Small breakthroughs

"How do you say ice cream?" A girl raised her hand and blurted out the question.

"That's one of my favorite words," I replied. "Helado. The H is silent," I said as I wrote it on the board. "It sounds like EL- LAD- DOH."

I saw the girl scribble something down onto her folder. "So, me gusta helado is I like ice cream," she said. I saw that she wrote the phrase she learned yesterday with the new word next to it. "I'm gonna try that on my ice cream man. I'm gonna say, 'me gusta helado."

"That's awesome!" I said. "Emma, you're so talented at Spanish. I know you get it. I want you to tell me what happens when you try it out, ok!"

"She ain't talented!" a boy in front of her chimed in. "I'm talented. She's copyin me!"

"No I ain't! I can do Spanish!" She taunted back. "I'm good!"

Yeah, it was a silly argument and a tiny interaction. But for me, it was a defining moment of the week. I had a girl extending her vocabulary, wanting to try Spanish out in her life, and telling the kid in front of her that she WAS good at Spanish!

So ended week 3 of institute. There are two weeks to go, and I can feel my body breaking down but my spirits are high. My kids are behaving, and they're LEARNING. The kids each have individual growth goals that TFA decides at the beginning of the summer. Using a computer program, we see how they did on their pre-test and decide what's a reasonable goal for them at the end of the summer. We focus on growth, more than actual grades. So for example, a student that scored a 20 on the pretest might have a goal of a 60 for the final, since that would mean a 200% growth. But screw the data: my kids are getting B's, and a good amount of them are getting (and definitely EARNING) A's. I thought tracking the data would be boring, but it is THRILLING to be able to watch the curves go up. And it's even more thrilling to watch the kid's faces when you can show them on a computer how they got an A, and how you know they can keep it up. So many of them are so used to giving up.

And as for me? Life is still in chaos- there's a lot of loose ends. I didn't pass my Praxis test, meaning I have to figure out a time to study and retake that to be certified as a teacher. I still don't have my housing solidified. I do, however, know my placement school in Prince George's county, and I will be a middle school teacher! As such, I'll be the only Spanish teacher there, and I'll be part of the "creative arts" team. So my department is me, the art teacher, the computer teacher, and the music teacher. I think it's going to be fun, but I definitely need some courses on middle school psychology!

Well, that's all for now...
and hopefully next week will bring good stories.

Peace and Love.
T

Relentless Pursuit

The first week of teaching: how does anyone begin to describe this experience? It has been a long, harrowing week. On average, I get about 4 hours of sleep a night. This is catching up to all of us, I notice my spoken sentences garbling and my attention span shortening. I have only been at this for four days, and already I can see why the experience is like a drug habit: sometimes there are incredible lows. The hours are long, the rewards are far and few between, and everyone is so anxious. But occasionally, the last student you would expect shows up for extra help. Or the girl struggling at home gets a 100 on your quiz. Or you can see the excitement on a student’s face when they’re praised for “getting” your lesson. It’s on those few moments that I have the energy to write today.

Summer school has technically been in session since last Wednesday, but even yesterday kids were coming into our class with new rosters, needing to be caught up on the material. Our students are a varied bunch: some are completely solid on the basic Spanish concepts that we’re teaching, and are only in summer school because of attendance issues. Some of them are here because they didn’t pass the class. Some are freshman, some are seniors, and all need a foreign language credit to graduate. For this reason, a sense of desperate urgency prevails in the classroom.

Standing in front of a sea of faces on my first day was unlike any other performance of my life. Yeah, I’ve been on stage before, many many times. But I’ve never done a solo improv performance that lasts for more than an hour! Even though we spend hours upon hours lesson planning, all the details are lost when you’re in front of the room. And for me, they literally did get lost!

I started my first day with an “investment activity” that asked the students to look under their desks. Some of them found quotes taped there about why American students should learn Spanish. I had them read the quotes one by one, and the asked them: Who do you think said this quote? The answer was president Obama, and I showed the kids a video on my laptop of the speech I referenced. Somehow, in my adrenaline and shuffle of the activity, I lost my precious clipboard and lesson plan. Gone! Into the abyss of the classroom, my lesson plan was lost, and I was only in the first 5 minutes of my class on my first day.

I had a crucial decision to make. Stop the class and search, or march on. What if some kid had it? What if I couldn’t find it? I decided I would march on. Mustering up every once of “drama kid” in me, I began class. One by one, I hit the objectives. I went through all the activities I planned. My head began to relax: I remembered everything. Feeling good, I got ready to wrap up the lesson.

Then I looked at the clock.

8:35 !!!! 8:35 !!! I had only taught for 35 minutes! There were 25 minutes of class left, my lesson was lost, and I ran out of everything I planned. What was I going to do?

At this point I literally blacked out. I’m not even sure what all I did for 25 minutes. I know I was making stuff up, talking about expectations and telling them about my experiences. With 10 minutes left to go in class, I gave the helm over to my co-teacher to tell a story from his study abroad experience. When that horrid, slow hour had finally passed, I was a nervous wreck.

To my shock and delight, our mentor teacher was glowing. “It was wonderful!” She said. “So natural, you were teaching from the heart. And you didn’t even need your clipboard.”

Oh, if you only knew.

So many stories to come- peace and love.

Boot Camp

I have been here for four days and it feels like I have been here a month. By day two, girls were crying. By day three, everyone was exhausted beyond their wildest dreams. I drank 5 doses of caffeine yesterday to stay alert. Yes, this is Teach For America institute. And it is only the very, very beginning.

I am lucky in some ways. In fact, I have it very easy. When my elementary education friends are working on 6 or even 9 lesson plans, I am only working on 3. And when they have to explain abstract concepts like "picking a book thoughtfully," I work on vocabulary lists. Some of them are practicing this summer on 2nd graders when in reality they will be teaching 6th graders. I am teaching exactly what I will be teaching in the fall: Spanish 1. So, in many ways I am very lucky. But I hardly call getting four or five hours of sleep a night a gift!

Let me explain my schedule. Each morning, we are out the door of our Temple University dorm at about 5:40 am to the dining hall to eat breakfast and fill our coffee canteens. Then out the door we go, grabbing a bagged lunch on the way to big yellow school buses that take us to our "school sites." I have been placed at South Philadelphia High School about 20 minutes away- and well, lets just say that I am there for a reason. The school is four stories high and was built in that classic 1950's soviet bloc concrete style. The windows have iron bars over them, as do every glass surface in the building. The bathrooms have no stall doors, and large spray painted warnings tell you DO NOT DRINK WATER. Imagine- a school with no potable water running through its pipes! There have been attempts to spruce up the place- a few beautiful murals here and there- but over all it is falling apart.

Once at the school, we sign in and next week will start ACTUALLY teaching summer school. I will teach one hour a day- and three of my peers will trade off with me, each taking a turn and completing an hour as well. The students attending have already failed various subjects: perhaps for academic reasons, perhaps for attendance reasons. In any event it will be our job to cram a year's worth of knowledge into just 4 short weeks. We got our diagnostic tests back today: most of the students I will be teaching scored an average of 20 on the test. They most likely got this score by randomly guessing on the multiple choice format. I have a lot of work ahead of me.

Besides this one hour, the rest of the day till 4:30 is spent fervently trying to learn how to "BE" a teacher. So many things go into it, so many formulas! Classroom management, Class culture, student investment, rules and consequences. Each must be thought out BEFORE actually meeting the students. Never mind the lesson plans themselves! Each minute must be scripted. At this point, we have no other choice.

After we return to Temple, the day is hardly over. If you're lucky you can get in a run and eat dinner. Then, there are night time sessions to attend about diversity and team building, and always, always more work. Something about it all seems a bit amiss- I want to believe that my "rewards and consequences" formulas I've been slaving over this week are going to work, but I have a looming fear that come Monday morning the kids just aren't going to buy it.

There's a loud fight in the hall. The bathroom reeks of pot. No one can get a drink, and I'm supposed to cover a year of Spanish in 20 days.

But this is why we're here right? I have to believe that there wouldn't be so many brilliant, motivated grads and veterans here with me if SOMETHING didn't give.

Until next week. Peace and love.

TFA Inductions

I'm writing this post from a creaky plastic mattress in an almost empty dorm room on the George Washington University campus. It's my home for the week as I live out of suitcases and try not to unpack too much! This is Teach For America inductions, and as one friend described it, it's Hansel and Gretel week: they're fattening us up and tricking us into enjoying Teach For America before they throw us in the oven next week at Institute!

Everything here is intense, but pleasantly so. Imagine a world where every kid was the "super kid" of their college: everyone here is young, brilliant, good looking, accomplished and funny. It's a world of J Crew suits and clicking high heels, interviews, brainstorms and debate. So far, Teach For America is a little intimidating, but it's also invigorating to be in such good company.

The days start early. After a Starbucks breakfast, we have to go to seminars, community panels, and q & a sessions. Topics like diversity, the achievement gap, or where to find an apartment are a few of the items on the menu. Each day promises a bag lunch to be gobbled before the next seminar. We've traveled to the Kennedy Center and National Geographic building, and listened to speakers ranging from the superintendent of Prince George's county to last year's corps members. Today, I'll hop the metro and get my first view of Prince George's County at a hiring fair.

It hasn't been all work though- there's been a lot of play. Everyone is eager to explore the nightlife and DC is a beautiful, young, very "walkable" city. They told us in one of our sessions that it's ranked as the 8th best city in the country to be single! We've gone out almost every night to a bar or two, and so far I've really enjoyed the few neighborhoods I've seen. But no form of socializing could prepare me for last night.

Teach For America is made possible in thanks to very generous donations and grants from companies and individuals. Obviously, these investors care deeply about education and want to see where their money is going. Last night, all of us were required to attend various dinners throughout the city with these sponsors. We were told they were thrilled to meet us, discuss our futures, and talk about education. My sponsor was a Vice President at Price Waterhouse Coopers. He lived in a mansion outside the city in Virginia. At his home, we were treated to hoers de oeuvres, drinks, and a phenomenal formal dinner. All the while, a live three-piece orchestra filled the room with music. We were able to enjoy his immaculate Victorian interior design, lively conversation, and the warmth of his family. They were self made people; delightful and genuine and so pleased to be a part of our movement. After a champagne toast and delicious miniature desserts, we packed up and fought the traffic back home to the district.

My head is in a bit of a whirlwind. It's hard to believe I've only been here 3 days. There's a lot to take in, intellectually and socially. But I know for sure that this will be the most grand "aventura" of my life.

Mr. Toad's Wild Ride

Dalton, MA. Woodstock, VT. Dalton, MA. Providence, RI. Lincoln, RI. Portsmouth, RI. Orleans, MA. Provincetown, MA. Portsmouth, RI. Cumberland, RI. Dalton MA.

Yes, it was a wild ride this weekend! Taking tests, visiting relatives, seeing old friends and eating as much lobster as possible- by the time I got home I was exhausted but pleased with my marathon trip. The highlight of the journey was without a doubt going deep sea fishing with my Dad and Papa!

Dad and his cronies have been going fishing off the Cape for years now, always with the same guide named Glenn. Every time, he returned with gigantic fish- striped bass and bluefish, the occasional shark and tales of whales, sea turtles and ocean sunfish. Dad and I planned a trip before I left for DC. I have never been on one of these trips, and I was excited to reel in those 40 inch gigantic Bass I had heard so much about.

I'm not going to lie. Waking up at 4:45 am was a little painful. The day was gray, misty and freezing cold. I dressed like I was going skiing- it felt ridiculous until the boat pulled out and the icy ocean wind whipped through to the skin. My teeth chattered, and my dad assured me that as soon as I was catching fish, I would warm right up.

Our guide's radar showed that there was a school of big fish below us, so we pulled up next to a pack of other fishing boats. (I can't believe so many people get up this early.) It wasn't more than a second after I cast my line into the water that I heard my Papa yell: "FISH ON!"

Then my Dad. "FISH ON!" Then Glenn. "GOTTA FISH!" I reeled in my line desperately. We used long, rubber lures that looked like eels. Mine was chomped off, but no fish to be seen! Quickly, I re-rigged and threw my line out again. Cast after cast, and no luck for me! Dad and Papa and Glenn continued to yell and laugh, reeling in giant bass after giant bass. The huge fish were spiky, shiny and heavy. I was getting so mad! Why couldn't I catch a fish!!? The guys finally pitied me and let me reel in a few.

The hours crept by, as the boat explored different spots in the bay. All told, the guys caught more than a dozen fish. The sun had come out and burned off the cold mist, and the end of the morning was fast approaching. One last cast, I thought dejectedly. Maybe I'll get lucky...

Yes, that's a fish. It's about half the size of the lure and somehow I speared it reeling in my line. The odds of me catching a fish that small with a hook that big have got to be one in a million. I mean, is that even possible?

When we got home to show off the pictures, Katie paused at my trophy catch. "Hmm. Tor, I dunno. I think you're holding it close to the camera to make it look bigger."

Only me.

A Hopelessly Domestic Morning

Each year, my mom throws the grown-up equivalent of a little girl's tea party. This "Ladies' Brunch," as she has come to call it, is one of the biggest social events of her year. Typically she invites almost 30 people, plans an extensive themed menu, and cooks the entire day the day before. And to make sure everyone has a good time, these "brunches" also include some form of seemingly innocent, sweet booze.

This was the first year I would be home for this annual event, and mom had an idea to spoil me to bits. She decided that in honor of my graduation, and my future as a Spanish teacher, she would make the brunch "Spain" themed and of course, serve sangria. On the invitation, she invited everyone to bring a small kitchen gadget as a token gift for me. I love cooking, and I have all the basic cooking tools I need, but I can't get enough of all the silly, funny gadgets one can buy these days.

Saturday we spent the whole day cooking. Food in Spain isn't that delicious, most menus over there consist of ham and fish, oil, ham and more fish. Veggies and sweet treats are hard to come by. Yet we charged forward, "Americanizing" traditional dishes to make them a bit more palatable. We kept some basics- like the famed tortilla espanola, and improvised others- just using a regular honey-roasted ham instead of the weird, dry leathery ham more typical of the country. And 6 wine bottles later, we had a giant punch bowl filled with a fruity, sweet sangria.

Sunday dawned bright and beautiful. Everyone dressed in lovely spring colors, and I wore my new favorite orange dress. The guests were mostly moms and grandmas, so imagine my surprise when I saw how quickly the sangria bowl drained! These ladies came in and bee-lined for the booze. I cracked up, the guests were all former teachers, church friends, and neighbors. They were also party animals. I guess the "jungle juice" appeal lasts far after college. We had to make another bowl!

Later, as we were cleaning up the mess and putting everything away, I caught a glimpse of my pile of presents. People must have gotten mixed up- we asked for a token little gadget, but the gifts were on par for a wedding shower! It was absolutely insane. Tea sets, wine glasses, cookbook collections, bags and bags of goodies never ended. However, I did have one favorite gift...

Believe it or not, that's an apron. It's the sexiest, most domestic, 50s-era desperate housewife item that I own. When I cook in it, for boys of course, I will absolutely be in heels and red lipstick. Photos compliments of my fab art school sister!

Peace and Love!

The pain! The horror!

I am a joyful person. People have called me "annoyingly nice." Apparently, when I say "yay," it usually comes out more like "yayy hay hay hay" because I am typically laughing. But this week I learned that naive joy in life's simple pleasures can be deadly.

Mom and I went to Whitney's farm to choose flowers to plant this spring. It was a glorious day outside, and the lovely local farm buzzed with insects and smelled amazing. Much to my surprise and delight, I learned that there was a petting zoo for customers to explore. My inner child did a flip- a petting zoo! What joy! "Mom, we have to go!" I exclaimed, unbuckling and bounding out of the car. I headed straight to the little row of pens. Flower shopping could wait.

The petting zoo was a lovely place for families. Each pen had a little gumball machine filled with food nuggets you could give the animals. I eagerly dug around for quarters to stick in the machine. Unfortunately, the farm lady was one step ahead of me and had just fed the animals their lunch. My little handful of num-nums was nothing compared to the fresh hay and grain they had in their buckets. Each animal more or less shunned my attempts at friendship and feeding. Whatever, I thought. These are just the boring sheep and goats. What I was really excited for was the "grand finale" pen. It had a llama and a pony!

"Hello Llama! Yayy hay hay!" I skipped merrily over to its pen, num-nums in hand. The llama picked its head up from its bale of hay and looked right into my eyes.

"Want some nummies!?" I extended my hand of little pellets towards the animal. The llama was acting weird. It stretched its neck up tall and tilted its head backwards. For one second, I wondered if something was wrong.

Then, it happened.




"DAHHHHHHHHHHHH" I screamed. I was hit at point blank range. Let me tell you, nothing you have ever seen on America's Funniest Home videos can ever prepare you for getting "spit" on by a real llama. The "spit," was hot, thick- the consistency of hair gel- and smelled like vomit and poop combined. It was everywhere, in my hair, my face, my eyes were burning, my brand new otto-the-orange tee shirt was decked. My mom, who was witness to this nightmare, wasn't sure to laugh, cry or gag. All I could do was roll around on the ground screaming and trying not to hurl.

I made my way into the farmstand shop where I kindly asked to wash my face in the employee bathroom. To my complete horror, I saw some of this stuff stuck in my teeth. I went home and immediately showered and scrubbed every inch of me for half an hour.

In the aftermath I also did a little research. Here's what I found:

"It's called spitting only because that is the way it appears to be ejected from the llama's mouth. The accompanying sound is more like that of coughing. Although the term suggests saliva, llama spit is actually partially digested stomach contents having a smell so foul that one would think it should be brown instead of green...

...When a llama is spit upon, the accompanying smell sickens him enough to curb his appetite. When a human is spit upon, it has the affect of sending him running for the nearest shower. Fortunately this does not happen often, and if one is observant, he will respect the early warning signs that precede green rain: ears back and neck extended in an abnormal manner."

I will never, ever be the same.