and break begins.

Today marks the official beginning of Fall Break. I celebrated with a series of happy hours before heading to Berryline with my friend Mallory, and now Mallory and I are sitting on the couch watching Project Runway before I head off to pick up my brother at the airport! It's wonderful to be sitting here and vegging out, not worried about planning or reteaching the red GLEs on my tracker or a new individual behavior plan for Nya. I'm really looking forward to spending time with Chris and enjoying some time off this weekend.

I came across this quote today in the Facebook frenzy over the passing of Steve Jobs. It really spoke to me because I finally feel like I am in a job that I love--even with all of its frustrations and all of its challenges. My mind could be changed by next week, of course, but for now, I'm happy to be going into this four-day weekend on a high note.

"Your work is going to fill a large part of your life, and the only way to be truly satisfied is to do what you believe is great work. And the only way to do great work is to love what you do. If you haven't found it yet, keep looking, and don't settle. As with all matters of the heart, you'll know when you find it."

letters to myself

I know, I know, a double post. But on my way back inside from collecting the stack of tests I have to grade from my car, I found a letter in my mailbox. It was addressed to me, in my own handwriting. And when I opened it, I realized it was the letter I had written myself at the end of institute.

Jim, our CS this summer, had the brilliant idea of making us write letters to ourselves that he would send out in October to remind us of what we felt at the end of those crazy five weeks this summer. I'm impressed with my wisdom those three long months ago, and I thought I would share it:

Dear Kate,

Hopefully today was a good day. If it wasn't, I want you to think back to the day you gave your post-assessment at Institute, when you ran down to CS session to grade Sage's test to see what she had accomplished. I want you to remember the pride in each of your students and the responsibility you felt to make sure each of them succeeded. I want you to remember the lessons you swore you'd learned about how to invest your kids and make them care about each other.

Today, leaving institute, I'm terrified about the prospect of starting all over with little people. But I'm excited to get the opportunity to get to teach what my 8th graders don't know. I hope that my classroom is a place of focused learning, where my students understand that what they're learning and how they're behaving today directly impacts what they'll be doing 5, 10, 20 years down the line. I hope that my kids respect each other, work well together, and have formed a community where it's okay to be different and make mistakes. I hope that my kids--and their families--know how much I care about them and that I would do anything for them.

I hope for myself that I haven't lost sight of why I signed up for this--that every kid deserves the tools and the confidence to achieve their wildest dreams, and that I am ready and able to get them there. Remember--you love your job and you love these kids. Take ownership of your classroom and do it.

Love,
Kate

Is my classroom where I hoped it would be? Not yet, but it's heading there. But I haven't lost sight of why I signed up for this, and that makes me proud.

keeping it personal

Today was Benchmark Day once again at my lovely elementary school. Never mind that our last benchmark was three weeks ago, and I had exactly eight days of instruction between then and now. Never mind that only one in five of my kids had passed the benchmark last time around, and this test included all of those topics PLUS rounding, estimation, and money (which I was supposed to teach in eight days). Never mind all that. As my principal likes to say, those are excuses, and we have no time for that.

Scanning the answer sheets for the benchmark test was, in a word, heartbreaking. Though I haven't scanned all of the sheets yet, so far just five of my 64 students have passed. Since most of the remaining sheets are from my tier 3 kids--the lowest kids who get the test read aloud to them--it seems unlikely that that number is going to go up anytime soon. Seeing that pop up on my computer screen was just awful. I felt like I had been making progress with my kids over the last two weeks, but seeing that come up made it seem like I was moving them backwards.

While I'm going to get a chance to look fully at the data on Thursday, I already know a few things. First, about a third of the test was stuff that I either didn't have time to teach or was a long-response question that the bulk of my kids couldn't read. When you focus in on the two-thirds of the test that I did attempt to teach, things look better. That's encouraging, that I seem to be able to impart some knowledge when given the time, and I can only hope that as the year goes on and we go over these concepts again and again, they'll start to stick.

quote of the day

Spotted this in the hallway of the administration building (trailer) today on my way to the laminator, and it rang very true:

"Courage doesn't always roar. Sometimes it's the quiet voice at the end of the day saying 'I will try again tomorrow.'"

Today was a very happy Monday. The kids were well-behaved (didn't hurt that three of our biggest behavior problems were absent, of course, and that a fourth is finally medicated for his ADHD), I got through my lessons with ease, and I ended the day not feeling frustrated and exhausted. Did they get it--it, today, being rounding to the nearest ten (a second-grade objective) and subtraction with regrouping (a review from last week)? Not all of them--their exit tickets came in right around 60%. But some of them did, and it at least gives me hope that if class is as well-managed as it was today, I can get them there.

Of course, tomorrow could be an entirely different day. But hey, you've got to take the good days when you have them.

random acts of kindness

Lesson learned: ask, and ye shall receive.

A week or so ago, I posted a link on my Facebook page to a wish list for my classroom library. I have 13 kids in my literacy block, ranging in reading level from H (mid first grade) to M (late second grade), and only about 80 or 90 books at those levels total. That's not enough for my class, who would plow through the collection almost entirely in another week or two. So I compiled a list on Amazon of 30 or so books that I would love to have for my library.

I figured a few people would donate. Maybe I'd get 12 books out of it. Best case scenario, I'd get the wish list fulfilled.

Turns out, I should have had higher expectations.

I came home today to a pile of five Amazon boxes. I get to bring about 20 new books to my third graders tomorrow, and I know more are in the mail. Some of them were from the usual, expected suspects (hey, Dad and Grandma, and thank you!). Many were from old friends. Some were from people I barely knew. Each box I opened nearly brought me to tears, seeing that people from all over the country and from all parts of my life cared enough to send a book or two my way.

Today, I reposted the link with a thank-you message to those who had already given. I added some more books to the list, because it was already dwindling closer and closer to zero. A family friend reposted the link. Within an hour, I had a Facebook message from a complete stranger offering to ship me the books her own children had outgrown.

Whenever I have a rough day, I'm constantly buoyed up by family and friends who endlessly remind me how important this work is. Today was not the best day--I lost control of my classroom after my kids finished their social studies test early and I didn't have enough worksheets for them to do to kill 50 minutes of unplanned time. My TFA PD was observing when I had to step between two students threatening to punch each other and talk to them outside, implicitly assuming that she'd do something if more trouble were to brew in the classroom (luckily, it didn't). Only 20% of my students passed their math benchmark exam.

But coming home tonight to a stack of boxes filled with uncreased books brought me new hope. Thank you to those of you who have given. You can expect thank-you notes in the mail soon (I told my literacy block this yesterday, and they immediately demanded to make the cards now, because "phonics is boring." Lesson learned: do not advertise distant fun activities when you need to get through boring ones first.) Shameless plug: if you're inspired to donate, here's the link: http://www.amazon.com/wishlist/14S1VYFM2V5LK/ref=cm_sw_r_fa_ws_c9Tzob1Q88CHZ. And even if you're not, know that you all have inspired me. Thank you.

river running

Pretty much the only "extracurricular" activity I do these days is running. Anybody who knew me in high school will likely believe this; anybody who knew me in college is probably rolling on the floor in laughter right now. In college, when my life was filled with the Crimson and classes and naps and extensive social plans, I never really had the time or energy to pick up and go for a run. But when I arrived in New Orleans, I remember sharing at Induction that one of my goals was to run a half-marathon this year. And I registered for that half marathon on Saturday.

Running--and the handy-dandy training plan I created on runnersworld.com--has been one of the few things keeping me sane over the last month and a half. It's the one solid 30, 45, or 60 minutes of the day where I am not feeling guilty about all the things I could be doing, or insecure about all the things I am doing but not succeeding at. It's the block of time that I can't be reached by phone or email or a child's tugging hand reminding me that once upon a time I promised them a trip to the prize box and by golly, Ms. L, you haven't given me my darn Mickey Mouse pencil. I come home feeling relaxed and like I've accomplished something--a feeling that I need on those really bad days where I often feel like I've just pushed my students backwards.

Today's run was a 5-miler, so I headed over to Audubon Park and ran the long loop, which takes me all the way down to the Mississippi River. It was about 6:50 by the time I got down there, and the sun was slipping down toward the horizon. It was a scene that reminded me of home, as my few runs during college took me up and down the banks of the Charles. And it reminded me that I do have control over some things in my life--like how far and how fast my legs and my lungs will carry me when I lace up my sneakers in the evenings. I can't control how far behind my students are, or how many of my calls home result in them getting physically beaten, or how my school is in a set of FEMA trailers past their expiration date that are broken into a couple of times a week. What I can control is what I prepare for them, how I build relationships with them, how hard I work to fix my own flaws so that I can be the kind of teacher they need. As I ran home today, clocking in under my goal time of an hour for the run, I thought back to how painful the first week of starting that training plan was, when I couldn't even make it around the short loop of Audubon Park without having to stop, wheeze, and try to breathe through a side stitch. I hope every day that a few months from now, I will be able to look back on these first few painful weeks and laugh at how out of shape I was.

roses and thorns

Back in my freshman year at Harvard, my roommate and I used to do Roses and Thorns in our bunk bed before we went to sleep every night. We'd share the best part of our day (the rose) and the thing we wish would have been different (thorn). In that spirit, here are today's roses, thorn, and quote of the day:

Roses: When I walked into the resource room, where the kids who come on the first bus route spend the first half hour of the morning doing iLEAP prep with the principal, at 7:55 this morning, I noticed Jamie, a girl in my second block math class, with her head buried in her hands, sobbing on the table. I pulled her outside to calm her down and see what was wrong. Jamie struggles with all aspects of school--she's reading at a kindergarten level, doesn't really know how to add at all, and often writes letters and numbers backwards. So it wasn't surprising, but was still heartbreaking, to hear her sob about how she wanted to go home because she couldn't do it, didn't know how to do her work. I told her how smart she was and how proud I was that she tried so hard every day, brought her to the bathroom to wash her face, and sent her on her way to homeroom.

When she arrived in math class at 11:30, I made sure to single her out as a team captain for her group during centers. Next thing I know, I'm looking up at Jamie's group--five students who really struggle with math, who are often behavior issues--while they're working independently at the other side of the classroom. I notice that Kyle, a boy who gets easily distracted and likes to distract others, sitting far apart from the rest of the group. "Kyle," I call across the room, "why are you sitting by yourself?" Jamie turns around to talk to me. "Ms. L.," she says, "Kyle was playing, so I moved him." I couldn't help but smile at how seriously she took her role as team captain--but my smile was even bigger when I saw her sit at my table, carefully draw out 24 counters on her piece of paper, and correctly solve a subtraction problem.