluated me.  He was very affirming of the opera project and my teaching style.  He acknowledged that I had received a “tough assignment” but had risen to the challenge.  In reviewing my first year teaching regular education, his recommendation was that if I decided to incorporate a class pet the next school year, perhaps I should invest in a book on how to care for it. 

The Drama Bug

As my first year of teaching regular education progressed, I worked hard to create events to liven up the year.  Compared to teaching my angels with special needs, I was finding the job a bit boring.  When I taught special education, every day was an unexpected adventure; however, my job this year was very predictable for the most part.  I had a few kids that were daily challenges, but I seemed to thrive on  dealing with those challenges and had a knack for creative problem solving.

When Halloween came around, the kids were extremely excited about dressing up for the school parade.  I had made a friend in the library assistant, Ellen, who was a fun and crazy lady just a few years older than me.  We conspired to play a joke on my class.  Ellen, who was about the same size and build as I was, and I decided to dress up (she as an Arab sheik, me as a clown) and then we were going to change places after lunch and see if the kids noticed. 

We both donned our costumes after lunch.  She went directly to my classroom and stood in the front of the room while all the kids marched in with their Halloween costumes on.  I couldn’t resist watching from the hallway and laughed hysterically when after all the kids had sat down, a first grader shouted out, “Hey Mrs. Miller, what are YOU doing here?”  I went into the room laughing and the kids knew immediately it was me even though every inch of my face was covered. 

The Halloween celebration was fun for the kids, but then we were right back into our routine.  I decided to add some variety to our day by reading a book about Squanto and the pilgrims to my class to prepare for Thanksgiving.  The kids were enjoying it immensely and we all decided to write our own play based on the Squanto book.  As a class, we went to work writing a condensed version of the book in play form.  The kids were proud of their work and wanted to actually work up a production of the play, which we did.   Our November days were spent working on props, costumes, and memorizing the lines.  We added some corny humor to the play.  For example, when the narrator talked about the Indians and pilgrims sharing a feast together, the actors mimed pulling chicken out of a KFC bucket and pizza slices out of a Pizza Hut box.  After a week of practicing our play, we invited the parents to join us for our Thanksgiving play on the afternoon before Thanksgiving break.  A couple of days before performing for the parents, classes from the entire school took turns coming to our room to see our performance of “Squanto and the white men.”

This was a life-changing time period of my teaching as I was bitten and then addicted to the “drama bug.”  From this moment on in my teaching, I worked hard to make sure my students had opportunities to perform, practice communication exercises, and entertain before a group.  I have always been a nervous performer and I made it one of my goals to help students to be comfortable in their own skin while delivering messages, plays, or laughs to an audience. 

When we returned to school after Christmas break, I was so happy to see my students again.  We had become a “family” and everyone was excited when I held up our next project and informed them, “I have a surprise for you…we are going to do an opera this semester!!”

New Crimes

After our funeral for Rocky, I went to the principal’s office to inform him of what we had done.  I felt confident in my decision, but just in case any of the parents called—I wanted him to know.  I have often approached my decisions with a “better to ask forgiveness than permission” attitude.  I feel most people think way too much when trying to make a decision instead of following their gut or intuition.  One of my issues following my stroke was that I would often feel confident about the decision I was making even though it was a lousy one (for example, selling all of my livingroom furniture).  Another area in which I am extremely confident is in the area of traveling.  In fact, my friend Ruth and I have been lost on a number of occasions.  On one such recent occasion when we hit the Ohio border instead of western Michigan, she confessed, “Lori, I didn’t think we were going the right way, but you’re always so darn confident I can’t bring myself to argue with you.”

So, here I was, sitting in Mr. G’s office confessing that I had just led my class in a funeral service for Rocky, the gerbil.  I gave him a blow by blow description of the event as his eyes revealed his amusement.  But we both agreed, I should probably try to figure out why Rocky had died.

For this task, I enlisted the help of a fellow teacher who had some knowledge of gerbils.  She came into the room prepared for the mission of figuring out the mysterious death of Rocky.  Together we looked all around his cage while she questioned me.  Road, Rocky’s partner, lay listlessly in the corner.

“This other gerbil doesn’t look so hot either,” said fellow first grade teacher, Margot.

“I know…do you think it is the cage or the temperature of the room?” I questioned.

“Did you give them fresh water every day?”

“yes.”

“How often did you change the bedding?” the inquisition continued.

“At least once a week.” 

She poked around the bedding.  “And what did you feed them?”  I held up the box of seed.  She studied it carefully.  She looked at the food dish in the cage,  she pinched some of the food between her index finger and thumb putting about a teaspoon of it in her hand  “Lori, when was the last time you fed them?”  I looked at the food dish, “Well, it has been awhile but I’ve been waiting for them to finish what is in the dish.”

“Lori,” Margot said my name as if I were one of her dense 1^st graders, “the food you were giving your gerbils is a type of seed.  The gerbils shell the seed, eat the seed, and leave the shell.  There isn’t any food in this dish—just shells of the seeds.”  She waited patiently for the conclusion to sink in.  Suddenly it did.

“You mean, I starved Rocky to death?”  I asked meekly.  She nodded as she emptied the shells into the garbage and refilled the dish with seed for Road who for some reason attacked it like a bear just out of a long hibernation.

“I killed my class pet?”  I questioned again.

“Sorry,” she comforted, “you didn’t do it on purpose.”

I was a murderer who was glad her class was presently at music.

“Wow,” I sat on a nearby desk.  “I can’t believe I murdered my first class pet.”

“You can always buy another one,” she suggested.

“No, I don’t deserve another one. I can’t believe I killed Rocky.  I thought there was always food in the dish.”

“It’s okay, Lori.  Accidents happen.  Hey, look at this way—there probably isn’t another teacher that could put on their resume that they killed the class pet.”  She was trying to put a humorous spin to the whole event.

“What am I going to tell the kids?” I asked.

“I wouldn’t tell them anything,” she suggested, “they really don’t need to know.”

“Okay, I think you are right,” I agreed.  “Wow, I can’t believe I killed Rocky.”

“Don’t take it so hard,” she said preparing to go back to her own classroom. 

I sat at my desk processing the information until my students returned from music.  That would be like someone not feeding me dinner because they assumed I had eaten when they saw eggshells on the counter. 

I went home that afternoon immediately after school was out.  The revelation had exhausted me and I felt the urge to cook up a huge meal for Scott and Sarah.

Joy to the world

I was confused as to why Rocky, the gerbil, had died.  When I looked at the gerbil, Road, he didn’t look too good either.  So, here we sat—18 1^st and 2^nd graders and myself looking at the dead body of our class pet.  What was the proper protocol for a dead pet in a classroom?  I pondered.  My mind went back to a movie I had seen where a village set fire to the dead body of a leader on the local beach.  I could…no, fire was probably not a good idea.  I considered just throwing poor Rocky in the school dumpster, but felt like I had the opportunity for a “teachable moment” and didn’t want to pass it up.

“Mrs.  Tupper,” my thoughts were interrupted by one of my students, “can we pass Rocky’s body around so everyone can see it up close?”  Curiosity—I learned while teaching my kids with special needs that it was the greatest motivation for learning.  “Okay,” I said, “you can pass the box around, but please don’t touch the body, I’m not sure exactly why he died and I don’t have a box big enough for any of you.”  This comment sent giggles around the circle.  Then I had an idea.

“Hey, kids—what do you think we should do with poor ol’ Rocky?”  Why not let the kids decide the solution to my dilemma.  If they were comfortable with the old “flush the pet down the toilet” strategy, I would take a quick trip to the dumpster with our furry friend.  If not, I was sure they would lead the way for us to best deal with the situation.

“We need to have a funeral,” said little Eric.  “Yeah!  Yeah!” 17 other voices chimed in.  So, then it was decided.  There was to be a funeral for ol’ Rocky the gerbil from Room 108.

I borrowed a shovel from the janitor who thankfully asked no questions.  Jacob was elected to solemnly carry the shoe box to the side yard of the school.  The remainder of the kids marched seriously behind him—no one making a sound.  Jacob placed the box on the ground and we all sat in a circle around it.  The whole experience reminded me of prayer circles I had participated in as a teen ager.

“Okay,” I said.  “We’re going to go around the circle and if you would like to say a few words about Rocky, you may.  If you would rather not, just say ‘pass.’”

“I think Rocky was a good classroom pet,” I spoke first to model for the students what I had in mind.

“He was furry,” another said.

“He was funny,” shared someone else.

“He was my best friend,” said little Jacob with a tear slipping down his chubby cheek.

“I liked him.” 

After a few more comments (surprisingly, nobody “passed”), we continued with our service.  I gave a brief obituary of Rocky’s life and said a few words comparing the falling of the leaves with the death of our gerbil.  I intentionally avoided mentioning God, resurrection, and Jesus.  With the adamance about keeping religion out of school, I felt I had to shut off that part of my life at this moment.

Two of the second grade boys dug the hole for the shoebox, gently lowered Rocky into the hole and then covered it up.  Spontaneously, each of the kids picked out a beautiful fall leaf from the yard and placed it on top of Rocky’s “grave.”  I was so touched and felt we needed to have a final circle to close out the service.   We stood in a circle, holding hands.  “Does anyone have anything to say or have a song you would like to sing?”

“Can we sing, ‘Joy to the World?’” asked one of my 2^nd grade girls.

“You mean ‘Jeremiah was a bullfrog joy to the world?”  I asked.

“No,” she said as she broke out in song, “Joy to the world, the Lord is come.  Let earth receive her king?”  A tear escaped as I stood and watched in wonder at my 18 students standing in a circle, holding hands, singing a Christmas carol, around the grave of our classroom pet--a dead gerbil, named Rocky.

Confessions of a teacher

In addition to my freckle-faced, red-headed Shanna in the first grade, I had eight other short people clamoring for 1^st grade attention.  One of those little challenges was Jacob.  Jacob was a short ‘Dennis the Menace’ type of kid.  Socially, he struggled with the change of classroom and struggled with the other students in the class.  As the year moved on, I looked at different ways to build responsibility in my students.  Eventually, I decided a classroom pet would be the answer—enter “Rocky” and “Road,” two gerbils from the local pet store.

Jacob was especially interested in the gerbils and spent his free time watching their antics.  I put the feed seed in their food dish and went about my business.  It was a few days later I went to feed them again that I noticed they still had seed in their dish so I didn’t feed them more.  I decided to wait until the dish was empty. 

The next week, Jacob introduced me to his issue of “stealing.”  After being caught, I left him in the classroom alone while I walked the others down the hall to gym class.  We were going to have a long talk when I returned and then we were going to call mom.  When I returned to class, Jacob was sitting with his head on his desk, sobbing quietly.

“Jacob, what’s wrong?” I asked.

He looked at me through his big crocodile tears, “Rocky’s dead, Mrs. Tupper.”

“He is?”  I walked over to the gerbil cage.  Sure enough, Rocky was dead and Road didn’t look too healthy either.  I removed Rocky from the cage.  I didn’t recall a class teaching me how to deal with the death of a class pet. 

“ What are we going to do?” asked Jacob.  “We are going to talk about your behavior.” I said, sticking with my initial plan to discuss his incident of theft.”

“Jacob, you know when I was four years old my mom took me to see my cousin Teresa.  She had a plastic heart and it was full of half dollars.  I wanted that heart more than anything, so when she was in the bathroom, I stuck the heart in my pocket,”  Jacob’s eyes widened at my confession.  “Later in the day, I was out showing all my neighborhood friends my ‘treasure’ when I heard my mom call me to come home for supper.  So I hid the heart behind my back so my mom wouldn’t see it.”

“You should have buried it in a hole,” suggested the knowing thief.

“Yes, you are right because when I went to my mom she asked me what I had behind my back.  I told her ‘nothing’  so that was lie #1 (I held up 1 finger).  She asked me again what I had behind my back and again I told her ‘nothing’ (I held up 2 fingers).  Finally, my mom said, ‘Lori Rose, you tell me what you have behind your back.’  Now, I always knew when my mom called me by my first and second name that she meant business and I had better shape up.  So I showed her the plastic heart.  ‘Where did you get that?’ she asked me.  ‘Teresa gave it to me’ (I held up 3 fingers).”  Jacob’s eyes widened even more.

“Did she believe you?” he asked totally engrossed in my story.

“You know,” I began, “that’s the funny thing about doing something wrong.  You usually end up having to lie and do even more things wrong than you meant to.  Eventually I had to tell the truth and my mom made me take the heart back to my cousin.”

“Did your cousin say you could keep it then?” he asked hopeful that this story would have a good ending.

“No.  She was very upset at me for stealing it and it took a long time for her to ever trust me again.  Jacob, this happens every time you do something wrong.  You usually end up doing more things wrong than you meant to and then it is very difficult to get people to trust you again.”  Jacob started sobbing again.  “My mom says she never trusts me.”  I looked at this precious moon-faced little guy with his overflowing eyes.

“Well Jacob, I DO trust you and I KNOW you will learn to do the right thing.”

“Are you going to call my mom?”

“No, I’m thinking I won’t call your mom this time, but if it happens again not only will I call her but I will ask her to come in to have a talk.”

Fear filled his eyes.  He knew that would not work well to his advantage if his mother was called into the school. 

“So,” I concluded, “today you need to take care of business, apologize to Michelle for stealing her money and promise not to do it again.  Okay?”

Jacob  nodded his head in agreement.  “But Mrs. Tupper?” he asked, “what are we going to do about Rocky?”

I looked over at the dead gerbil I had laid in a small box.

“I guess we’ll have to have a funeral” I answered.