In my role as educator/disciplinarian/leader/whatever-they-tell-me-to do, I often find myself conflicted. I had a situation where a boy "hit" a girl on the shoulder. It was truthfully a pretty minor thing. She had no injury. Both students are special ed. kids. The parent of the girl threw a fit, the police filed charges, I had to suspend the boy from school for a few days. When I spoke with him about being suspended, he had this look of terrified horror. That never happens here. NEVER. Sometimes they are annoyed at being suspended, other times they know their parents will be angry (not often), most often they seem to not care at all... after all, it's a day (or 2 or 3) without school... but they're never terrified of it. That should have been my clue.
He returned from suspension a few days later with a black eye. A teacher noticed it right away. We had to call CPS and make a report.
I think he wasn't terrified of suspension, but instead what was waiting for him at home when they found out about what he did.
Sometimes I wonder if all the rules and regulations and "mandatory" disciplinary actions (as opposed to using judgement) are appropriate. CPS is unlikely to make any real change in this boy's home life. They rarely do anything at all.
Saturday, October 24, 2009
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
He Pooped in the Cup!
You may have heard of a police "ride-along," which is where you ride along with a police officer to experience the work of a law enforcement officer. I've never done that, but I did recently get the chance to ride shotgun in an ambulance across town to an emergency room, with a student in the back being helped by the paramedics.
As usual on these impromptu ride-alongs (never pleasant experiences), I had to jump in at the last possible moment and with no notice. I'm glad I had my cell phone, otherwise I wouldn't have had any numbers to call to get a ride later. The ride was actually quite interesting. The sea of traffic doesn't exactly part, but instead scatters in all directions, often not actually helping the driver to get through. He drove surprisingly fast, which is exactly how I hope they will drive should I ever need their services.
So we get there and the student that we brought, who doesn't speak English well (nor Spanish, but instead a fairly obscure African language), and he tells the nurses that he needs to use the bathroom. They send him into the bathroom with a cup to collect a urine sample, which seems logical considering the medical problem he seems to be experiencing. After about 10 minutes, there's no noticeable sound coming from the room and the boy still hasn't emerged, so the nurse begins knocking on the door and talking to him through the door. About a minute later, the door opens and he passes out the plastic cup filled with what is clearly not urine. That's right folks. He pooped in the cup.
The nurse, obviously a man who has worked in the medical field for a long time, calmly hands him the cup back and says "this isn't urine, throw it on the trash and come out." The boy threw the "sample" in the garbage can and emerged.
Admittedly, the language barrier probably made it so that exactly "what" to put into the cup wasn't really clear, particularly for someone who has probably never seen nor heard of giving a urine sample. After all, he had told them he needed to go to the bathroom... then they told him to deposit whatever he needed to "do" into the cup. So he did.
The rest of the evening was equally bizarre. When the father finally arrived 4 hours later (not a typo, FOUR hours later and only with tremendous coaxing and a ride from someone else), he seemed basically indifferent to what was happening with his son. With a telephone translator, we got across some basics and ultimately the doctor was able to complete a rudimentary conversation with the man. The evening concluded with an 11:30pm drive into a neighborhood that I wouldn't recommend anyone go even during the day. I'll save the talk about the neighborhood for another day, though.
The takeaway for the night? I don't think I'll ever see the urine sample cup quite the same way again! Also, be very clear with instructions, not only in the classroom, but in the real world, too.
As usual on these impromptu ride-alongs (never pleasant experiences), I had to jump in at the last possible moment and with no notice. I'm glad I had my cell phone, otherwise I wouldn't have had any numbers to call to get a ride later. The ride was actually quite interesting. The sea of traffic doesn't exactly part, but instead scatters in all directions, often not actually helping the driver to get through. He drove surprisingly fast, which is exactly how I hope they will drive should I ever need their services.
So we get there and the student that we brought, who doesn't speak English well (nor Spanish, but instead a fairly obscure African language), and he tells the nurses that he needs to use the bathroom. They send him into the bathroom with a cup to collect a urine sample, which seems logical considering the medical problem he seems to be experiencing. After about 10 minutes, there's no noticeable sound coming from the room and the boy still hasn't emerged, so the nurse begins knocking on the door and talking to him through the door. About a minute later, the door opens and he passes out the plastic cup filled with what is clearly not urine. That's right folks. He pooped in the cup.
The nurse, obviously a man who has worked in the medical field for a long time, calmly hands him the cup back and says "this isn't urine, throw it on the trash and come out." The boy threw the "sample" in the garbage can and emerged.
Admittedly, the language barrier probably made it so that exactly "what" to put into the cup wasn't really clear, particularly for someone who has probably never seen nor heard of giving a urine sample. After all, he had told them he needed to go to the bathroom... then they told him to deposit whatever he needed to "do" into the cup. So he did.
The rest of the evening was equally bizarre. When the father finally arrived 4 hours later (not a typo, FOUR hours later and only with tremendous coaxing and a ride from someone else), he seemed basically indifferent to what was happening with his son. With a telephone translator, we got across some basics and ultimately the doctor was able to complete a rudimentary conversation with the man. The evening concluded with an 11:30pm drive into a neighborhood that I wouldn't recommend anyone go even during the day. I'll save the talk about the neighborhood for another day, though.
The takeaway for the night? I don't think I'll ever see the urine sample cup quite the same way again! Also, be very clear with instructions, not only in the classroom, but in the real world, too.
Monday, October 19, 2009
An Oasis of Crumbling Concrete
The school building where I work is old. Even older than it's age. A 1960's-built travesty of architectural injustice that reflects the very pinnacle of generic institutional architecture with a splash of vomitous 1960's color. The architect of Alcatraz prison would certainly be impressed with this place. It wouldn't surprise me to find out that they were designed by the same guy.
The whole place smells. The smells vary from room to room... sour milk, mildew/mold, body odor, school cafeteria food, rancid bathrooms, but none of them are pleasant. The fresh airflow originally designed into the building was sealed up long ago in favor of an inefficient air conditioning system installed by the lowest bidder. There is no other form ventilation beyond recycling the always humid and odorous air.
I normally love old buildings and find that they have character, history and beauty. This place is just ugly. It's not an oasis by any stretch of the imagination. At least not for the typical American, who arrives with high expectations of what their high school should look like.
But our kids are not typical Americans. Most are not Americans at all. For them, the school is a safe zone, a beacon of hope, an oasis of familiarity through its diversity and unconditional care and giving from complete strangers. Teachers, administrators, nurses, counselors and sometimes even doctors and psychologists.
Teachers here write on desperately aging chalkboards and prepare for classes while sitting at a nearly 50 year old desk, with absolutely no regard for how awful this place might seem to the average onlooker. For our students, this is a place that represents many different things. As foundations shift and walls crack, chalkboards still do their work, cracks or not. No student is perfect, no teacher is perfect and no school building is perfect. It's what we do with those things that shows our resolve as educators. Even on cracked chalkboards, we educate.
On this blog, I hope to provide at least a little look into that world. The world of the cracked chalkboard. These posts probably won't be about teaching in the classroom as much as they will be about the stories and events that I see and experience during my day. For reasons that are probably obvious, I will never use my real name, nor anyone else's name. I am going to do my best not to even specify the name of the city. If you guess it, please refrain from posting that information in the comments.
Stay tuned for more...
The whole place smells. The smells vary from room to room... sour milk, mildew/mold, body odor, school cafeteria food, rancid bathrooms, but none of them are pleasant. The fresh airflow originally designed into the building was sealed up long ago in favor of an inefficient air conditioning system installed by the lowest bidder. There is no other form ventilation beyond recycling the always humid and odorous air.
I normally love old buildings and find that they have character, history and beauty. This place is just ugly. It's not an oasis by any stretch of the imagination. At least not for the typical American, who arrives with high expectations of what their high school should look like.
But our kids are not typical Americans. Most are not Americans at all. For them, the school is a safe zone, a beacon of hope, an oasis of familiarity through its diversity and unconditional care and giving from complete strangers. Teachers, administrators, nurses, counselors and sometimes even doctors and psychologists.
Teachers here write on desperately aging chalkboards and prepare for classes while sitting at a nearly 50 year old desk, with absolutely no regard for how awful this place might seem to the average onlooker. For our students, this is a place that represents many different things. As foundations shift and walls crack, chalkboards still do their work, cracks or not. No student is perfect, no teacher is perfect and no school building is perfect. It's what we do with those things that shows our resolve as educators. Even on cracked chalkboards, we educate.
On this blog, I hope to provide at least a little look into that world. The world of the cracked chalkboard. These posts probably won't be about teaching in the classroom as much as they will be about the stories and events that I see and experience during my day. For reasons that are probably obvious, I will never use my real name, nor anyone else's name. I am going to do my best not to even specify the name of the city. If you guess it, please refrain from posting that information in the comments.
Stay tuned for more...
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