Turn It Over (I Apologize Ahead of Time for the Lameness of This Post)

The Mississippi Delta is almost completely flat. When it rains, there is nowhere for the water to go. It seeps slowly into a soggy soil that seemingly never dries, forming standing puddles in the streets and schoolyards that linger for days at a time. You learn to watch your step; a person can adjust to anything.

Our so-called “4x4 block” schedule has afforded me the advantage of a fresh start with a whole new group of students. It really is a lot like getting two years teaching experience in one. And while this is actually my third year of classroom teaching, this month marks the first time I am actually teaching the same curriculum over again. I have refined my teaching style a bit, tinkered with my discipline policy, and become more energized, more on top of things, more, well, happy—and in search of good ideas. So things are good. Every now and then, I even leave school on a high at the end of the day, feeling like I am actually good at what I do. Not always, but sometimes.

Well, for one thing, I have stopped worrying so much what is going to happen to me if a large number of students fail. Our principal actually told us in a staff meeting last week that he was pleased with our failure rates, that we were not passing kids who deserve to fail.

I think I also have a better group of students overall than I had last term. My Transition kids—being of a somewhat more appropriate grade level for the class—are not nearly so recalcitrant and hardened in their f-you style indolence as they were last term. And my Algebra II first block class is an absolute dream. I have so many good students (relatively) in that class that it almost blows my mind.

I stopped writing names on the board as a negative consequence. Instead, the name on the board is an honor. The kids argue and compete for it. For negative consequences, I administer a couple verbal warnings usually, and then I give a detention, which I conduct twice a week. For detention, the student has to copy my paragraph, “Respect According to Mr. A,” four times—more if necessary. It seems to work alright.

One of my favorite changes has been the way I grade homework. I used to let it pile up and then in desperation assign them all completion grades whenever I needed to have grades ready. Now I grade every homework assignment, 60% on completion and 40% on correctness. But I only check two representative problems on each assignment—chosen by me randomly after the assignment is turned it—which makes the prospect of grading them very manageable. I have gotten so I can plow through a large stack of papers with relative ease.

I continue to struggle to find inspired ideas for my teaching sometimes. Things usually go well when my ideas are good, and things go so-so okay when my ideas are a little flat.

Restless Soul

I’m drinking a beer at 1:30 in the morning. First day of school is tomorrow (i.e. today). I’ve got a lesson plan in my head, a syllabus I spent four hours on, and a whole stack of exams left to grade before dawn. “Graduation Day” plays on my trusty iPod.

Just this side of Arkansas, José stopped the car at 2:00 last night so I could kiss the ground of Mississippi. My sister gave me an entire bag full of Beanie Babies with “I [heart] Mississippi” embroidered on them for Christmas. And believe it or not, I feel strangely confident.

I think I figured something out this holiday. Why I end up in places like Mississippi. Because I prefer the stark loneliness of this relative isolation and the vague, hopeful promise of a foreign experience to that smothering loneliness, the vague drowning sensation of home. I mean, it’s great to see the nieces and nephews and all. And it was great to play Boggle, that train game called Ticket to Ride, and shoot Nerf darts at my nephew. You try to appreciate the drama of family and enjoy the happy parts on the surface. But no one really sees me completely for who I am. So better to be unknown—with people I can still surprise. Ever since my time in Africa I have become fascinated with a concept I call “portals”—the way our very identities seem to change so profoundly as we pass between wildly different environments. Meanwhile, the Pacific Northwest becomes even more staggeringly beautiful every time I leave and come back. And it was great to see my friends too. How do you explain? Playing Wii tennis in a crowded living room, traipsing around the tea shop glories of Seattle and Tacoma with an encyclopedic tour guide. Chatting with former girlfriends in some vague magnanimity tangentially related to the Christmas season and all. Blah blah blah. But not one person completely listened to my life and answered these three essential questions: Am I still important—really? Do you still believe in me? And can it—can I?—get better? The world is filled with immense loneliness, and no one knows how to talk about this. On the airplane back to Little Rock, a woman beside me read a romance novel about demons making love.

At home, they treat us like children, and that is what we become. Emotional babies with every physical care provided for. Now we return to the real world—foreign as it is—and become adults again. And actually it feels a whole lot better than we thought it would. At least I think so.

My New Year’s resolution: Be more creative. Less complacent. Plan better. Push myself. Become the teacher I want to be. Tomorrow we start the year off with a game of 20 Questions. They have to guess what’s inside my box full of Beanie Babies! (Thanks to D.L. for the idea.)