I have a good friend who has worked in the same school since she and I graduated from college in 2010. This fall, she will enter her fourth year. I admire her so much. She is a damn good teacher. She knows the first grade curriculum inside out. She will tell you that she’s still beginning, which of course is true, but when I look at her, I am in awe of her mastery.
This isn’t about better or worst paths: it’s just that when I talk to her, it makes me think about how much moving I’ve done. Since college, I’ve had five different jobs. This fall I will be moving to New York, and 2013 – 2015 will be the first time I live in the same country for two years in a row since 2006 – 2008.
In personal and professional ways, I have loved moving. I am so glad I’ve seen two countries up close. As a teacher, I have refined my vision of best practice and best schools by working in very different, and in many ways dysfunctional, schools. As a person, I’ve made deep friendships, which is both the pro and the con of all this moving. I am so excited to go back to Chile, where I will travel for the next three weeks, staying almost exclusively with friends. I will visit my beloved Palena and my beloved people there. And yet, then I will leave again and once again, not know when I will return next.
As to this year in particular, there is absolutely so much to say that I will simply say this: I have a deep affection for Colombia, and particularly for Bogotá. I don’t think Bogotá is objectively the best place in the country, but it’s where I’ve come back to for eleven months, so it feels like mine. I’ve made rich, rich friendships, with the advantage that most of them are young professionals, both Colombian and foreign, who move and travel, so this goodbye doesn’t feel nearly as final as Palena. And I know what’s coming next, and I am so eager for it: a Master’s in Bilingual/Bicultural Education with Dual Certification in Elementary (1-6) at Teachers College at Columbia University.
This is a hasty post as I am leaving for the airport in a few minutes, but here is my itinerary for the next few weeks:
Friday, June 28 — Sunday, June 30th: Santiago de Chile with good college friend.
Sunday, June 30th – Sunday, July 7th: my beloved Palena (a plane, boat and bus ride from Santiago).
Monday, July 8th – Tuesday, July 9th: Antofagasta, with my former Chilean colleague who now lives in the north.
Wednesday, July 10th – Friday, July 12th: San Pedro de Atacama.
Saturday, July 13th – Tuesday, July 16th: Arica, with same friend, possibly a mini-trip to Peru across the border!
Wednesday, July 17th: travel back to Santiago, and overnight to Bogotá.
Thursday, July 18th: one last day in Bogotá to cash out bank account, get my hair and nails done, and see friends.
Friday, July 19th: Travel back to Boston.
As I have been stressed with packing and buying tickets and goodbyes this week, I’ve tried to constantly remind myself of how lucky I am. I am so fortunate to be able to travel like this, and I want to remember that, even when I am waiting at airports or shivering on a boat. This is so special. Seeing my Chilean people will be so sweet, as well as one more brief dose of Bogotá. And also, how comforting it will be to return to sweet little Ipswich, Massachusetts in just over three weeks.
Last day — I told them that when the bell rings, they would be fourth graders.
It’s always a mix: pride, joy, relief, sadness, emptiness. When I said goodbye to my kids at the end of therapeutic summer camp in 2009 and 2010, the end was intense. After being with the children from 6 AM to 10 PM each day, through melt-downs and breakfast and swim time and bedtime, suddenly, they are gone? My relief to be done with this superhumanly demanding job was enormous, but so too was my loss: I couldn’t help but love them, and be scared and hopeful that they would make it in the world. I was very invested in the organization and in them as people, so my emotions were big.
At the end of the school year in my little town in Chile, I was deeply proud of what I had accomplished, showcased in several capstone moments — the performance of my 1st/2nd grade elective, the English assembly, photographs with the families of my high schoolers at their graduation. The intensity ramped up because I didn’t know when I would ever see my students again (though now I know, I will see many of them in just a few weeks: I arrive in Palena on July 1st!). In addition to pride and sadness to be leaving, there was also a note of “good riddance”, as I had lost faith in both the school and the NGO I worked for.
Last June, I said goodbye to my Turtles, a class of first graders in Boston. While I was extremely frustrated with and critical of the head teacher I worked with, I believed in the intentions of the school, and had enormous faith in and admiration for my supervisors. We had an appreciation breakfast where one of my beloved administrators gave me a book with an inscription she had written. We were exhausted and relieved for the children to leave, but on the whole, we agreed on a mission: this was a social justice project. One of the boys I worked the closest with was chronically absent, and in the last weeks, I was acutely aware that every day could be his last — I was right, he was absent the last three days, but I had mentally prepared myself for that. I needed to. I had poured myself into working with him, and the end felt big.
Last class here in Bogotá: math basketball became a contact sport.As math basketball continues, on the board are the two reflection questions we each answered, in a circle: “My favorite part/topic/memory in math or mental math class was __” and “What I want to learn more about is ___”
This time: I have never felt so little. Sure, they say that your first year is the hardest, and I’ve been through this several times before. But the real teachers I know feel deeply each year — my father, in his third decade in the classroom, is visibly moved each June. This year at my school here in Bogotá, I feel less because I’ve given less. Certainly, I have given: I’ve spent more quality time thinking and preparing classes then was required of me, and I’ve tried to wring out every drop of learning for myself. Yet my schedule included relatively little time with children, so my relationships aren’t as close. And given that I stand so firmly against this institution and many of the individuals within it, I am unabashedly happy to be leaving. The best part of the job was probably its cushiness — days where I spent hours with friends after my work was completed.
After our last day with children on Thursday, I’ve spent days completing meaningless paperwork, and more recently, bouncing around from office to office in Bogotá to get my final payment. I said to my parents on Sunday night, “I would much rather be going to teach tomorrow then going to stand in lines and wade through bureaucracy.” After my last work day on Friday, I have had to come in three other unpaid days to sign paperwork, killing any ounce of nostalgia or affection I might have for the place.
Here’s what this job has taught me more than anything: I want more. I am a teacher and I want to be challenged. I want to be in an environment of professional educators who are working towards a common goal. I want to give more because at my next ending, I want to feel more.
“And the Talent Show wouldn’t be complete without a performance by Montessori British School’s own elementary rock band, Black and White!”
And out they came: Juan Sebastián, on bass, Andrés, singing, and Santiago, on drums — though I should really refer to them by their last names, as that is what they use with each other (as do all my male students amongst themselves). They were wearing skinny jeans, big sneakers, and leather jackets as they covered the White Stripes, accompanied by their music teacher and guitar player, Juan Daniel. Juan Daniel later told me that Andrés — one of the most diligent, kind students in his class — asked him, “Teacher, will girls like me more after this?” Santiago, a sharp kid who sometimes looses homework and makes careless mistakes, shook his long curls away from his black square-rimmed glasses as he rocked out on the full drum set. Sebastián, who isn’t afraid to call me Teacher Marge (after they learned that Marge, from the Simpsons, is a nickname of Margaret) and throw an occasional paper airplane, was the most timid of all, gently rocking as he held the bass line.
Earlier Ana María had carefully played Beethoven on the piano, with impressive precision. María Paula and Tania performed “Hot n’ Cold” with perfectly coordinated gestures, slightly dampened because María Paula broke her foot on Monday and is in crutches. Silvana belted out Adele, and María de los Angeles (who I call Mary, to differentiate between the three Marías in her class) played a giant harp.
I enjoyed watching all the performances — a second grader sounded like a professional, completely adult pianist; a first grader sang Justin Beiber’s “Baby” — but my face hurt from smiling so much when My Students came on. “That’s my student! Ana María!” I proudly told my friends next to me, who teach other grades. How amazing to see these mini-people, showing their full, human selves — people who sing, who get nervous, who love the bright lights, who run to hug their parents. If this is how proud I feel to see my students, I can’t imagine how I will feel when I have children of my own.
Kids are hard. They are loud, annoying, and messy. Sometimes I just want them to shut up. But after a day like the Talent Show, I reconnect with who I am and what makes me teach: I love children. I love being with these small people, in all their surprises and movement, and aiding them along in their journey to become bigger, fuller people.
In my class of the most challenging characters, there is one character, Samuel, who has gotten so under my skin that most recently, he has gotten into my heart. Samuel has glasses and wears a fanny pack full of pencils. He makes origami airplanes, horns, belts, hammers, wallets, and most recently, a vacuum cleaner, out of scrap paper. He randomly screams in class and sings to himself in the hallways. The girl who sits next to him discretely tells me when Samuel falls asleep or curls up in a corner (this happened once when a friend refused to forgive him for loosing his pencil). He often refuses to do work, or comes to me to pick a personal fight when he gets something wrong.
Academically, Samuel struggles mostly because he is plagued by distraction and frustration, not because he lacks intelligence. On a recent “practice test” that I administered to collect data on long division (which, to my students’ amazement, I returned with comments, but no grade), Samuel got 80% of the steps right, but ultimately got every answer wrong. I carefully broke the class into groups of one “leader” and two “practice-ers”, explaining that no one was smarter than anyone else, just that some students have learned this one particular skill faster than others. Most groups worked surprisingly well, and I overheard adorable peer explanations. Two boys shared a seat as one narrated the steps, “Now, with 2 digits, don’t worry, it’s the same. How many 2s fit inside? Now it’s just, how many 12s fit inside?” I told them it was fine to speak in Spanish.
I was worried that Samuel would explode when he saw he had gotten the questions wrong and would fail to see just how close he is to mastery. So I made a special group where I was the leader, and Samuel (and two other high-need students) were the practice-ers. Samuel first covered nearly his entire paper in white-out (which I got on my elbow), and then we began. I captured his precious concentration and as we walked through the steps together, Samuel held my hand. Or more precisely, his 9-year-old hand wrapped around two of my fingers, as I pointed with my other hand. I said nothing and we continued working, but it was the sweetest moment of my day, and really, of the week.
There are many different variations of particular jobs and roles I can imagine I might have in the future, but this much is clear: I love children. I love seeing children as whole people, and I love figuring out how to meet children where they are, and move them along, especially the quirky and difficult ones. I am so excited to keep getting better and better at this work.
Student illustration on the back of dictated mental math quiz.
1. “Teacher, I left my carpet in the locker.” carpeta, folder.
2. “Santiago is molest me.” molestar, to bother or annoy.
3. “You have to rest 12 to 25.” restar, to subtract.
4. “What is the direction?” direción, address. Note: I’ve started saying this myself.
5. “What is the note of my quiz?” nota, grade.
6. “Someone lose the quiz?” perder, to fail (also to lose, such as a sports game).
7. “I will pass?” pasar, to take a turn.
8. “I recommend you my son.” recomendar, to suggest you to attend to, etc.
9. “I have ten colors. If my friend give me five more colors…” colores, colored pencils.
10. “Teacher, I can help you repart?” repartir, to pass out. Not technically a false cognate, but “repart” sure sounds like it could be a word in English.
“An intelligent, loving and special woman always deserves the BEST. Happy Women’s Day.”
This is the gift (candles and incense) that all female employees received on Friday, International Women’s Day. We also had the gift to not wear uniforms, as was announced in the following email:
“This message is for the women of our beloved school, for all those beautiful ladies who give their best every day in the best spirit, who light up each moment with their smile, for all of the women with lots of love!!!!!! All the women and girls of Montessori, enjoy your day by coming to school out of uniform (don’t forget the norms of no low-necklines, mini-skirts, or heels). HAPPY INTERNATIONAL WOMEN’S DAY.”
From my point of view, by far the best part of the day was that social caste was less visible — female students, teachers, administrators, and the cleaning staff all dressed the same and we where difficult to distinguish. The bad part of the day was that children brought lots of candy (as well as flowers, lotion, and other girly gifts), so there were sharing problems, wrappers strewn about, and hyper kids. I received a marshmellow in the hallway from a boy who is not in any of my classes. One of the construction workers knocked on my classroom while I was teaching to hand me a purple origami bird: “Féliz Día, teacher!”
I took the day lightly, though I did I talk briefly about women’s suffrage in one class, and we got into a mini discussion. If I really think about it, a part of me was furious. I don’t want chocolate and purple balloons. I don’t want to dress up so that men can check me out from the safety of their track suit uniforms. I want respect. I want equal partnership in our personal and professional lives. I want acknowledgement of how far we’ve come, and I want a discussion about what will still need to change, together. Yet not surprisingly, the notion that treating women well means pampering is widespread here.
A few weeks ago, when my family was in Cartagena, there was a group of four Colombian women on our boat trip to a secluded beach: two young mothers and their two daughters, each about seven years old. All four were wearing heels, though the girls’ were a wedge. Once on the island, the two women took photographs of each other for at least two hours: photos in the shade, in the sun, with the sunglasses, with the hat, on the beach, in the water, lying down, sitting down, standing up. They propped their hands behind their head, they threw back their hair, and always, they sucked in their stomaches. One had a thong bathing suit, and at least one appeared to have a plastic surgery-ed bosom. While the two daughters took an inflatable ride, the mothers took pictures of each other, and texted on their pink-cased iPhones. On the boat ride back, they took photographs of their daughters for the first time.
While it is normal and harmless to take photos of oneself and to feel pretty, it is unhealthy and completely unbalanced to dedicate such an extreme amount of time to one’s appearance, especially with the young girls there. And yet, how can we denounce these mothers as superficial, bad parents, without remembering that somewhere, elsewhere, are the fathers of those girls. I caught myself criticizing these women while simultaneously burdening them with the full responsibility of raising their children.
As we witnessed with the beach-side photo shoot, femininity is performed in Colombia more than anywhere I’ve ever lived. When I say Colombia, I am talking primarily about upper-class, largely white, Bogotá. And when I say performance, I am referring to Judith Butler’s theory that all gender is performance — being “feminine is”, so often, a show we put on. For example, when parents come to school for plays or to pick-up report cards, all of the mothers, without fault, are wearing heels, make-up, and have their hair done. There are usually at least a few with incredibly low-cut shirts or tight mini-skirts, highlighting very implausible human proportions, just more evidence of the prevalence of plastic surgery in Bogotá (even Lonely Planet mentions it!). I have at least two female students — age 9 — who attempt to flirt their way out of forgotten homework. My roommate’s bathroom contains more beauty and self-care products than I’ve owned in my entire life. There are thirteen bottles in the shower alone.
Performance to the max: going out Friday to Andrés Carne de Res, Chía.Off-duty: Camping with Gina and Adriana.
To an extent, I’ve jumped in. The performance can be really fun. My sister said, “You’re so Latina!” as I got ready to go out with her. I own a blowdryer for the first time in many years, and I use it at least once a week. I collect bedazzled and colorful hair accessories. I get manicures. I’ve learned how to wear eyeliner, though I don’t wear make-up every day.
Especially compared to my year in Patagonia, I love living somewhere where I can see and be seen. Last Friday, I bought a new dress and my friend Gina curled my hair (as seen above). For me, this level of performance is incredibly unusual, more than I’ve ever done in my gringa life. At the club, I felt young and sexy and mature, noticing the attention I received and also being selective about which men I actually wanted to interact with. But at the same time, the next day I felt relieved to be at the other extreme, completely off duty from performing — dirty hair back in a ponytail, layers of flannel and fleece, dirt under my fingernails. One of the best things about my good friends here is that we enjoy these different spaces, both the on and off duty femininity show. And I should also note that not all Colombian women are the same, by any means: for example, Adriana is Colombian and loves camping and rock climbing, though she says she acquired these tastes during her five years living in the US.
Here is telling anecdote from work. In one of the third grade classes, there is a boy, Andrés Felipe, who has a big crush on one of the girls, Milah, and is always bothering her and trying to get her attention, often in obnoxious ways. Recently, when I inquired about Andrés Felipe’s absence, their homeroom teacher — a Colombian man — wrote to me,
“Now … it is no surprise that Andérs Felipe almost suffocates Milah and obviously that fact that he was absent was a huge break for her … I don’t blame her! I took the opportunity to tell the girls that they should get accustomed to this issue … precisely because they are so beautiful, this is just the beginning of a life in which they will receive any amount of compliments, especially cat-calls and harassment, by men who want to date them … I told them particularly Colombian men are super intense and tiresome .. and that it would be best for them to learn to handle the issue now so that when they grow up and they will know how to handle these situations that they will inevitably face!”
I responded,
“I understand what you said to the girls because it is the reality of things, but it saddens me that you did not take the opportunity to also say something about it to all the children, boys and girls. It would be better to teach everyone how we can work together, how we can all learn to express attraction or interest without making anyone uncomfortable, instead of saying that it is simply the responsibility of girls to adapt to a sexist world.”
I tried to express myself in an intelligent manner, but I was enraged. Here was a man, placing the burden of harassment onto women, teaching girls that their beauty logically puts them in danger, and doing nothing to hold men responsible for their behavior. This situation seems to me a microcosm of this:
My co-worker blamed the victim; though the “crime” in question was far from rape, it is the same logic as in this poster. Of course it is pragmatic and actually quite important for girls and women to learn how to navigate unwanted attention, but that is a band-aid, not a solution. He told a room of Colombian girls to get used to the fact that Colombian men are intense and prone to harassment, rather than telling the Colombian boys in that same room that they should be respectful of women!
So yes, I am a woman who criticizes and also engages in performance femininity. I am a person seeking balance and happiness in my life. I am fighting for the widest possible range of choices for all women, and also, fighting for all of us to notice how limited and loaded our choices really are. If you think the double standard in heterosexual relationships persists in the US, come visit Bogotá.
In the next six months, I am going to make myself a better teacher. Yes, teaching is about loving children, but it’s also about specific techniques and strategies, and that is where I want to improve. This semester, I want to take more risks — to try new techniques in my classroom to better address student needs. While I am handed a set worksheet for each class, I have a fair amount of leeway in how I go about teaching it.
My biggest challenge is reaching students at very different academic levels, both within and between sections. In the highest section, nearly everyone is able manipulate fractions with ease and independence, and the two or three students who lag behind are easily pulled up with a little extra support from me. With that group, we had a discussion about why it is impossible to divide by zero, and the next class they were gushing to tell me that it’s true: if you try to divide by zero on a calculator (or your iPad, as they said), it says “error”. I routinely plan extension activities for this group, otherwise they (and I) get bored.
In contrast, here is some student work from the the most academically and behaviorally heterogeneous class I teach:
Sofia successfully completes the exercise in guided practice.
Esteban struggles to multiply accurately to find equivalent fractions. Notice that in 3, he gets the numerator 9 on the third try (after being twice prompted by me to check his work). In 5, he dictated while I re-wrote the subtraction of the two fractions, and he completed the answer.
Valentina accurately and neatly follows each step in independent practice (example on the board), though she makes one error in arithmetic.
Juan Sebastián eagerly solves these challenge problems, an extension of our previous unit, after completing the worksheet of the day.
In this section, there are a two or three students who routinely scream/sing out of turn, bang their pencil or Rubik’s cubes on their desks, and wander around; there also some of the most focused, studious nine-year-olds I’ve ever met (who are also amazingly good at ignoring these interruptions). While Celine still confuses numerator and denominator, Juan Sebastián (work featured above) can independently convert improper fractions with large numbers to mixed numbers.
Here is the culture of this school in regard to struggling students: “Some kids always seem to fail. Tell their homeroom teacher to call their parents, ask them to come practice during playground, try to help them when you can in class, but hey, that’s all you can do. Remember what’s really important as a teacher is to always wear sneakers that match your track suit uniform.”
Of course, I think there’s more that I can do. I’ve tried to re-arrange the desks to make a small table where I can work side-by-side with a few students at a time, looping back to review previous content and cueing them through the steps. Recently, I’ve provided challenge problems for students who complete work quickly — I drew a stick figure with big biceps next to the word “challenge” and said, “This is your opportunity to show off your math muscles.” They loved it. Meanwhile, I sat with Celine drawing pictures of pizzas to go back to the basics.
One of the best things about my current job is the amount of free time I have. Today was average — this morning, after 45 minutes of coffee with friends, I spent an hour flipping through Teach Like A Champion (given to me by my dad, veteran teacher), taking notes and re-planning my 10:00 AM class. I decided to focus today on “Break it Down”, techniques for cueing students when they answer a question incorrectly. During other breaks in the day, I had a chance to correct student work, and for each section, list which students are struggling with which concepts, so I can pull them into small groups on Monday. This was all on a day when I also had to input grades, another time-consuming task.
My complaints about this school are many, but I want to remind myself to focus on the positive. This job gives me a huge opportunity to improve as a teacher, if I take advantage of at least some of my free periods to think critically about learning and instruction (and the others to research what bangs to get or watch Obama’s inauguration live). As frustrated as I sometimes get, I can’t ignore the fact that I love doing this. I know my last period today was not very productive, but all failure can be reframed as data collection: What did I try this afternoon that didn’t work? What can I do better next time? The more I teach, the more interesting it gets. I am hungry. I am curious. I have so far to go.
Students in their gym-day uniform, me celebrating “jean day” for teachers on the day of staff Christmas party.
I.
“Teacher Margaret, I am afraid I will leave my brain in Aruba for vacation.”
“Juan David, then why don’t you leave it here with me and then you can pick it up when you come back.”
“Yes, good idea! In desk with lock!”
“Perfect, stop by tomorrow before you go home and I’ll put your brain right here and lock it up.” I showed how I would cut open his head, pull out brain, and put it in the desk with the lock. He added sound-effects.
Students in their everyday uniform.
II.
“Teacher, are you going to Boston for vacation?”
“Yes, I am.”
“I am going to United States too.”
“Really? Where?”
“To Las Vegas, Los Angeles, and San Fransisco [pronounced in Spanish]. I will see snow!”
“I don’t think you’ll see snow in those places. You would if you came to my house in Boston.”
“Teacher…”
“My sister lives in San Fransisco. You could meet her except she’ll be in Boston.”
“Is she tall like you?”
“Yes, she is, and she has red hair.”
“Red without teñir?” [she motions to illustrate dying hair]
“Without dying, yes, it’s natural.”
“Wow!”
On Friday, this group had earned the privilege of not wearing uniforms ( a BIG deal) and I am back to my track suit.
III.
“Teach– Margaret [correcting himself from saying “teacher”, which I’ve taught them I don’t like], what was your first job?”
“Like, my first job in my whole life?”
“Yes.”
“Well… when I was in high school I worked as a babysitter. Do you guys know that word? Babysitting?
“No.”
“It’s when a family has young children, and the parents want to go out, so they leave someone to take care of the kids, and they pay them. I did that.” They seemed confused. I wish I’d asked more. I think these kids have never had a babysitter, at least not a teenager of a similar social class; either they go everywhere with their parents, stay with extended family, or — most likely — they are taken care of by live-in, older, lower-class women.
“What was your other job?”
“My next job? I worked at a summer camp, do you know what that is?”
“Yes, teacher!”
“Yeah, I taught French at a summer camp, I also worked in a coffee shop, making coffee, like Juan Valdés. That was fun.” This earned even more shocked stares. Teaching is definitely a lower-status job than what their parents do (oil business, doctors, lawyers), but it is certainly many steps above a service job.
“What was your first job in Colombia?” asked Juan José.
“My first job in Colombia was working at this place called Montessori British School, I taught third grade math, I had a student named Juan José, I don’t know if you know him…” He loved this.
Check out the jacket on that 9-year-old (he had personally earned no uniform).
IV.
“Margaret, why it say ‘photos’ on the agenda?”
“Martín, I’m glad you noticed that. Well, since today is our last day of class before vacation, and I am going home to the United States for vacation, I thought we could take pictures. All of my friends and family are going to ask about Colombia, and say, ‘What is it like? Where do you work? What are your students like?’ And if I have pictures, I’ll be able to say, ‘Well, I have this student named Celine, and Silvana,, and three Valentinas, three Nicolases, two Martíns…” They laughed as they heard me say their names.
“Teacher, you will show us to your family!”
“Yes, absolutely!” They look around, sharing excitement about their imminent fame. “Also, people will ask me about Colombia, and you know one thing people always ask me? Gringos always ask me about the weather, because they think all of Colombia is hot and tropical, like the beach.”
They stared in disbelief and confusion. “Why, teacher?”
“Well, a lot of Americans don’t know a lot about other countries, and they think of Colombia and think Caribbean. So I will tell them that actually in Bogotá, it is kind of cold.”
“Teacher, you will eat pizza in United States?” We talk about pizza every day — we’re studying fractions, after all.
“Of course!”
Student on left sporting the daily-schedule necklace, which many students (and teachers) use, as well as the all-the-rage Rubik’s cube.
6:30 Alarm goes off. I am tired from girls’ night yesterday (pretty much a Wednesday tradition, and especially needed after close of second quarter grades yesterday)
6:45 Actually get out of bed, eat pear and walnuts, put on the track suit.
7:15 Should leave the house. But wait I have to find some earrings and…
7:20 Actually leave.
7:30 Commute. I recognize at least five people just about every morning:
40-something woman walking toward me on Calle 69, looking frazzled, dishevled
“Cereal y fruta a la ordén, ceral y frutaaaaaa!!” woman on corner of Calle 69, Carrera 9
kissy kissy couple waiting for C19 bus
black man who gets off at Suba Calle 100
30-something white professional woman who always looks elegant and natural (which here means no plastic surgury), walking up Boyacá or up the stairs of Suba Av. Boyacá stop as I get off (is she Colombian? she could almost be some kind of European)
8:05 Greet security guard in English. It is clear to me that he is disappointed when I greet him in Spanish, and really excited, though nervous, when I greet him in English. Recently he’s even chatted to me about the weather. Clearly, he wants to practice and I’m happy to give him that.
8:10 Sign in.
8:15 Drop my stuff off in my classroom, walk across the hall to find friends to get coffee in the courtyard.
9:00 Sit down at computer to work on b.s. paperwork no one will ever read.
9:45 Check personal email, cruise recipe blogs.
10:00 Work on new seating charts for third quarter.
10:20 Go downstairs to see what snack is. When I see it is fruit loops and raspberry “yogurt”, I instead buy a buñuelo (cheezy fried dough delight, as seen here) and have a glass of milk.
10:35 – 11:10 First class of the day, mental math, to the rowdiest group in the third grade, including one child who could probably qualify for clinical summer program I used to work for (Wediko). I remind him that he can doodle on his paper while waiting during the dictated exercises. At the end of the five minute quiz, his paper is completely covered, black. He gets 10 out of 10 correct.
11:10 Grade student work.
12:00 Make card for colleague’s birthday (I’m in charge of birthdays in math department!), wander around to find people to sign it.
1:00 Check work & personal email. Write in journal.
1:30 – 2:40 Math class. We introduce new seats, and then I spend most of the class talking over last bimester’s exams with individual students while they do review worksheet in pairs.
2:40 Go down to Upper Elementary Coordinator’s office (as requested by email), learn about snafu in my grades, go fix it.
3:30 Plan upcoming birthday party with friend.
4:15 Once the kids leave, wander around school finding people to invite to party. Accept random gift of chocolate from creepy school owner who tells us we can come take a nap in his office whenever we need to rest.
5:00 Once the birthday girl leaves, decorate her classroom with balloons.
5:15 Sign out, and scratch plans to go to gym, and instead go shopping for birthday things with friend. And of course, talk about the usuals: relationships, sex, family, privilege, money.
7:00 Arrive home in taxi because I have a huge cake box with me. Take out cash from ATM to pay December rent.
7:30 Dinner of spaghetti and onion-tomato sauce and cheese.
8:00 Chat online with friends in US, Chile, and right here in Bogotá. Shower, unwind, etc.
9:25 After finishing post, settle into a) Parks and Recreation or b) current book on Kindle: The Nothing That Is: A Natural History of Zero by Robert Kaplan. Despite how flaky this daily synopsis makes my job appear (an accurate portrayal), I actually take teaching math pretty seriously. And zero is just so interesting.
Manipulatives for unit on fractions.For comparing fractions.
Or, a few of my pet peeves.
1. The more fun, the better. People, this is not a popularity contest. The objective is not “fun” ; it’s learning. If we can do both, even better, but my criteria for each minute of my lesson plan is, “How will this help my students master the content that they will ultimately be evaluated on?” not, “Will they like this?”. Yes, sometimes I’ll play hangman or speak in Spanish (they always beg for this) at the end of class for the purpose of fun — relationship-building — but my first priority is the learning target. It’s a bit different in a private school like this one, given that the stakes aren’t that high: my students will go to college whether or not they pass my class, simply because their parents can pay for it. However, I try to take my job just as seriously as I would if it my students were poor, both for my own development, and because, simply as human beings, my students deserve no less than I would give anyone else.
2. Manipulatives are the answer. Math manipulatives can be very useful — cubes, pattern blocks, and so on. Recently I’ve been handed an incredible quantity of materials for our unit on fractions (mostly involving pizza — see photos). However, manipulatives are only as useful as we make them. How much they help children learn depends so dearly on how we teach students how to use them: giving the directions, monitoring their use, and drawing conclusions at the end. One of my favorite things this week has been carefully designing activities with these beautiful manipulatives that engage all my students and actually help them to understand equivalent fractions — rather than invite them to toss around the pepperoni pieces.
3. Kids have short attention spans. One of the cornerstones of Montessori philosophy (as I learned from reading Dr. Montessori’s work and volunteering and visiting Montessori schools in Massachusetts — nada que ver with my current job) is that children are naturally curious, and therefore, pursue a problem as long as it engages them. In my classroom, it is often at least as hard to get kids to stop working as to get their attention at the beginning. Often just as a concept is beginning to make sense, we have to move on in order to finish the class on time. I teach primarily in 70-minute blocks, while most of preschool — 3rd grade is scheduled on 35-minute periods, which seems to me just enough time to get started and then interrupt the crucial process of learning.
4. Rules are mean. Rules are caring. Good rules say, “You are important, what we are doing here is important, and I am taking care of you.” I run a tight ship, but I also think, a caring ship. I have explicitly stated the justification for every rule in my classroom — — from assigned seats to limited bathroom permission, eyes on the speaker to everything off your desk. One of my pet peeves in my school in Chile, as well as my current job, is the attitude that “Rules are the rules because I said so,” rather than, “Rules are there to help you.” If I can’t justify how a rule promotes student learning, it is out.
5. Teaching easy content is easy. Have you every tried explaining zero? What do you do when a student counts on his fingers inaccurately? How do you show how you can add 20+30 = 50 like 2+3=5? I have to say, I am currently enjoying teaching relatively challenging content (like comparing fractions by finding a common denominator), but I remember my vivid engagement last spring in Boston with the first grade, especially the challenge of teaching simple math. In some ways, the more obvious the content is to an adult, the more difficult it is to break down to a child.
6. Children are engaged by hooplah. Sure, it is easy to get children’s attention with songs and dance; but I’m starting to believe that children are at least as engaged by meaningful challenge as by hooplah. When I first taught equivalent fractions, I had some of my most “disruptive” students spellbound: partly my own enthusiasm is engaging, and partly, it is interesting to see something new and challenging. I think we sell children short by assuming that we need balls and whistles to get their attention: well-presented real content can be incredibly engaging.
7. Teachers are saints. This attitude is one of my all-time pet peeves. If a man is a good doctor or lawyer, we tend to think, “Wow, he is so smart. He must have worked really hard to earn that.” Sure, if he works with under-served populations, we give that a moral value, but we still are struck primarily by his intelligence. What about a teacher? “Aw, what a saint. I could never be that patient.” Traditionally the domain of women, elementary education in particular is often seen as glorified babysitting. Elementary teachers may be considered patient, sweet “saints”, but rarely as intellectuals, as data-driven scientists, or as remarkably multi-talented and multi-tasking practitioners. Small children may be cute, but managing a large group of them is a job few envy, let alone seek out. It is an insult to attribute the hard work of professionals to the coincidence of their inherent personality traits. Please don’t call me a saint. Call me smart.
This week, I introduced my students to fractions. For one part of a particularly challenging worksheet, I showed an example on the board, and told everyone the pictures didn’t have to be beautiful, I just had to be able to understand what they represented. Let me show you what they handed in.
Here, an overachieving (Colombian) girl draws meticulous figures:
The neat, precise stick figures of my Korean student:
Now, notice the way three Colombian boys drew stick figures of boys:
Altitude 1.6 