February 9, 2001, Mad Friday-
The day had a normal start. I checked homework and took attendance. Fifteen minutes later I had an inkling that something was going on with the kids. A classmate had already accused Stephen of cheating on the spelling test I had just given. This was discouraging, saddening. I had worked all week with Stephen, helping him to get a hold of his often occurring anger and impulsivity. I’d sent home good notes, praised and rewarded. He was my special project. But today he threw all of that progress away and seemed determined to be moody and stubborn. Tracey was also at it again. He was throwing a tantrum because his table wasn’t the one that just earned a behavior star on the board. He does this every time. He throws things, bangs, moves his desk away from the group, whistles, grumbles and exclaims, “That’s not fair!” This is usually how he handles things that don’t go his way.
And then James started in. The pain and the softness in his eyes are battling it out. He’s caught between cooperation and disobedience. He begins working, but then I realize he’s drawing and annoying students. This is all a test for me. He wants to see if I’ll raise my voice so he can go berserk –cursing, pacing, talking back, tearing paper, you name it. Yesterday I approached him as he was tearing paper. The paper was forming a mountain of debris that circled his chair, which had been scooted out to the middle of the floor. I asked him to take a deep breath. I repeated anger management skills that I had begun repeating on a regular basis in Room 206. “That doesn’t work for me,” he said. “Tearing this paper is the only thing that’s going to make me feel better.” I let him tear until I couldn’t bear the paper mountain that was still forming—or mountain range, rather.
Why the patience? James is the kind of kid that gets put out of the classroom all the time. His behavior usually leads him to this end. I imagine sexual abuse, beatings, murder in his surroundings. I believe it’s that bad. He finally agrees to clean up his paper mess around the time that I notice Willie is still wearing his coat. He has his head down on his desk with his hood on. When I remove the hood, he puts it back on and grumbles. He barely works at all and was recently admitted to a mental hospital (forcefully). School officials orchestrated the much-needed setup on school grounds. And then the people came. We used to call them men in white coats – the ones who carried straightjackets. Well Willie was back now. His mother had him released. He was back in 206 not working again, adding to the insanity, the heavy emotional burdens carried by many in this fourth-grade group.
It’s still morning, and Jennifer’s sitting with her body turned sideways. She is swinging her legs and whining about who knows what. She is in one of her disruptive moods and would rather do anything but what she’s told. We begin math with these moods in motion, having to stop every few minutes for reminders of rules, manners and so forth. The fights over fraction-pie pieces begin. Jennifer does not want to cooperate, let alone share assembly of fraction pies. Cooperative learning needs cooperative students. However Tyrece and Stephen want to bicker, push and cause trouble. Kevin joins the disruptive behavior. These four children had been used to sitting by themselves, out of urgency, safety, necessity. Putting them in a group can be a disaster. The timing has to be right, the mood relaxed and quiet. This wasn’t one of those times. However, before I had time to sigh about the behaviors flaring, reading time had begun. I was faced with another uncooperative group, this one including naughty children cycled in from other classrooms. The children weren’t interested in hearing the new story in their readers. I found my voice getting louder, hoarser, until I finally stopped and had them begin copying the story. This was met with initial bursts of anger. Finally the quiet chaos stopped. I didn’t feel satisfied. I regretted not being able to follow through with my lesson plans. I felt frustrated.
February 16, 2001
Kyohn is having a bad morning. He’s talking, not on task and cleaning out his desk without permission. Garbage is quickly accumulating in his area. He gets angry when I confront him about his behavior and decides on a complete work stoppage. Ronika doesn’t want to work either. She mumbles things about me under her breath. Disrespect is catchy. Kyohn, Nicolas, Chris and Nyhiem are not only angry in the classroom. I learn they’ve been a menace on the school yard as well. School disciplinarians are coming down on them hard—calling parents, setting up conferences. When the afternoon arrives, I encourage the students to work quietly to decorate folders for their work. It starts off peacefully as I am handing out papers. Then Willie comes out of his silence and begins exchanging laughs and whispers with other students. He has refused to take two tests today. I wonder why his mother sends him. Tyrece is in his afternoon mood of rebellion. He insists on talking with Willie and laughing and turning around constantly. I send him to time-out next door in the first grade. James has refused to take his history test and failed another. I ponder what the school math specialist told me this morning: “Fourth grade is an emotionally charged year for parents. Write down what you see. This is some powerful stuff when parents come in angry because their child will be retained.”
Earlier this morning the vice principal had asked if I, having had Room 206 for two weeks, would take on report-card conferences. I told her I’d probably be able to do that. I was beginning to regret that conversation. Why should I take all of the blame for a system that’s left this class without a permanent teacher from September through February? Room 206’s regular teacher was threatened by an irate father of a pupil for who knows what. He didn’t return for weeks. When he did, he supposedly injured himself and now he’s out again. Room 206 has run away all of their teachers. They have been boisterous hallway and classroom bullies and are used to running the show. I decide I won’t take on the conference task. It wasn’t my responsibility.
As the students grew louder, my afternoon took a turn for the worst. A big man with a badge showed up at our classroom door. He was looking for Kyohn, Nyhiem, Chris and Nicolas. “I understand you have some students who have been involved in gang activities?” He showed me a list and asked me to send them out. I find out he’s from an anti-violence and anti-drug group. His job was to scare the boys straight. It didn’t take much. The boys were afraid as soon as I called their names and they saw how big the guy was. They begin to plead, blame me, others and anyone else convenient. When they returned they were tearful and shocked. I wondered how their parents would feel about this and if they were notified that their children would be confronted with this on school grounds. But I was thankful for this crusader. He gave me his card and said, “If you have any trouble out of these children, give me a call -- I mean any trouble.” I knew I’d be needing him. I saw him as a superhero letting down a rope into my abyss. I decided I’d call him and not the parents, as this was often a frustrating fruitless route. The parents need just as much help as their children do. Often they haven’t a clue what to do. I remember one parent commenting on her daughter’s behavior: “She’s a humdinger all right, let me tell you!” So what chance have I got?
The day had a normal start. I checked homework and took attendance. Fifteen minutes later I had an inkling that something was going on with the kids. A classmate had already accused Stephen of cheating on the spelling test I had just given. This was discouraging, saddening. I had worked all week with Stephen, helping him to get a hold of his often occurring anger and impulsivity. I’d sent home good notes, praised and rewarded. He was my special project. But today he threw all of that progress away and seemed determined to be moody and stubborn. Tracey was also at it again. He was throwing a tantrum because his table wasn’t the one that just earned a behavior star on the board. He does this every time. He throws things, bangs, moves his desk away from the group, whistles, grumbles and exclaims, “That’s not fair!” This is usually how he handles things that don’t go his way.
And then James started in. The pain and the softness in his eyes are battling it out. He’s caught between cooperation and disobedience. He begins working, but then I realize he’s drawing and annoying students. This is all a test for me. He wants to see if I’ll raise my voice so he can go berserk –cursing, pacing, talking back, tearing paper, you name it. Yesterday I approached him as he was tearing paper. The paper was forming a mountain of debris that circled his chair, which had been scooted out to the middle of the floor. I asked him to take a deep breath. I repeated anger management skills that I had begun repeating on a regular basis in Room 206. “That doesn’t work for me,” he said. “Tearing this paper is the only thing that’s going to make me feel better.” I let him tear until I couldn’t bear the paper mountain that was still forming—or mountain range, rather.
Why the patience? James is the kind of kid that gets put out of the classroom all the time. His behavior usually leads him to this end. I imagine sexual abuse, beatings, murder in his surroundings. I believe it’s that bad. He finally agrees to clean up his paper mess around the time that I notice Willie is still wearing his coat. He has his head down on his desk with his hood on. When I remove the hood, he puts it back on and grumbles. He barely works at all and was recently admitted to a mental hospital (forcefully). School officials orchestrated the much-needed setup on school grounds. And then the people came. We used to call them men in white coats – the ones who carried straightjackets. Well Willie was back now. His mother had him released. He was back in 206 not working again, adding to the insanity, the heavy emotional burdens carried by many in this fourth-grade group.
It’s still morning, and Jennifer’s sitting with her body turned sideways. She is swinging her legs and whining about who knows what. She is in one of her disruptive moods and would rather do anything but what she’s told. We begin math with these moods in motion, having to stop every few minutes for reminders of rules, manners and so forth. The fights over fraction-pie pieces begin. Jennifer does not want to cooperate, let alone share assembly of fraction pies. Cooperative learning needs cooperative students. However Tyrece and Stephen want to bicker, push and cause trouble. Kevin joins the disruptive behavior. These four children had been used to sitting by themselves, out of urgency, safety, necessity. Putting them in a group can be a disaster. The timing has to be right, the mood relaxed and quiet. This wasn’t one of those times. However, before I had time to sigh about the behaviors flaring, reading time had begun. I was faced with another uncooperative group, this one including naughty children cycled in from other classrooms. The children weren’t interested in hearing the new story in their readers. I found my voice getting louder, hoarser, until I finally stopped and had them begin copying the story. This was met with initial bursts of anger. Finally the quiet chaos stopped. I didn’t feel satisfied. I regretted not being able to follow through with my lesson plans. I felt frustrated.
February 16, 2001
Kyohn is having a bad morning. He’s talking, not on task and cleaning out his desk without permission. Garbage is quickly accumulating in his area. He gets angry when I confront him about his behavior and decides on a complete work stoppage. Ronika doesn’t want to work either. She mumbles things about me under her breath. Disrespect is catchy. Kyohn, Nicolas, Chris and Nyhiem are not only angry in the classroom. I learn they’ve been a menace on the school yard as well. School disciplinarians are coming down on them hard—calling parents, setting up conferences. When the afternoon arrives, I encourage the students to work quietly to decorate folders for their work. It starts off peacefully as I am handing out papers. Then Willie comes out of his silence and begins exchanging laughs and whispers with other students. He has refused to take two tests today. I wonder why his mother sends him. Tyrece is in his afternoon mood of rebellion. He insists on talking with Willie and laughing and turning around constantly. I send him to time-out next door in the first grade. James has refused to take his history test and failed another. I ponder what the school math specialist told me this morning: “Fourth grade is an emotionally charged year for parents. Write down what you see. This is some powerful stuff when parents come in angry because their child will be retained.”
Earlier this morning the vice principal had asked if I, having had Room 206 for two weeks, would take on report-card conferences. I told her I’d probably be able to do that. I was beginning to regret that conversation. Why should I take all of the blame for a system that’s left this class without a permanent teacher from September through February? Room 206’s regular teacher was threatened by an irate father of a pupil for who knows what. He didn’t return for weeks. When he did, he supposedly injured himself and now he’s out again. Room 206 has run away all of their teachers. They have been boisterous hallway and classroom bullies and are used to running the show. I decide I won’t take on the conference task. It wasn’t my responsibility.
As the students grew louder, my afternoon took a turn for the worst. A big man with a badge showed up at our classroom door. He was looking for Kyohn, Nyhiem, Chris and Nicolas. “I understand you have some students who have been involved in gang activities?” He showed me a list and asked me to send them out. I find out he’s from an anti-violence and anti-drug group. His job was to scare the boys straight. It didn’t take much. The boys were afraid as soon as I called their names and they saw how big the guy was. They begin to plead, blame me, others and anyone else convenient. When they returned they were tearful and shocked. I wondered how their parents would feel about this and if they were notified that their children would be confronted with this on school grounds. But I was thankful for this crusader. He gave me his card and said, “If you have any trouble out of these children, give me a call -- I mean any trouble.” I knew I’d be needing him. I saw him as a superhero letting down a rope into my abyss. I decided I’d call him and not the parents, as this was often a frustrating fruitless route. The parents need just as much help as their children do. Often they haven’t a clue what to do. I remember one parent commenting on her daughter’s behavior: “She’s a humdinger all right, let me tell you!” So what chance have I got?
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