Monday, May 28, 2012
Top 10 Reasons Why Being a First-Year Teacher Doesn't Have to Suck
Here you are, a recent college grad who has landed that first gig as a real teacher (with real students!). You're smart, you're snappy, you've got a head full of knowledge and are ready to go... and then everyone hits you over the head with how hard this is going to be. They tell you how much you'll have to learn on the ground. They'll remind you of all the things that you simply cannot be taught in an undergrad program. When you mention an idea, they give you that face like, "Oh, you think that's going to work?" Well, I'm here to tell you that those people..... are probably right. Being a first-year teacher comes with a lot of challenges. However, there are also many benefits of which you can choose to capitalize. These are my personal favorites:
10. You're really freaking cool
Probably the biggest thing you have going for you right now is where you just came from--the Mecca of coolness known as college. Kids of all ages dream of the day that they will enter the Ivory Tower and start their four (or five... or six) years of eating Ramen and religiously drinking out of red Solo cups. In many ways, it's good that they already strive for academic achievement... in other ways, it's a little sad that we're making kids in our nation hyper-competitive at such an early age. Regardless, it's good for you because you are now the expert on the place and age that they long to be. You are their inside scoop on the amazing happenings of college life. Milk it while it lasts.
Chances are, you also are probably an avid texter and Top 40 music listener which can only help you in building rapport with kids. Taking an interest in the lives and passions of your students should never be underestimated. That, and you are pretty BA at catching people texting in class... because you know all the secrets.
9. "Better to beg forgiveness than ask permission"
I first received this nugget of wisdom while pushing a podium off of a stage to make room for our own purposes with the auditorium one day while student teaching. At first, I inwardly rolled my eyes and never imagined that I could be the kind of person to live by such a rule, but it didn't take long for me to realize the brilliance of this idea. The same guy told me that you have two years in a district to make mistakes and feign (or not need to feign....) stupidity. I'm sure the point of his advice at the time was for me to be more assertive about making things happen. Even better is knowing that when your assertiveness backfires and something goes horribly wrong (and it will), for two years you have the usual excuse on which to fall back--you just didn't know any better. It's okay to be wrong, it's okay to make mistakes, it's okay to occasionally look stupid. You're daring to try something for the first time. So, bonus points to brand new teachers making big mistakes... because you're never stupider than when you're in your very first job.
8. Everyone wants you to succeed
In all seriousness, it's best to remember that there are many people out there rooting for you. No one actually wants to see you fail. I know it sounds obvious, but it took me a surprisingly long time to figure out that maybe, just maybe, everyone in the building was actually on my side. We all want our students to receive a well-rounded education; we just all have our own ways of going about it. Telling someone you are a first-year teacher is pretty much inviting them to want to help you. There are so many people out there who would love to answer your questions or even just talk you through something you might be unsure of... if only you would ask them. Parents, administrators, teachers, secretaries, custodians, paras--we all have the same end-goal in mind, so utilize your human resources and practice patience and forgiveness when things don't necessarily go your way.
7. You're not yet jaded
I avoid the teachers' lounge. Partially because crowds of adults overwhelm me and force me to retreat inward, and partially because soooo often I go in there and hear people complain about a student or a class or teaching generally. It seems to me that teachers talk this way because the job has just become old habit; sometimes they just do it because everyone else does. However, there is no one more enthusiastic about teaching than a brand new teacher. This is what you've been chomping at the bit to get to do for the past several years and here you are, finally getting to do it. It's a wonderful feeling to enjoy your job and the people you see every day. Love the feeling and don't let the teachers' lounge bring you down.
6. Exhaustion is a catalyst for creativity
'Nuff said.
5. A lesson in humility......
Once this year, I let a college senior in need of some observation hours come into my classroom and watch my girls' choirs. I thought, "Hey, this will be fun! We're not that different in age, we both like kids and are passionate about teaching, and we both are musicians!" When she got here and started watching my class, I could feel the judgement rolling off of her. I might just be projecting, but it felt like she didn't approve of my classroom management (she told me afterward the the 7th graders were crazy and the 8th graders were rude), my music selection, or my teaching techniques. I had offered her other dates to come see my choirs, but I never heard from her again. Honestly, I was annoyed with her. Then I realized, hadn't I inwardly done the same thing when I was a college student observing choral programs? I would watch teachers and get ideas, but I also would think about how differently I would do things. The truth is, no one realizes the reality of teaching until they are teachers with classrooms of their own. Not even student teaching can give you the experience of the full responsibility of being in charge of all classroom decisions. Being a new teacher makes you see all teachers and classrooms through new eyes.
4. $250 teacher tax refund!
......yeah, as far as finances go, that's all I got. Being a BA1 does kinda suck.
3. Plenty of conversation fodder
My phone conversations (since I don't see friends and family very often out here in my social desert) usually consist of two things--my cats and my students. They have a lot in common: both are hilarious, both take up a lot of my time, and both do really silly (and/or stupid) things. I love talking about teaching theories and ideas with other teachers; but more than that, I love talking about classroom experiences, relationships built, and all of the funny things my students do or say.
2. So much to learn!
Chances are, if you are truly passionate about teaching, you probably are also passionate about education and learning generally. It's been said to me, "Isn't it interesting the more you learn the more you realize that you don't know?" This may seem daunting to some people, but I find it exhilarating. I'm never more bored than when in a situation where I can't find something to learn. In teaching, there is always something that you could tweak or change or try. There is always so much more to learn.
1. Teaching doesn't suck
That's right, the number one reason why being a first-year teacher doesn't have to suck is because teaching itself does not suck. In fact, in my humble opinion, it is the greatest profession on earth. There may be bumps in the road (heck, there may even be pot-holes in the road), but if you are making a difference to the life of even one child, it is worth it.
Fireflies
As soon as the deadbolt clicked shut on the door of my Des Moines apartment, my knees gave out and I became nothing more than a pile of person in the doorway. I had reached the point where I couldn't escape my misery anymore, and I had no choice but to finally allow the weight of it all to wash over me: the five-month-old email still sitting in my inbox that seemed to contain all of my inadequacies while stealing all of my dreams, the fact that I was losing one my most important friendships because of my own lack of patience and empathy, the loss of my beloved childhood dog, and now, it seemed as though I was about to be torn from my last vestige of some form of "home." Hours were spent on that floor until tear ducts ran dry, and even then I couldn't move. Everything was far too heavy. I wasn't ready to be around people, but I also knew I shouldn't be alone. And so.... I prayed. It seemed almost silly at the time--I hadn't been to church in months and still wasn't entirely solid on how I should interact with the divine. But I had to do something, and in my crumpled position, this seemed as good an option as any. I told God how heavy everything felt, how it was starting to become too much, how I wasn't sure what to do next. I began to think about the darkness that had taken over my thoughts and behaviors. I begged God for some light--it needn't be sunlight or a lamp or even a flashlight... maybe just a firefly?
Hours later, I peeled myself off the floor, my final request of God still ringing in my ears--a firefly. I had plans to go to a concert with a friend that night, and I never bail on friends, so I cleaned myself up and took a running leap into the world. For reasons I don't remember, we were late. Actually, we missed the entire portion of the concert we had intended to see. Still, we paid our $20, got our wristbands and went to sit on the grass. Natasha Bedingfield got about four songs out before it started to rain. And even as the entire crew tried to corral her band off stage, she managed to sing an acoustic version of one of her most popular songs. We all laughed at the irony of her words, "feel the rain on your skin." My friend and I had taken solace under a nearby tree, and just as the piece ended, right before it really started to pour, I looked over my friend's shoulder and saw it. A firefly.
Almost a year later, and I can't believe how much (and in many ways, how little) of this still rings true. Yes, I have matured and grown in many ways this year, but I also have retreated into myself to a depth that I have never reached before, and I'm not sure how to get out. It's as though I have disengaged from my own life. Every single day I am haunted by the thought of the rejection email from last January and am reminded of my unworthiness of a life I once wanted. Then there's the thick loneliness that surrounds me all the time. Invitations that I should have accepted hang over my head, but I can't bring myself to feel the regret that should go along with those memories. I wanted to go, I wanted to make new friends, but it's as though I'm living behind my eyes these days and very little will draw me out.
But inside of me, there is still hope. There has to be--how else would I have unwittingly programmed the piece "Firefly" for my seventh graders to perform the week after my select eighth grade girls sing "Unwritten" by Natasha Bedingfield? Initially, realizing that is when I really began to see it. The real fireflies of my life this year: 200 adolescent girls who tell me every day how beautiful and amazing they think I am; a colleague turned mentor; two cats who light up my otherwise lonely apartment; church members of a small, but vibrant, congregation; friends and family who remind me in many ways that even though they are not here with me, I am still not alone. Individually, a firefly may be small, but put that many of them together and they sure can produce a whole lot of light. And who knows? Maybe just around the corner there will be a flashlight. And hopefully, eventually... some sun.
Hours later, I peeled myself off the floor, my final request of God still ringing in my ears--a firefly. I had plans to go to a concert with a friend that night, and I never bail on friends, so I cleaned myself up and took a running leap into the world. For reasons I don't remember, we were late. Actually, we missed the entire portion of the concert we had intended to see. Still, we paid our $20, got our wristbands and went to sit on the grass. Natasha Bedingfield got about four songs out before it started to rain. And even as the entire crew tried to corral her band off stage, she managed to sing an acoustic version of one of her most popular songs. We all laughed at the irony of her words, "feel the rain on your skin." My friend and I had taken solace under a nearby tree, and just as the piece ended, right before it really started to pour, I looked over my friend's shoulder and saw it. A firefly.
Almost a year later, and I can't believe how much (and in many ways, how little) of this still rings true. Yes, I have matured and grown in many ways this year, but I also have retreated into myself to a depth that I have never reached before, and I'm not sure how to get out. It's as though I have disengaged from my own life. Every single day I am haunted by the thought of the rejection email from last January and am reminded of my unworthiness of a life I once wanted. Then there's the thick loneliness that surrounds me all the time. Invitations that I should have accepted hang over my head, but I can't bring myself to feel the regret that should go along with those memories. I wanted to go, I wanted to make new friends, but it's as though I'm living behind my eyes these days and very little will draw me out.
But inside of me, there is still hope. There has to be--how else would I have unwittingly programmed the piece "Firefly" for my seventh graders to perform the week after my select eighth grade girls sing "Unwritten" by Natasha Bedingfield? Initially, realizing that is when I really began to see it. The real fireflies of my life this year: 200 adolescent girls who tell me every day how beautiful and amazing they think I am; a colleague turned mentor; two cats who light up my otherwise lonely apartment; church members of a small, but vibrant, congregation; friends and family who remind me in many ways that even though they are not here with me, I am still not alone. Individually, a firefly may be small, but put that many of them together and they sure can produce a whole lot of light. And who knows? Maybe just around the corner there will be a flashlight. And hopefully, eventually... some sun.
Monday, March 19, 2012
Voice
It's officially a trend. Middle school girls that I teach will sheepishly walk up to me at the end of class and awkwardly (and sometimes almost inaudibly) say to me, "I want you to hear my real voice." They usually do this flanked by at least two cohorts egging them on, but it's obvious that the idea originated from within the girl making the request. Then there are fits of giggles amongst the cohorts followed by a secretive glance from the girl, half dying for me to listen and half begging me to say no so she doesn't have to open her mouth. Always one to accept the opportunity to hear one of my girl's voices alone, I cannot refuse. I sit and smile politely as the girl prepares herself, giggles a little more, and finally.... sings.
The first time it happened, I was mildly offended. Just what did this girl think I didn't know about her voice already that I was going to get from some rendition of Rihanna's "Take a Bow"? I evaded the question multiple times by pointing out that my next class was already coming in, so she'd have to wait until another day. She finally cornered me one day: "Please, Ms. P, I want you to hear my real voice." I put my smile on, and listened to her sing her heart out. Why had I avoided it? Maybe because it's my knee-jerk reaction to run from any sign of individual vulnerability within myself and others? Maybe because I thought it was silly that she considered her seventh-grade version of pop singing her "real" voice, even as I was trying desperately to train every inch of her voice besides? Maybe because I knew she'd want a reaction, but I wasn't quite sure what to say? Maybe because I felt like this was something beyond my control... and I love being in control. Every time a girl asks, my body physically tears between my immediate flight reaction and my deeper desire to hear her voice.... and to understand why she needs me to hear it.
It's never the opera divas who ask (oh yes, I have 8th grade opera divas), or the sight-singing geniuses, or the choir junkies, or even the deathly quiet girls. It is always someone who surprises me. I'm secretly afraid that they ask because they believe that I don't really understand them, just like I secretly believe that every conductor I've ever sung for doesn't really understand me. Part of me hopes they ask me because they trust me, like they want me to hear them and know them at a different level. Maybe they're just looking for someone to give them positive reinforcement about something they like to do. Whatever it is, I hope I give it to them... and that they can't tell how awkward it makes me feel in the one room I never feel awkward in.
I was thinking about this middle school phenomenon one day when I realized that it inherently connected to my affective outcome of one of the seventh grade pieces for the next concert. The piece is called Oye, or in English, "Listen." It was inspired by impoverished children in Mexico who, when asked what message they wanted to give to choirs' audiences around the world, answered that all they wanted... was to be heard. So my girls are going to spend the rest of the year thinking about, discussing, and writing about what it truly means to be heard, to feel heard, to have a voice. I introduced this concept to them a few weeks ago, and it was shocking to see the faces that met mine. They were drawn in by the idea like an ant to a picnic, enthralled by the words coming out of my mouth. So, in the end, maybe that's all there is to it. Maybe that is the secret to teaching middle school girls. Maybe that's why all of these girls want me to sit and listen to them sing alone after everyone else has left for lunch. Maybe, in the end, middle school girls have the same needs as everyone else and ask for it in the only way they know how (with a lot of giggling). Maybe these girls simply have a hunger to be heard.
The first time it happened, I was mildly offended. Just what did this girl think I didn't know about her voice already that I was going to get from some rendition of Rihanna's "Take a Bow"? I evaded the question multiple times by pointing out that my next class was already coming in, so she'd have to wait until another day. She finally cornered me one day: "Please, Ms. P, I want you to hear my real voice." I put my smile on, and listened to her sing her heart out. Why had I avoided it? Maybe because it's my knee-jerk reaction to run from any sign of individual vulnerability within myself and others? Maybe because I thought it was silly that she considered her seventh-grade version of pop singing her "real" voice, even as I was trying desperately to train every inch of her voice besides? Maybe because I knew she'd want a reaction, but I wasn't quite sure what to say? Maybe because I felt like this was something beyond my control... and I love being in control. Every time a girl asks, my body physically tears between my immediate flight reaction and my deeper desire to hear her voice.... and to understand why she needs me to hear it.
It's never the opera divas who ask (oh yes, I have 8th grade opera divas), or the sight-singing geniuses, or the choir junkies, or even the deathly quiet girls. It is always someone who surprises me. I'm secretly afraid that they ask because they believe that I don't really understand them, just like I secretly believe that every conductor I've ever sung for doesn't really understand me. Part of me hopes they ask me because they trust me, like they want me to hear them and know them at a different level. Maybe they're just looking for someone to give them positive reinforcement about something they like to do. Whatever it is, I hope I give it to them... and that they can't tell how awkward it makes me feel in the one room I never feel awkward in.
I was thinking about this middle school phenomenon one day when I realized that it inherently connected to my affective outcome of one of the seventh grade pieces for the next concert. The piece is called Oye, or in English, "Listen." It was inspired by impoverished children in Mexico who, when asked what message they wanted to give to choirs' audiences around the world, answered that all they wanted... was to be heard. So my girls are going to spend the rest of the year thinking about, discussing, and writing about what it truly means to be heard, to feel heard, to have a voice. I introduced this concept to them a few weeks ago, and it was shocking to see the faces that met mine. They were drawn in by the idea like an ant to a picnic, enthralled by the words coming out of my mouth. So, in the end, maybe that's all there is to it. Maybe that is the secret to teaching middle school girls. Maybe that's why all of these girls want me to sit and listen to them sing alone after everyone else has left for lunch. Maybe, in the end, middle school girls have the same needs as everyone else and ask for it in the only way they know how (with a lot of giggling). Maybe these girls simply have a hunger to be heard.
Monday, February 27, 2012
Musical Musings: Round deux
Phew... second round of concerts done, and boy, was it a doozy. It should seriously be made illegal for people to schedule a music teacher's concerts so close together. I blame the fear and stress for my current illness... because, obviously, it wasn't given to me from the cold weather or lack of sleep or the little germ-disseminators I see every day ;)
Let's start with 6th grade... just to get the bad news out of the way. I guess the concert wasn't so bad. Everyone got through their songs. They (mostly) sang in tune and (mostly) remembered their words and (mostly) pulled off the harmony. But I don't do mostly. If I'm going to show off a choir, I want it to be great or nothing at all. Mistakes were made, and the audience was forgiving. However, what I was most embarrassed about was switching between the two groups--while one choir was getting off stage and one choir was getting on, it was like this roar of talking and yelling and pushing in front of the audience. What I had been warned about and able to hold off with my 7th and 8th graders, my 6th graders were suddenly doing, and I could not have been more ashamed. Here's what's ironic about the whole situation: Backstage last concert was a mess, but when they got on stage, they didn't speak and they successfully performed all of their music at a level that I was fairly happy with; this concert, backstage was much more organized, but the behavior and singing in front of the audience was much worse. And yet, last concert I got berated by email for not being on top of my job, and this concert I got nothing but thank-you notes, kind words, and friendly emails. That school is definitely odd.
Last week, starting a new round of concert music, I had all but given up on my 6th graders. I worked my ass off to create a fantastic plan for teaching "An die musik" by Schubert to one group, and then essentially got it handed to me when there were actual kids doing it. They were to read (with helper notes, then helpers taken out) the do mi re do re mi do (mi's notated in red... so if we got to that point, they could physically put more emphasis on the red notes) pattern that comes back frequently in that piece while I sang the rest on solfege for them. Then we would add the sol la la ti ti do do pattern that also returns (in various octaves, which I would coach) off the board. One group would take the do mi pattern, one group would take the sol la pattern, and I would be in charge of the rest... until eventually I would hand out the music and we would sing it on English text, except for the two returning patterns we knew on solfege (with handsigns, obviously). I don't care who you are, that is excellent music teaching by anyone's standards, right there. In retrospect, that plan is exactly what we ended up accomplishing (it didn't seem like it at the time)... but, jeez louise, what could have been a short, sweet, and simple act with my 7th graders was like pulling teeth with 126 (the number I'm up to in the big group) sixth graders. It's like they would rather die than work or (God forbid) think in choir. I thought I had broken them of that long ago, but I guess the beginning of every concert cycle really is like starting over. I have ideas for modifying our reading in the future, but I will be damned before I give up on making them use solfege in the score.
Now, on to the good stuff. The 7th and 8th grade concert went splendidly! Of course there were minor things that I wish I could have fixed before presenting it to an audience (and one mistake the 7th graders had never ever made before that caught me off guard... but I'm sure almost no one noticed...), but I've chosen not to dwell on that because the rest of the concert went so well. By far, what I'm most proud of was their sound. We spent waaayy more time working on producing a mature sound and developing our voices for this concert. So much so, that my musicianship plans suffered a little. I think, in the future, if I have to sacrifice one for the other (which I probably won't, I'm still getting used to this whole "teaching" business) I should choose sound for the first concert and CMP for every concert after. I do know a certain choir director--the one who taught me CMP!--who does just that, after all :)
I may not have taught quite as much skill or knowledge with this concert as I had originally planned, but I'm nothing if I'm not an affective outcome based teacher. Since last concert we focused inward on writing about our own lives, this concert, I wanted to focus them outward (mostly) through visual art. Both groups discussed in great detail the meaning of the symbolism in the texts of their slow songs. For 7th grade, it was "Ode to Trees" by Mary Goetze. I had them sit in a circle and discuss some very sequenced questions about their understanding of the text and how the composer chose to set it. Then, everyone put a green thumbprint (a leaf, if you will) on canvas and wrote a personal dream of theirs around it to encourage the lyrics, "may I ascend like the poplar." One of my more artistically-minded girls finished the work by painting in some branches. The 8th grade did a similar process with "Omnia Sol" by Z. Randall Stroope. I had them sit in a circle and answer questions about how the text related to their own lives and why the composer chose to put two opposing musical ideas into the same piece ("wandering" vs. "stable" which I also encouraged with some movement activities). Then, on canvas, I had them make an anchor of words (people, places, dreams, ideas) that represent what we turn to when life gets challenging. Imagine my surprise when I looked at the finished product--I had essentially turned the whole project over to the students--and my own name appeared on that list.
And.... we actually do sing in my classroom too! This trimester was all about breathing and "ironing out the kinks" (as my old voice teacher would say) between the registers, as well as vowel and vibrato work. We started out the semester with vocalization on a simple "soo" set to sol fa mi re do. The s to get the air flowing and the vowel to teach them how to create backspace. It worked like a charm--I guided and corrected as they sang and did the hand motions I had created for this exercise. Then, we added "soo ee oo ee oo" to help them add the maturity of the oo vowel to the spread/bright ee vowel. Hand motions and coaching helped us right along there too. Finally, we added the "soh" to the mix... with the bend and shake. This forced them to open up on top notes and add some vibrato (sparkle!) to long-held notes. For breathing, the sizzle game and beatboxing worked nicely. I thought my middle schoolers would find those games lame, but they were on board! And it totally worked to get them attached to their core while singing. Sirens, sliding, and million games and hand motions helped us get started on ironing out the kinks... but a lot more work is going to have to go into that soon.
I'm excited/nervous for this next set of concert pieces. Seventh grade is singing "Firefly" by Andy Beck (I judge me a little for choosing this one... it's not a great piece, but it has exactly what I want to teach, so there it is), "Inscription of Hope" by Z. Randall Stroope (I think I'll stick with this one....), and "Oye" by Jim Papoulis. I'm not entirely satisfied with this choosing. It occurs to me that the only harmonic challenge is "Oye" and that there are no veggies in this meal; but I make no apologies. My seventh graders have sung Haydn and Schubert... I'm content with their veggie content for the year. My eighth graders are singing "Ma come bali bene bela bimba" arranged by Mark Sirett, "Family Tree" by Stephen Hatfield (Challenge alert! I have a back-up plan ready!), and "Up on the Mountain Shouting" by Caldwell and Ivory. I'm suuuuper nervous, but I'm so inspired by this music that I have some serious teaching plans... which I'm definitely going to need if we're going to pull this off! Just thinking about it makes me tired and excited all at the same time--I think this last set of concerts is bound to be a doozy, as well!
Let's start with 6th grade... just to get the bad news out of the way. I guess the concert wasn't so bad. Everyone got through their songs. They (mostly) sang in tune and (mostly) remembered their words and (mostly) pulled off the harmony. But I don't do mostly. If I'm going to show off a choir, I want it to be great or nothing at all. Mistakes were made, and the audience was forgiving. However, what I was most embarrassed about was switching between the two groups--while one choir was getting off stage and one choir was getting on, it was like this roar of talking and yelling and pushing in front of the audience. What I had been warned about and able to hold off with my 7th and 8th graders, my 6th graders were suddenly doing, and I could not have been more ashamed. Here's what's ironic about the whole situation: Backstage last concert was a mess, but when they got on stage, they didn't speak and they successfully performed all of their music at a level that I was fairly happy with; this concert, backstage was much more organized, but the behavior and singing in front of the audience was much worse. And yet, last concert I got berated by email for not being on top of my job, and this concert I got nothing but thank-you notes, kind words, and friendly emails. That school is definitely odd.
Last week, starting a new round of concert music, I had all but given up on my 6th graders. I worked my ass off to create a fantastic plan for teaching "An die musik" by Schubert to one group, and then essentially got it handed to me when there were actual kids doing it. They were to read (with helper notes, then helpers taken out) the do mi re do re mi do (mi's notated in red... so if we got to that point, they could physically put more emphasis on the red notes) pattern that comes back frequently in that piece while I sang the rest on solfege for them. Then we would add the sol la la ti ti do do pattern that also returns (in various octaves, which I would coach) off the board. One group would take the do mi pattern, one group would take the sol la pattern, and I would be in charge of the rest... until eventually I would hand out the music and we would sing it on English text, except for the two returning patterns we knew on solfege (with handsigns, obviously). I don't care who you are, that is excellent music teaching by anyone's standards, right there. In retrospect, that plan is exactly what we ended up accomplishing (it didn't seem like it at the time)... but, jeez louise, what could have been a short, sweet, and simple act with my 7th graders was like pulling teeth with 126 (the number I'm up to in the big group) sixth graders. It's like they would rather die than work or (God forbid) think in choir. I thought I had broken them of that long ago, but I guess the beginning of every concert cycle really is like starting over. I have ideas for modifying our reading in the future, but I will be damned before I give up on making them use solfege in the score.
Now, on to the good stuff. The 7th and 8th grade concert went splendidly! Of course there were minor things that I wish I could have fixed before presenting it to an audience (and one mistake the 7th graders had never ever made before that caught me off guard... but I'm sure almost no one noticed...), but I've chosen not to dwell on that because the rest of the concert went so well. By far, what I'm most proud of was their sound. We spent waaayy more time working on producing a mature sound and developing our voices for this concert. So much so, that my musicianship plans suffered a little. I think, in the future, if I have to sacrifice one for the other (which I probably won't, I'm still getting used to this whole "teaching" business) I should choose sound for the first concert and CMP for every concert after. I do know a certain choir director--the one who taught me CMP!--who does just that, after all :)
I may not have taught quite as much skill or knowledge with this concert as I had originally planned, but I'm nothing if I'm not an affective outcome based teacher. Since last concert we focused inward on writing about our own lives, this concert, I wanted to focus them outward (mostly) through visual art. Both groups discussed in great detail the meaning of the symbolism in the texts of their slow songs. For 7th grade, it was "Ode to Trees" by Mary Goetze. I had them sit in a circle and discuss some very sequenced questions about their understanding of the text and how the composer chose to set it. Then, everyone put a green thumbprint (a leaf, if you will) on canvas and wrote a personal dream of theirs around it to encourage the lyrics, "may I ascend like the poplar." One of my more artistically-minded girls finished the work by painting in some branches. The 8th grade did a similar process with "Omnia Sol" by Z. Randall Stroope. I had them sit in a circle and answer questions about how the text related to their own lives and why the composer chose to put two opposing musical ideas into the same piece ("wandering" vs. "stable" which I also encouraged with some movement activities). Then, on canvas, I had them make an anchor of words (people, places, dreams, ideas) that represent what we turn to when life gets challenging. Imagine my surprise when I looked at the finished product--I had essentially turned the whole project over to the students--and my own name appeared on that list.
And.... we actually do sing in my classroom too! This trimester was all about breathing and "ironing out the kinks" (as my old voice teacher would say) between the registers, as well as vowel and vibrato work. We started out the semester with vocalization on a simple "soo" set to sol fa mi re do. The s to get the air flowing and the vowel to teach them how to create backspace. It worked like a charm--I guided and corrected as they sang and did the hand motions I had created for this exercise. Then, we added "soo ee oo ee oo" to help them add the maturity of the oo vowel to the spread/bright ee vowel. Hand motions and coaching helped us right along there too. Finally, we added the "soh" to the mix... with the bend and shake. This forced them to open up on top notes and add some vibrato (sparkle!) to long-held notes. For breathing, the sizzle game and beatboxing worked nicely. I thought my middle schoolers would find those games lame, but they were on board! And it totally worked to get them attached to their core while singing. Sirens, sliding, and million games and hand motions helped us get started on ironing out the kinks... but a lot more work is going to have to go into that soon.
I'm excited/nervous for this next set of concert pieces. Seventh grade is singing "Firefly" by Andy Beck (I judge me a little for choosing this one... it's not a great piece, but it has exactly what I want to teach, so there it is), "Inscription of Hope" by Z. Randall Stroope (I think I'll stick with this one....), and "Oye" by Jim Papoulis. I'm not entirely satisfied with this choosing. It occurs to me that the only harmonic challenge is "Oye" and that there are no veggies in this meal; but I make no apologies. My seventh graders have sung Haydn and Schubert... I'm content with their veggie content for the year. My eighth graders are singing "Ma come bali bene bela bimba" arranged by Mark Sirett, "Family Tree" by Stephen Hatfield (Challenge alert! I have a back-up plan ready!), and "Up on the Mountain Shouting" by Caldwell and Ivory. I'm suuuuper nervous, but I'm so inspired by this music that I have some serious teaching plans... which I'm definitely going to need if we're going to pull this off! Just thinking about it makes me tired and excited all at the same time--I think this last set of concerts is bound to be a doozy, as well!
Sunday, January 29, 2012
Broad Shoulders
I have one (surprising) class that has been driving me crazy lately. A small portion of my students in said class simply will not sing. They were happy--even enthusiastic--about last concert's preparation, but for this concert they've just decided to not sing. That's middle schoolers for you...
After careful consideration (and much time and analysis), I seemed to have found root of the problem. One particularly toxic attitude that infiltrates my choir every other day and brings other, normally tolerable attitudes down with her. For a while, this confused me... then it infuriated me... then it scared me a little.... but now, I have it figured out.
I recently had a conversation with a fellow music teacher who was saying that she always seemed to take her frustration about a particularly silly educational tool out on the same person. My exact words in response were, "Yeah, he understands that it's not him. He's got broad shoulders. He can take it." Even coming out of my mouth the words seemed familiar... where had I heard that before? It bothered me for weeks. I usually can recall whole conversations with people if there's something about it, like a meaningful phrase, that stuck with me. And today I remembered.
(Disclaimer: There are a lot of people in my life who are adamantly not religious. There are a lot of people in my life who are very religious. There are a lot of people in my life who are somewhere in between. To all of you--I tell this next story not for it's religious implications, but for the power of the story, how it impacted me then, and how it relates to what I'm going through now. Kapeesh? ...... btw, if you were a 6th grader, this is the point where you would say "kaposh.")
It had been a weird week at kamp (yes, kamp with a k). My mother was in the hospital for gall-bladder surgery, and things just seemed to be getting worse. She had to have another surgery, but no one seemed to be able to give me real reason (or at least one I could understand...) for why. I had no way to get to her, and I had very little idea of what was going on. Now, I work very, very hard to never lose my cool in public, but at that worship service, I simply fell apart. I bawled and just kept repeating "I don't understand. I don't understand." Everyone there was very kind and said nice things. Some people just listened and asked questions; some people gave advice; but one person, whom I have always considered very wise, offered these words: "Then take it out on Jesus. He's got broad shoulders. He can take it." What she meant was: Jesus knows this ain't his fault. You know this ain't Jesus' fault. Jesus knows you know this ain't his fault.... but he also knows you need someone to lay it on right now. So lay it on him.
Fast-forward six years.... When I first saw the problems in my class, I couldn't understand why it was happening. I started to see the cause of it all and got very angry at my student--why was she being so intolerable? Who gave her the right to act that way? Then, I started to get a little scared--was all of this beyond my control? Was this my fault? Would the toxic attitude eventually take over the whole choir?
No. Something is going on in this girl's life, something beyond the four walls in which I have some control. I didn't cause it; I may very well have nothing to do with it. But I can stop it from affecting my classroom atmosphere. I can stop it from bringing my girls' spirits down. And then, if she wants to take whatever it is out on me (and just me), that's fine. I've got broad shoulders. I can take it.
After careful consideration (and much time and analysis), I seemed to have found root of the problem. One particularly toxic attitude that infiltrates my choir every other day and brings other, normally tolerable attitudes down with her. For a while, this confused me... then it infuriated me... then it scared me a little.... but now, I have it figured out.
I recently had a conversation with a fellow music teacher who was saying that she always seemed to take her frustration about a particularly silly educational tool out on the same person. My exact words in response were, "Yeah, he understands that it's not him. He's got broad shoulders. He can take it." Even coming out of my mouth the words seemed familiar... where had I heard that before? It bothered me for weeks. I usually can recall whole conversations with people if there's something about it, like a meaningful phrase, that stuck with me. And today I remembered.
(Disclaimer: There are a lot of people in my life who are adamantly not religious. There are a lot of people in my life who are very religious. There are a lot of people in my life who are somewhere in between. To all of you--I tell this next story not for it's religious implications, but for the power of the story, how it impacted me then, and how it relates to what I'm going through now. Kapeesh? ...... btw, if you were a 6th grader, this is the point where you would say "kaposh.")
It had been a weird week at kamp (yes, kamp with a k). My mother was in the hospital for gall-bladder surgery, and things just seemed to be getting worse. She had to have another surgery, but no one seemed to be able to give me real reason (or at least one I could understand...) for why. I had no way to get to her, and I had very little idea of what was going on. Now, I work very, very hard to never lose my cool in public, but at that worship service, I simply fell apart. I bawled and just kept repeating "I don't understand. I don't understand." Everyone there was very kind and said nice things. Some people just listened and asked questions; some people gave advice; but one person, whom I have always considered very wise, offered these words: "Then take it out on Jesus. He's got broad shoulders. He can take it." What she meant was: Jesus knows this ain't his fault. You know this ain't Jesus' fault. Jesus knows you know this ain't his fault.... but he also knows you need someone to lay it on right now. So lay it on him.
Fast-forward six years.... When I first saw the problems in my class, I couldn't understand why it was happening. I started to see the cause of it all and got very angry at my student--why was she being so intolerable? Who gave her the right to act that way? Then, I started to get a little scared--was all of this beyond my control? Was this my fault? Would the toxic attitude eventually take over the whole choir?
No. Something is going on in this girl's life, something beyond the four walls in which I have some control. I didn't cause it; I may very well have nothing to do with it. But I can stop it from affecting my classroom atmosphere. I can stop it from bringing my girls' spirits down. And then, if she wants to take whatever it is out on me (and just me), that's fine. I've got broad shoulders. I can take it.
Monday, January 9, 2012
What a difference a year makes....
It's your typical Sunday night: I come home from choir rehearsal to lay on my bed (with one cat on my feet and the other on my shoulder) with my nose in Educating Esme (only one of the greatest books ever written...especially if you're an educator) for the third time. Re-reading this transformative book forced me to take a hard look at the person I was the last time I read it. It's amazing how one's perspective changes as you go from someone-who-dreams-of-being-in-front-of-a-classroom to someone-who-spends-every-day-in-front-of-a-classroom. Here are the biggest differences, both personally and professionally, between January 2011 Me and January 2012 Me.
1. Lesson Planning:
A year ago today I was just coming back from winter vacation to get ready for my upcoming semester of student teaching. While ready to leave the "3 hours of preparation for every 1 hour of rehearsal" nest, I would have been scared shitless to be thrown in front of a group without at least an hour of notice to prepare my lesson and sequence my ideas. The beginning of my school year in Cedar Rapids wasn't so different. Every now and then I still find my handwritten lesson plans from August and chuckle to myself about my own meticulous teaching. Five or more rehearsals a day (and don't kid yourself... even though I teach the same music and same age group twice, they are very different rehearsals) could make anyone kick that habit in a hurry. Don't get me wrong, I still prepare: I analyze my score, create outcomes, do macro-sequencing, and think about daily goals for my singers, but I certainly don't plan everyday lessons in as great detail as I did at the beginning of the year. And you know what? My girls have never sounded better. Instead of getting caught up in my minute-by-minute plan, I get caught up in their sound and how I want to mold it. The only people suffering from this new plan is the 6th graders. I think I'm going to have to stick with over-prepared teaching for them... they need the structure.
2. Compassion and Empathy Translate:
Did you know that I spent three years working with a community-based program for inner-city kids? Well, I did. I wish I could say that I loved every minute of it, but lying is against my strict moral code (ha). The truth is, it was a challenge. The program itself lacked in the structure that these kids needed, and the children pushed every single boundary imaginable and then some.... but I loved them something fierce. I will never forget walking them to school and having the little girls fight over who got to hold my hand.... or the many, many pieces of grand art I received (the medium often being tempera paint and glitter)... or the ping-pong tricks I was taught.... or the letters to Congress I helped proofread. These kids reached a part of me that I didn't know existed. They taught me to look past the action to the reason behind the action. They forced me to set limits and enforce rules. They made me practice my forgiveness. They made me realize just how big my parachute of compassion and empathy can be. This is why it's my dream to one day teach in the inner-city. I'm not trying to be a savior. I'm just trying to be myself and use the best parts of myself for the benefit of someone else.
But how does this relate to this year? Well, ever since I started that old job, I wondered if I could love any kids as much as I loved those kids. Turns out, I can. I would do almost anything if I knew it was in the best interest of my girls here. But more importantly, my time in the inner-city made me wonder if I could be loveable to any group of kids outside that population (and my time student teaching at Uber-Suburban High only reinforced those thoughts). What I've learned this year is that compassion and empathy translate. Kids know when you've got their backs, and the ones who need it (and, let's be serious... they all need it) will allow you to love them, and then love you right back in return.
3. Routines and Procedures
Ugh... just typing that makes me want to vomit. I feel like I spent the first four months of my teaching career hearing nothing from the district but "routines and procedures".... and thank [insert your preferred deity's name here]. I may pride myself on my clear classroom communication, charismatic teaching, and creative rehearsal techniques... but I could be the next Robert Shaw and it wouldn't matter. The students need structure. My singers need routines. My kiddos need everyday procedures for us to get to a place that they can actually receive my instruction. I may complain to high heaven about my sixth grade situation, but it has at least done one thing for me--it has all but forced me to be a structured, organized individual (quite the task to get me to be that). I do appreciate the importance of this.
4. Kendra vs. Ms. Purscell (or Miss P. if you're in my 4th period choir)
I like to talk about my life. I like to talk about the people in my life to the other people in my life. I always have, and (presumably) always will. So, careful to not step over boundaries, I share anecdotes about my life with my students. One of my 8th graders once joked that when I'm doing school stuff, I'm Ms. Purscell, but when I'm outside of school leading my normal-22-year-old-life, I'm Kendra. The idea has kind of stuck. For example, I'll tell my girls about an outfit or piece of jewelry that I have; when they ask me to wear it, I often will turn them down saying, "It's too Kendra and not enough Ms. Purscell." The trouble is, Cedar Rapids has seen a whole lot of Ms. Purscell, but I'm not sure if Kendra has ever made an appearance here. Sometimes I will look at old facebook pictures from the days when I partied every weekend (*cough*.....and every Tuesday.....*cough*), and most of me will say, "You fool! Get some sleep!" But the rest of me secretly longs for those days when I felt like I (Kendra) fit somewhere. I know relocating is hard for anyone, especially when that someone spends half of her life shy and awkward (after using up all of her people energy on teaching)...but some days I wish I had a life to go back to after leaving school every day. This whole either being at school teaching (and don't get me wrong, Ms. Purscell is quite content here) or being at home doing nothing thing just isn't my fave, even if it was exactly what I needed in the state I was in when I moved here. I'm not saying that I want to go back to partying all the time, but there has to be some sort of happy medium... I'm imagining a kind of "How I Met Your Mother" scene. You get the idea.
5. There's So Much More to Learn
My conducting professor once said to our class, "Don't you just feel like the more you learn, the more you realize that you don't know?" If I had a nickel for every time I felt that way this year. Drake did a great job preparing me for this job, but even with that, there was so much that I had to have my own classroom to understand. I now wish that I could be a fly on the wall in some of the classes I took to really understand where the ideas and theories were coming from. Even more than that, I feel like I have this insatiable desire to know more, to gain new ideas, to develop new plans and strategies. I wish I could go back and re-meet some of the amazing people that I got to meet over the past five years because now I know what questions to ask. Because, while I sure do like to pretend I know everything, my desire to learn never seems to be quenched. But hey, that's life. I'm not sure how the rest of 2012 will turn out, but I hope that in January of 2013 I look back on this post, roll my eyes at how over-dramatic I can be, and know that my knowledge-lust and passion for people will help to see me through every January to come.
1. Lesson Planning:
A year ago today I was just coming back from winter vacation to get ready for my upcoming semester of student teaching. While ready to leave the "3 hours of preparation for every 1 hour of rehearsal" nest, I would have been scared shitless to be thrown in front of a group without at least an hour of notice to prepare my lesson and sequence my ideas. The beginning of my school year in Cedar Rapids wasn't so different. Every now and then I still find my handwritten lesson plans from August and chuckle to myself about my own meticulous teaching. Five or more rehearsals a day (and don't kid yourself... even though I teach the same music and same age group twice, they are very different rehearsals) could make anyone kick that habit in a hurry. Don't get me wrong, I still prepare: I analyze my score, create outcomes, do macro-sequencing, and think about daily goals for my singers, but I certainly don't plan everyday lessons in as great detail as I did at the beginning of the year. And you know what? My girls have never sounded better. Instead of getting caught up in my minute-by-minute plan, I get caught up in their sound and how I want to mold it. The only people suffering from this new plan is the 6th graders. I think I'm going to have to stick with over-prepared teaching for them... they need the structure.
2. Compassion and Empathy Translate:
Did you know that I spent three years working with a community-based program for inner-city kids? Well, I did. I wish I could say that I loved every minute of it, but lying is against my strict moral code (ha). The truth is, it was a challenge. The program itself lacked in the structure that these kids needed, and the children pushed every single boundary imaginable and then some.... but I loved them something fierce. I will never forget walking them to school and having the little girls fight over who got to hold my hand.... or the many, many pieces of grand art I received (the medium often being tempera paint and glitter)... or the ping-pong tricks I was taught.... or the letters to Congress I helped proofread. These kids reached a part of me that I didn't know existed. They taught me to look past the action to the reason behind the action. They forced me to set limits and enforce rules. They made me practice my forgiveness. They made me realize just how big my parachute of compassion and empathy can be. This is why it's my dream to one day teach in the inner-city. I'm not trying to be a savior. I'm just trying to be myself and use the best parts of myself for the benefit of someone else.
But how does this relate to this year? Well, ever since I started that old job, I wondered if I could love any kids as much as I loved those kids. Turns out, I can. I would do almost anything if I knew it was in the best interest of my girls here. But more importantly, my time in the inner-city made me wonder if I could be loveable to any group of kids outside that population (and my time student teaching at Uber-Suburban High only reinforced those thoughts). What I've learned this year is that compassion and empathy translate. Kids know when you've got their backs, and the ones who need it (and, let's be serious... they all need it) will allow you to love them, and then love you right back in return.
3. Routines and Procedures
Ugh... just typing that makes me want to vomit. I feel like I spent the first four months of my teaching career hearing nothing from the district but "routines and procedures".... and thank [insert your preferred deity's name here]. I may pride myself on my clear classroom communication, charismatic teaching, and creative rehearsal techniques... but I could be the next Robert Shaw and it wouldn't matter. The students need structure. My singers need routines. My kiddos need everyday procedures for us to get to a place that they can actually receive my instruction. I may complain to high heaven about my sixth grade situation, but it has at least done one thing for me--it has all but forced me to be a structured, organized individual (quite the task to get me to be that). I do appreciate the importance of this.
4. Kendra vs. Ms. Purscell (or Miss P. if you're in my 4th period choir)
I like to talk about my life. I like to talk about the people in my life to the other people in my life. I always have, and (presumably) always will. So, careful to not step over boundaries, I share anecdotes about my life with my students. One of my 8th graders once joked that when I'm doing school stuff, I'm Ms. Purscell, but when I'm outside of school leading my normal-22-year-old-life, I'm Kendra. The idea has kind of stuck. For example, I'll tell my girls about an outfit or piece of jewelry that I have; when they ask me to wear it, I often will turn them down saying, "It's too Kendra and not enough Ms. Purscell." The trouble is, Cedar Rapids has seen a whole lot of Ms. Purscell, but I'm not sure if Kendra has ever made an appearance here. Sometimes I will look at old facebook pictures from the days when I partied every weekend (*cough*.....and every Tuesday.....*cough*), and most of me will say, "You fool! Get some sleep!" But the rest of me secretly longs for those days when I felt like I (Kendra) fit somewhere. I know relocating is hard for anyone, especially when that someone spends half of her life shy and awkward (after using up all of her people energy on teaching)...but some days I wish I had a life to go back to after leaving school every day. This whole either being at school teaching (and don't get me wrong, Ms. Purscell is quite content here) or being at home doing nothing thing just isn't my fave, even if it was exactly what I needed in the state I was in when I moved here. I'm not saying that I want to go back to partying all the time, but there has to be some sort of happy medium... I'm imagining a kind of "How I Met Your Mother" scene. You get the idea.
5. There's So Much More to Learn
My conducting professor once said to our class, "Don't you just feel like the more you learn, the more you realize that you don't know?" If I had a nickel for every time I felt that way this year. Drake did a great job preparing me for this job, but even with that, there was so much that I had to have my own classroom to understand. I now wish that I could be a fly on the wall in some of the classes I took to really understand where the ideas and theories were coming from. Even more than that, I feel like I have this insatiable desire to know more, to gain new ideas, to develop new plans and strategies. I wish I could go back and re-meet some of the amazing people that I got to meet over the past five years because now I know what questions to ask. Because, while I sure do like to pretend I know everything, my desire to learn never seems to be quenched. But hey, that's life. I'm not sure how the rest of 2012 will turn out, but I hope that in January of 2013 I look back on this post, roll my eyes at how over-dramatic I can be, and know that my knowledge-lust and passion for people will help to see me through every January to come.
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