The plan. Utilise Padlet - the web tool formerly known as Wallwisher - to engage year 10 students in a meaningful discussion about youth justice. Basically, with Padlet, you can create a 'wall' upon which you can post things.
At the end of the lesson, the teacher and her students will have created a number of discussion 'walls'. Students will have participated in on-line discussions on the causes of, and possible solutions to, youth homelessness. They will have shared their own opinions, as well as considering, and responding to, a variety of views from their fellow students.
Prior to the lesson, I'd played around on Padlet so I'd be confident with the tool. In class, we'd also discussed various issues concerning youth justice and had just watched the harrowing Oasis documentary. I'd prepared a few questions to promote discussion. (By the way, if you haven't yet seen it, the Oasis documentary is essential viewing.)
As a background to all this, I've done some school based professional development using Padlet. This involved participating in an educational on-line discussion with my school colleagues. We pasted a particular URL into our browsers then responded to a question. The 'wall' quickly filled with thoughtful, earnest remarks. It was the first day of the new year and the principal who facilitated looked pleased with the outcome. I think he mentioned something about aiming to be a paperless school somewhere down the track.
You see, we're in the 'one to one' age now. Every student from years 9 to 12 has been given, gratis, courtesy of the federal government, a netbook computer. What's more, we've been urged to use these computers, especially since the school is expecting years 7 and 8 students to buy their own. We don't want the older students telling the younger ones that the computers aren't being used, do we? That wasn't a question. It was a directive from an AP. Parents Will Complain.
So what happened in my classes today?
First, I had to send several students back to their lockers to get their computers. The government may have funded these computers to make our students the smartest in the world - whatever - but that doesn't mean the kids are going to charge them up overnight, or even bring them to school. (It's a discipline thing and we're working on it.)
Second, I recapped our previous lesson about youth homelessness to remind students of the gravity of the issue.
I gave them the URL for our first 'wall' and made a couple of rules. No anonymous comments. No profanity.
As if. (My favourite phrase.)
The wall was instantly and hilariously covered in totally inappropriate, often misspelled, sexually explicit posts. Students quickly discovered that they could also take photos of themselves and other students and tag them.
In nano-seconds I had a wall plastered in posts that had the students in hysterics. The comments were posted faster than I could delete them - it was my wall so I had some editing control for all the good that did me.
I suppose at least they were all engaged in the activity.
Seriously, I'd like to know what really happens in other teachers' classes when they do these activities.You know, teachers who work, like me, in western suburbs state secondary schools. During the PD session, this activity was presented as a highly effective teaching and learning tool and of course I can see its potential. But if kids can write anonymous comments - and get away with it because it's impossible to monitor - how does this occur?
Will it get better if I persist, once the novelty wears off?
Help.
Seriously, comment below. I really want to know.
Tuesday, March 26, 2013
Monday, March 25, 2013
Back to high school.
Attended a high school centenary yesterday. Probably wouldn't have bothered except a friend reminded me it was happening and another friend came along with me.
Didn't give it much thought before we turned into the car park where we were lucky to find a space. You see, this event was packed. The school 'playing fields' had even been converted to parking space for the day and they were chockers with cars.
However, I felt really odd, crossing the side street and walking through to the quadrangle, past the staff room. Appeared as though nothing had changed since I'd left there nearly 30 years ago.
I spent the first six years of my teaching career at that school. Those six years went on for a very long time, much longer than the 14 years I've been at my current school. The years flash by a bit these days. My dad used to say that when he was around the age I am now, but in my twenties I had no concept. I was still waiting for the big things to happen: travel, marriage, mortgage, children. In that order.
I encountered a former student almost immediately. An older man: fifty-something? Shaved presumably bald head, portly, acting more confident with me than he should have been. 'I'm going to kiss you,' he said, grabbing me by the waist and pulling me close. I got an unwanted wet one to the corner of my mouth. I generally avoid random kissing.
He invited me to 'stroll' over to the registration table; offered me his elbow. I hooked my arm through his for about ten seconds. 'Sorry,' I said, letting go. 'This feels really uncomfortable. I wouldn't even do this with my husband.' I didn't like the feel of this guy's arm under his shirt sleeve.
I didn't see him again after that. He was in my first ever form five English class. I was 22, in my second year of teaching. Interesting that I could remember him and the quality of his English. Now, I can barely remember the names of kids I taught last year.
I saw a few familiar faces, all former teaching colleagues. Mostly, I was incredulous that all these people were so delighted to be there. Masses of them milling around, greeting very old friends. Lots of white hair and quite a few walking frames. They'd all made the effort to go back to their old school with its almost unaltered central quad.
I had my moments back there, made a few life-long friends, learned heaps, had some great memories. But somehow, my experiences left a slightly bitter aftertaste. I think of clashes with a couple of colleagues: people being really unprofessional; some awful behaviour. And of course, i think of my own immaturity back when I knew everything, as many of us do back in our twenties. I was glad to leave that version of myself behind in that place. As if.
I heard bits of a couple of speeches yesterday - the sound system swallowed the rest as I strained to hear beneath those quadrangle eaves. Two former students, one In his 70s, one in her 40s, spoke so fondly of their own six years in the place. Around me, former students and teachers tittered and nodded at remembered characters and anecdotes. The woman who spoke was overwhelmed by emotion. It really got to me.
People's school days are really precious. That's a statement of the bleeding obvious. But yesterday was a bit like a church gathering; worship.
Despite having spent my professional life, since 1978, in secondary schools, I really hadn't thought of schools like that before.
I did make my own pilgrimage to my primary school back in Sheffield, UK, a couple of years ago, but that was about emigration, memory and being severed from my childhood when I was eight.
School, for me, and perhaps for most teachers, hasn't been something intense in my formative years. It has been my life. The continuum. Suppose that's why I was so incredulous that those six years of high school had been so precious to so many people who did the pilgrimage yesterday.
Thanks to the organisers.
Didn't give it much thought before we turned into the car park where we were lucky to find a space. You see, this event was packed. The school 'playing fields' had even been converted to parking space for the day and they were chockers with cars.
However, I felt really odd, crossing the side street and walking through to the quadrangle, past the staff room. Appeared as though nothing had changed since I'd left there nearly 30 years ago.
I spent the first six years of my teaching career at that school. Those six years went on for a very long time, much longer than the 14 years I've been at my current school. The years flash by a bit these days. My dad used to say that when he was around the age I am now, but in my twenties I had no concept. I was still waiting for the big things to happen: travel, marriage, mortgage, children. In that order.
I encountered a former student almost immediately. An older man: fifty-something? Shaved presumably bald head, portly, acting more confident with me than he should have been. 'I'm going to kiss you,' he said, grabbing me by the waist and pulling me close. I got an unwanted wet one to the corner of my mouth. I generally avoid random kissing.
He invited me to 'stroll' over to the registration table; offered me his elbow. I hooked my arm through his for about ten seconds. 'Sorry,' I said, letting go. 'This feels really uncomfortable. I wouldn't even do this with my husband.' I didn't like the feel of this guy's arm under his shirt sleeve.
I didn't see him again after that. He was in my first ever form five English class. I was 22, in my second year of teaching. Interesting that I could remember him and the quality of his English. Now, I can barely remember the names of kids I taught last year.
I saw a few familiar faces, all former teaching colleagues. Mostly, I was incredulous that all these people were so delighted to be there. Masses of them milling around, greeting very old friends. Lots of white hair and quite a few walking frames. They'd all made the effort to go back to their old school with its almost unaltered central quad.
I had my moments back there, made a few life-long friends, learned heaps, had some great memories. But somehow, my experiences left a slightly bitter aftertaste. I think of clashes with a couple of colleagues: people being really unprofessional; some awful behaviour. And of course, i think of my own immaturity back when I knew everything, as many of us do back in our twenties. I was glad to leave that version of myself behind in that place. As if.
I heard bits of a couple of speeches yesterday - the sound system swallowed the rest as I strained to hear beneath those quadrangle eaves. Two former students, one In his 70s, one in her 40s, spoke so fondly of their own six years in the place. Around me, former students and teachers tittered and nodded at remembered characters and anecdotes. The woman who spoke was overwhelmed by emotion. It really got to me.
People's school days are really precious. That's a statement of the bleeding obvious. But yesterday was a bit like a church gathering; worship.
Despite having spent my professional life, since 1978, in secondary schools, I really hadn't thought of schools like that before.
I did make my own pilgrimage to my primary school back in Sheffield, UK, a couple of years ago, but that was about emigration, memory and being severed from my childhood when I was eight.
School, for me, and perhaps for most teachers, hasn't been something intense in my formative years. It has been my life. The continuum. Suppose that's why I was so incredulous that those six years of high school had been so precious to so many people who did the pilgrimage yesterday.
Thanks to the organisers.
Sunday, March 17, 2013
"The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas." Why I love reading. And teaching.
Friday, home time. I'd held a couple of Year 10 students back after English. I was giving my annual plagiarism lecture, which usually occurs at about this time of year.
"Look," I pointed to my laptop screen. The girl was standing next to me, arms crossed defiantly. "You'll have to admit that it's quite strange that your essay is identical to this one."
"I swear I didn't read it," she persisted in the face of contrary evidence.
Her friend, packing up her books, was listening in. "I copied an essay from the internet when I was in year 7," she said, matter-of-factly. "I was really embarrassed when I got caught." Had a bit of a laugh at the memory.
The boy was all outraged innocence too when I showed him how easily I'd Googled a few words from his essay, enclosed in inverted commas, and found what he was passing off as his work
I wasn't particularly angry. Plagiarism happens even more regularly in these 'one to one' days - every kid has a computer and internet access - and it's easy to spot. It's good for students to find out early that this is cheating. It avoids more serious consequences in the future.
They left, ruefully promising to repeat the work.
Meanwhile, Chris was waiting to see me. He's a quiet, intelligent student.
"You said you wanted to read this, miss." He placed a copy of The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas on my desk.
I taught Chris for a couple of semesters in years 7 and 8. He was one of the more talented students in my now defunct Creative Writing class. A couple of days earlier he'd asked for help with his 'wide reading' essay. He was working on the topic "A worthwhile text makes you view the world a little differently". This is one of five generic topics that my Year 10s must respond to. I'm trying to teach them to write well structured introductions including at least three general points that they'll develop in the bodies of their essays.
I hadn't read Chris' novel but knew vaguely that it was about the Holocaust. I took a stab at an answer. Suggested he could write about those awful perennial themes, survival, racism, inhumanity, good versus evil. He seemed satisfied with this and set about writing his essay. I'd also asked if I could borrow his book, given several students had expressed an interest in reading it.
Well, Chris, your old teacher started reading your book on Friday evening and was easily engaged, as one is by an apparently simple driving narrative. I finished it this morning and I have to say it's made me see the world a little differently.
The simple narrative cleverly belies the wisdom and strength of this story. It is the story of 9 year old Bruno, whose quite self-satisfied life is somewhat spoiled when he, his small family and their servants are transported to 'OutWith' as he pronounces the unfamiliar Polish word Auschwitz. However, at Auschwitz he is on the protected side of the fence, his father being the camp commandant. Bruno's naive remarks on his life in what becomes his new home are profoundly ironic.
The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas has given me another poignant indelible impression of the horror, injustice and cruelty of the Holocaust. I highly recommend that you read it. (Having done a bit of Googling myself, I'm thinking I'm perhaps the only English teacher around who hasn't read it.)
Chris, thanks for putting up with my plagiarism lecture, cos you were subjected to it too on Friday arvo. I'm really moved that you remembered I'd said I'd like to read your book. You've reminded me why I love both reading and teaching. (And you know how I said you might really appreciate Markus Zusak's The Book Thief? I'm sure you would.)
"Look," I pointed to my laptop screen. The girl was standing next to me, arms crossed defiantly. "You'll have to admit that it's quite strange that your essay is identical to this one."
"I swear I didn't read it," she persisted in the face of contrary evidence.
Her friend, packing up her books, was listening in. "I copied an essay from the internet when I was in year 7," she said, matter-of-factly. "I was really embarrassed when I got caught." Had a bit of a laugh at the memory.
The boy was all outraged innocence too when I showed him how easily I'd Googled a few words from his essay, enclosed in inverted commas, and found what he was passing off as his work
I wasn't particularly angry. Plagiarism happens even more regularly in these 'one to one' days - every kid has a computer and internet access - and it's easy to spot. It's good for students to find out early that this is cheating. It avoids more serious consequences in the future.
They left, ruefully promising to repeat the work.
Meanwhile, Chris was waiting to see me. He's a quiet, intelligent student.
"You said you wanted to read this, miss." He placed a copy of The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas on my desk.
I taught Chris for a couple of semesters in years 7 and 8. He was one of the more talented students in my now defunct Creative Writing class. A couple of days earlier he'd asked for help with his 'wide reading' essay. He was working on the topic "A worthwhile text makes you view the world a little differently". This is one of five generic topics that my Year 10s must respond to. I'm trying to teach them to write well structured introductions including at least three general points that they'll develop in the bodies of their essays.
I hadn't read Chris' novel but knew vaguely that it was about the Holocaust. I took a stab at an answer. Suggested he could write about those awful perennial themes, survival, racism, inhumanity, good versus evil. He seemed satisfied with this and set about writing his essay. I'd also asked if I could borrow his book, given several students had expressed an interest in reading it.
Well, Chris, your old teacher started reading your book on Friday evening and was easily engaged, as one is by an apparently simple driving narrative. I finished it this morning and I have to say it's made me see the world a little differently.
The simple narrative cleverly belies the wisdom and strength of this story. It is the story of 9 year old Bruno, whose quite self-satisfied life is somewhat spoiled when he, his small family and their servants are transported to 'OutWith' as he pronounces the unfamiliar Polish word Auschwitz. However, at Auschwitz he is on the protected side of the fence, his father being the camp commandant. Bruno's naive remarks on his life in what becomes his new home are profoundly ironic.
The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas has given me another poignant indelible impression of the horror, injustice and cruelty of the Holocaust. I highly recommend that you read it. (Having done a bit of Googling myself, I'm thinking I'm perhaps the only English teacher around who hasn't read it.)
Chris, thanks for putting up with my plagiarism lecture, cos you were subjected to it too on Friday arvo. I'm really moved that you remembered I'd said I'd like to read your book. You've reminded me why I love both reading and teaching. (And you know how I said you might really appreciate Markus Zusak's The Book Thief? I'm sure you would.)
Wednesday, February 20, 2013
Walking target: an apple for the teacher
All teaching staff have been issued with fluoro vests. These must be worn when one is on yard duty. I've already written about yard duty/aka fruit watch. Well, I'm on duty in the same area this year
'Prin Class', as it likes to be known, has added to our pleasure by increasing our visibility whilst we're on patrol. Suppose this helps the friend of the kid who's having an anaphylactic reaction to find me in a crowd.
Teachers do compulsory anaphylaxis training annually. A good thing. As a parent, I'd want to know that teachers knew first aid in this event. I'm not knocking it.
But as a teacher on duty, I'm highly visible anyway, given I'm in my mid-fifties - albeit with dyed hair. Perhaps I could be mistaken for a dumpy, jowly girl with a dowager's hump? Oh, hang on. I'm not wearing a school uniform. I'm possibly going to be visible as I amble around the yard with my tongs and beatific smile. As I've previously written, kids easily find me when they want someone to hide behind when another kid's chasing them.
Yesterday I experienced my second real assault, in 32 years of teaching. I'm naming the beast. It was an assault. I may be mistaken, but I think my fluoro vest turned me into a target. As I walked through my little slice of the danger zone I was pelted, at close range and with considerable force, by a 'projectile'. I'm reluctant to say it was a piece of fruit cos it sounds so freaking benign and ridiculous.
That apple for the teacher really hurt, so much so that tears sprouted on impact. I turned to see who'd thrown it but just faced a row of hefty 'innocent' year 10 boys, none of whom I teach. Had I known them, it wouldn't have happened.
I was unable to take any retributive action against the culprit, who simply had the delight of seeing he'd hit his target and that his target was really angry and hurt. What a hero.
I went in search of a fluoro vested colleague. Lucky he was wearing it cos I'd never have identified him by the business attire, tongs - de rigueur for prin class on duty - and sun glinting off his bald pate.
He bawled out all the kids in the area, but basically they got away with it. Trouble is, you can't identify your assailant (and issue a 5 day suspension) when it hits you from behind. And of course, none of the kids saw anything.
I felt like packing in teaching. Had I driven to school, instead of cycling, I would have taken the rest of the day off. I was shaky and profoundly hurt by the incident. In my time I've stepped between warring boys and grabbed them by the shirt-fronts, narrowly avoiding being clouted in the process. But that's not about me. I don't think yesterday's incident was particularly about me either. I was just 'generic teacher'.
My assault yesterday was about disrespect. Made it really hard for me to teach my year 9s and 10s for the next two lessons. But I'm okay now. I got to document it on Edusafe, so everything's all right, isn't it? I've got my day off to get over it.
'Prin Class', as it likes to be known, has added to our pleasure by increasing our visibility whilst we're on patrol. Suppose this helps the friend of the kid who's having an anaphylactic reaction to find me in a crowd.
Teachers do compulsory anaphylaxis training annually. A good thing. As a parent, I'd want to know that teachers knew first aid in this event. I'm not knocking it.
But as a teacher on duty, I'm highly visible anyway, given I'm in my mid-fifties - albeit with dyed hair. Perhaps I could be mistaken for a dumpy, jowly girl with a dowager's hump? Oh, hang on. I'm not wearing a school uniform. I'm possibly going to be visible as I amble around the yard with my tongs and beatific smile. As I've previously written, kids easily find me when they want someone to hide behind when another kid's chasing them.
Yesterday I experienced my second real assault, in 32 years of teaching. I'm naming the beast. It was an assault. I may be mistaken, but I think my fluoro vest turned me into a target. As I walked through my little slice of the danger zone I was pelted, at close range and with considerable force, by a 'projectile'. I'm reluctant to say it was a piece of fruit cos it sounds so freaking benign and ridiculous.
That apple for the teacher really hurt, so much so that tears sprouted on impact. I turned to see who'd thrown it but just faced a row of hefty 'innocent' year 10 boys, none of whom I teach. Had I known them, it wouldn't have happened.
I was unable to take any retributive action against the culprit, who simply had the delight of seeing he'd hit his target and that his target was really angry and hurt. What a hero.
I went in search of a fluoro vested colleague. Lucky he was wearing it cos I'd never have identified him by the business attire, tongs - de rigueur for prin class on duty - and sun glinting off his bald pate.
He bawled out all the kids in the area, but basically they got away with it. Trouble is, you can't identify your assailant (and issue a 5 day suspension) when it hits you from behind. And of course, none of the kids saw anything.
I felt like packing in teaching. Had I driven to school, instead of cycling, I would have taken the rest of the day off. I was shaky and profoundly hurt by the incident. In my time I've stepped between warring boys and grabbed them by the shirt-fronts, narrowly avoiding being clouted in the process. But that's not about me. I don't think yesterday's incident was particularly about me either. I was just 'generic teacher'.
My assault yesterday was about disrespect. Made it really hard for me to teach my year 9s and 10s for the next two lessons. But I'm okay now. I got to document it on Edusafe, so everything's all right, isn't it? I've got my day off to get over it.
Tuesday, February 12, 2013
Help! I can't teach but I've been practising for 32 years.
I read lots of inspiring educational blogs. I find them through Twitter, or other people's blogs. I also read lots of educational articles. All these wonderful things are happening in these other educators' classes. It both inspires and overwhelms me. I began my day reading the wonderful things that are happening in Rich Lambert's school. I was put to shame before I'd even had my breakfast.
I must confess that no one really learned anything in the past 75 minute period I spent with my Year 9s. I know that for a couple of reasons:
1. My feeling of despair as I charged around the room, vainly trying to keep abreast of what 19 kids were variously doing on their brand new free government issue netbooks.
2. I asked them at the end of the lesson. 'Put your hand up,' I demanded, 'if you've learned anything this period.' Shrugs. General uninterest. Resumption of various conversations that I'd briefly interrupted with my stupid question. One boy did say he'd learned how to create a Google account. Suppose that's something.
The teacher's aide - I have 3 integration kids in the mix - shuffled past me to get out the door early but the kids weren't going anywhere.
With about a minute til the bell, I asked students, as I do, to put their chairs up and stand behind their seats. I was blocking the doorway and shooing kids back to their places, because some try to barge past me and make a run for it.
Seeing that all the chairs are up, the desks are straightened and the rubbish generated by a class full of 14 year olds is in the bin, I release them. No one learned anything, but at least they left the classroom tidy.
The lack of learning resulted from a number of things:
1. New computers. I'm hoping the novelty will wear off, that we'll get a couple of decent routines happening and that I'll be able to teach the class.
2. It's a new year and the class dynamic hasn't found its level yet.
Another big problem for me this year is the texts that have been booklisted. Won't mention company names here, but a 'package' of texts, complete with hard copy dictionaries and thesauruses, was on the booklist. It seems to me that no one closely investigated these texts, back when booklist decisions were made. (That's a bother, isn't it?) The books include their own unique codes so kids can join an internet site and access the entire book and a couple of lame games on line. And of course, the texts are related to AusVELS.
You know what though? I'm not sure that my particular kids, who've reached age 14 with no real exposure to grammar, are going to see any benefit from being able to identify phrasal verbs, gerunds and the future perfect continuous tense. My throat closes over just thinking about it.
I must confess that no one really learned anything in the past 75 minute period I spent with my Year 9s. I know that for a couple of reasons:
1. My feeling of despair as I charged around the room, vainly trying to keep abreast of what 19 kids were variously doing on their brand new free government issue netbooks.
2. I asked them at the end of the lesson. 'Put your hand up,' I demanded, 'if you've learned anything this period.' Shrugs. General uninterest. Resumption of various conversations that I'd briefly interrupted with my stupid question. One boy did say he'd learned how to create a Google account. Suppose that's something.
The teacher's aide - I have 3 integration kids in the mix - shuffled past me to get out the door early but the kids weren't going anywhere.
With about a minute til the bell, I asked students, as I do, to put their chairs up and stand behind their seats. I was blocking the doorway and shooing kids back to their places, because some try to barge past me and make a run for it.
Seeing that all the chairs are up, the desks are straightened and the rubbish generated by a class full of 14 year olds is in the bin, I release them. No one learned anything, but at least they left the classroom tidy.
The lack of learning resulted from a number of things:
1. New computers. I'm hoping the novelty will wear off, that we'll get a couple of decent routines happening and that I'll be able to teach the class.
2. It's a new year and the class dynamic hasn't found its level yet.
Another big problem for me this year is the texts that have been booklisted. Won't mention company names here, but a 'package' of texts, complete with hard copy dictionaries and thesauruses, was on the booklist. It seems to me that no one closely investigated these texts, back when booklist decisions were made. (That's a bother, isn't it?) The books include their own unique codes so kids can join an internet site and access the entire book and a couple of lame games on line. And of course, the texts are related to AusVELS.
You know what though? I'm not sure that my particular kids, who've reached age 14 with no real exposure to grammar, are going to see any benefit from being able to identify phrasal verbs, gerunds and the future perfect continuous tense. My throat closes over just thinking about it.
Thursday, October 25, 2012
Shakespeare's sonnets with middle school students
Experienced a little frisson this morning as I was preparing for my year 8 poetry lessons. Shakespeare telepathically communicated with me from somewhere circa 1590. He was talking to me.
In my youth I wasn't a big fan of Shakespeare. I enjoyed Macbeth in Form 5, taught by a great teacher. At fifteen, I also liked the idea that I was studying Shakespeare. But more or less left to my own devices in Form 6, through a special combination of my own ignorance, immaturity and an uninspiring first year out teacher, Othello was pretty much lost on me. I'm better now, you may be glad to hear, given I've been teaching English for over 30 years.
My copy of Shakespeare's sonnets is a Signet Classic. In 1975 I covered it in some recycled plastic. The plastic has a red RCA records logo on it. I'd saved it from some throw out pile when I was a sales assistant at John Clements Records in the city. Melbourne, that is. Loved that holiday job. Was actually sad to leave when I finished my degree and had to start teaching. (Sorry, can't remain focused and don't really care. Just saying.)
The pages of my Signet Classic are 'maiden' - see paragraph 2 - and yellowing with time. There's an irony there, if you're familiar with Shakespeare's sonnets. That tyrant Time, 'Devouring Time', has been at my little book, and the rest of me.
I've been 'doing' some poetry with my year 8s. I always like to begin this work, as you do, by getting the students to write out the lyrics of a song they like that they can remember, or look up on their phones. This really appeals to most of them, despite my 'no profanity' clause. (Have to explain what profanity is, but that's okay. Vocab development.) I tell them they can choose anything, even a nursery rhyme - sad how many kids don't know what they are (and these same kids watch Underbelly and other unsuitable stuff on their own in their rooms). I tell them they can even choose the theme from a television show.
To demonstrate I sang the theme from Gilligan's Island - a ballad? They loved that, and how surprised they were to hear me singing, quite tunefully and going the full soprano on the last line. Have to say it took some courage to sing the whole song, complete with swaying motions when the weather started getting rough.
The kids didn't mock me. They clearly enjoyed the show and understood the task. I told them they could sing their lyrics if they felt confident.
They also listened respectfully when I recited Vanessa Amorosi's Shine, especially given I'd told them that her original refrain had been 'Everyone you see, everyone you know is going to die'. Considered too dark, apparently, hence the change to something quite different, if perhaps less striking. Or so I've heard.
So the students wrote their song lyrics and recited or sang their lines in front of the whole class. Quite confronting for them. A few students opted out but most had a go. My theme was that words have power. Even a pair of students reciting Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star created a certain mood and presence when they took turns to say each word. They added value to the words and the student audience could tell.
One boy with a lovely voice sang Bruno Mars' Grenade. The audience was moved by his rendition and easily able to appreciate the power of the imagery in the words. I was able to segue into a talk about the pain of unrequited love; how so many songs - so much poetry - is about these human emotions.
Which led me to dig out my old Signet Classic and read a few sonnets; wonder whether I could possibly read these arcane verses with my year 8s, many of whom are below their expected VELS level in reading and writing.
I photocopied sonnets 16 to 19 on one A4 page for the students and searched for some translations on-line. Too easy. It was sonnet 18 that worked its magic on me. I had shivers and tears sprouted, because there was Shakespeare's adoration for his love, and his love alive in his words, just as he said it would be. Shakespeare writing it back there in 1590 something, and me thrilling to it in 2012. Felt amazing.
And what's more, my year 8s, who've never heard any Shakespeare before and often struggle with the simplest text, were moved by the words and the experience. They listened respectfully to my very brief history of Shakespeare's times and enjoyed the sound of the words in the sonnets.
Once more Shakespeare was immortalising his love down through time.
It worked.
In my youth I wasn't a big fan of Shakespeare. I enjoyed Macbeth in Form 5, taught by a great teacher. At fifteen, I also liked the idea that I was studying Shakespeare. But more or less left to my own devices in Form 6, through a special combination of my own ignorance, immaturity and an uninspiring first year out teacher, Othello was pretty much lost on me. I'm better now, you may be glad to hear, given I've been teaching English for over 30 years.
My copy of Shakespeare's sonnets is a Signet Classic. In 1975 I covered it in some recycled plastic. The plastic has a red RCA records logo on it. I'd saved it from some throw out pile when I was a sales assistant at John Clements Records in the city. Melbourne, that is. Loved that holiday job. Was actually sad to leave when I finished my degree and had to start teaching. (Sorry, can't remain focused and don't really care. Just saying.)
The pages of my Signet Classic are 'maiden' - see paragraph 2 - and yellowing with time. There's an irony there, if you're familiar with Shakespeare's sonnets. That tyrant Time, 'Devouring Time', has been at my little book, and the rest of me.
I've been 'doing' some poetry with my year 8s. I always like to begin this work, as you do, by getting the students to write out the lyrics of a song they like that they can remember, or look up on their phones. This really appeals to most of them, despite my 'no profanity' clause. (Have to explain what profanity is, but that's okay. Vocab development.) I tell them they can choose anything, even a nursery rhyme - sad how many kids don't know what they are (and these same kids watch Underbelly and other unsuitable stuff on their own in their rooms). I tell them they can even choose the theme from a television show.
To demonstrate I sang the theme from Gilligan's Island - a ballad? They loved that, and how surprised they were to hear me singing, quite tunefully and going the full soprano on the last line. Have to say it took some courage to sing the whole song, complete with swaying motions when the weather started getting rough.
The kids didn't mock me. They clearly enjoyed the show and understood the task. I told them they could sing their lyrics if they felt confident.
They also listened respectfully when I recited Vanessa Amorosi's Shine, especially given I'd told them that her original refrain had been 'Everyone you see, everyone you know is going to die'. Considered too dark, apparently, hence the change to something quite different, if perhaps less striking. Or so I've heard.
So the students wrote their song lyrics and recited or sang their lines in front of the whole class. Quite confronting for them. A few students opted out but most had a go. My theme was that words have power. Even a pair of students reciting Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star created a certain mood and presence when they took turns to say each word. They added value to the words and the student audience could tell.
One boy with a lovely voice sang Bruno Mars' Grenade. The audience was moved by his rendition and easily able to appreciate the power of the imagery in the words. I was able to segue into a talk about the pain of unrequited love; how so many songs - so much poetry - is about these human emotions.
Which led me to dig out my old Signet Classic and read a few sonnets; wonder whether I could possibly read these arcane verses with my year 8s, many of whom are below their expected VELS level in reading and writing.
I photocopied sonnets 16 to 19 on one A4 page for the students and searched for some translations on-line. Too easy. It was sonnet 18 that worked its magic on me. I had shivers and tears sprouted, because there was Shakespeare's adoration for his love, and his love alive in his words, just as he said it would be. Shakespeare writing it back there in 1590 something, and me thrilling to it in 2012. Felt amazing.
And what's more, my year 8s, who've never heard any Shakespeare before and often struggle with the simplest text, were moved by the words and the experience. They listened respectfully to my very brief history of Shakespeare's times and enjoyed the sound of the words in the sonnets.
Once more Shakespeare was immortalising his love down through time.
It worked.
Sunday, September 02, 2012
Fruit watch. Another side of secondary teaching.
Best to keep on the move on yard duty, twenty-five minutes of which I endure each week. (Full-time teachers get more.) Even better to grab some barbecue tongs and a bucket and pick up kids' rubbish. The time goes more quickly, the yard gets cleaned up and I can avoid engaging too closely with some of the bestial behaviour one is sure to encounter on one's tour.
But on this particular Friday, fate had other plans for me.
Morning briefing.
"Teachers on yard duty in Zone A need to be particularly vigilant. Especially at recess. We've had some serious fruit throwing incidents." That's the principal speaking. He does a spoonerism on fruit-throwing and laughs at his tongue trip. It is hard to say fruit-throwing fast.
Guess who's on yard duty in Zone A at recess.
I'm to plant myself amongst the picnic tables and watch for rogue Year 10 fruit throwers. Great. Standing still on yard duty invites confrontation with randoms: kids who don't know me and don't care that I Am A Respected Former VCE English Guru and Coordinator. Kids will generally utilise me as they see fit.
On good days, especially when the sun's shining, some kids will bail me up for the simple pleasure of a catch up. I love that.
Other days, I can be a prop in whatever boisterous game they're playing.
"Miss! Miss! Did you see what he did?" they cry as they climb up each other. I'm also 'barley'; the safety zone. If a kid's chasing you, run behind 'Miss'; dodge behind her, grab her by her hips and whip her around, your human shield preventing your assailant from catching you. That's me. Buffer zone. No matter that buffer zone is a 56 year old woman.
That's all good; part of what I signed on for back in 1974 when I accepted my studentship and guarantee of three years work in one of our state secondary schools. Thirty-two years later...
But on this particular TGIF, I am stuck guarding Zone A, at recess. I'm eating an apple. Several teachers scurry by on their way to the refuge of the staff room. "Now don't throw that apple core!" They all say words to that effect; wagging fingers. Hilarious.
I'm already attracting student attention. A couple of big boys gawp at me and laugh. I resist flipping them the bird.
My problem? I can't ignore all the blatant littering going on around me when there are three big green bins in the immediate area.
Girls are generally more discreet than boys. Girls gather in groups on the very expensive and quite aesthetically pleasing fake lawn. (Seriously, this stuff works.)
They cross their ankles and lower themselves effortlessly to the ground as thirteen year old girls are wont to do. Some hands are thrust deep into those little multipack snack bags. They blithely drop empty bags by their sides and let the breeze have them. Or they stand simultaneously and walk away, leaving a circle of tetra packs, orange peel, half eaten apples and sandwiches.
"Girls! Pop your rubbish in the bin, thanks!" I have to shout over school yard noise but my tone is polite.
"That's not ours. It was there when we got here." They're all stunned by my rude accusation. "Is she serious?? Oh my god!! Get a life!!"
"Put it in the bin! Now!"
They sullenly comply, casting me filthy looks, muttering.
How dare I demand that they put their own rubbish in the bin? Clearly I'm deranged and a Big Bitch to boot.
If I have somehow communicated that this school yard interaction is benign, it's not. You have to really stand your ground. Doesn't affect everyone like this, but my little heart will be thudding in my chest. It's a battle of wills. Yes, I know. I could just ignore it, and often I do. But yesterday I was stuck there.
That was when a portly boy strolled down the steps. He threw the lid of his icecream cup vaguely towards the bin. Suppose I should have just given him credit for trying and picked it up myself. But I didn't.
"You missed," I say. Well, he's had eye contact with the hapless teacher on fruit watch. What could I do? "Go back and put it in the bin."
He keeps swaggering towards his group of mates, all the time, eye-balling me.
I step towards him to block his path. "You can either pick up your own rubbish, or you can clean up this whole area."
Reluctantly he backs up. leans down and hurls the lid into bin, snarling at me now. He stomps to his group who've been watching the show, which unfortunately must go on. He scoops a huge spoonful of icecream and plops it onto the fake lawn.
"Clean it up."
"No." He's huge; towers over me. The crowd closes around me and Mr Plop, who continues to defy me.
My hackles rise as I'm taunted by twelve year olds, none of whom I can put a name to. My arms are out now, clearing a space around me. I order them off.
"Coordinator's office. Now." Mr Plop stands his ground. I reach behind him and steer him in the appropriate direction.
"Get your hands off me!" this gruff giant threatens.
"Yeah, what are you going to do?"
Without further physical contact I barrel the kid along the gauntlet of year 7s who part in front of him, with his melting strawberry swirl in one hand and his plastic spoon in the other.
He sits outside the coordinator's office and I feel ridiculous explaining the situation to the twenty-something male coordinator - who's in his second year of teaching, BTW, but, you know, he's the Year 7 coordinator; he has power - and a shitload of work that he's welcome to.
Mr Plop, true to form, denies any transgression.
"So you're calling me a liar?" I demand.
"Yes," he sneers.
"Leave it with me," says my young champion.
I trail off back to fruit watch, dragging my dignity behind me. Definitely didn't win that one.
Bet Mr Plop is in my class next year.
First world problems.
But on this particular Friday, fate had other plans for me.
Morning briefing.
"Teachers on yard duty in Zone A need to be particularly vigilant. Especially at recess. We've had some serious fruit throwing incidents." That's the principal speaking. He does a spoonerism on fruit-throwing and laughs at his tongue trip. It is hard to say fruit-throwing fast.
Guess who's on yard duty in Zone A at recess.
I'm to plant myself amongst the picnic tables and watch for rogue Year 10 fruit throwers. Great. Standing still on yard duty invites confrontation with randoms: kids who don't know me and don't care that I Am A Respected Former VCE English Guru and Coordinator. Kids will generally utilise me as they see fit.
On good days, especially when the sun's shining, some kids will bail me up for the simple pleasure of a catch up. I love that.
Other days, I can be a prop in whatever boisterous game they're playing.
"Miss! Miss! Did you see what he did?" they cry as they climb up each other. I'm also 'barley'; the safety zone. If a kid's chasing you, run behind 'Miss'; dodge behind her, grab her by her hips and whip her around, your human shield preventing your assailant from catching you. That's me. Buffer zone. No matter that buffer zone is a 56 year old woman.
That's all good; part of what I signed on for back in 1974 when I accepted my studentship and guarantee of three years work in one of our state secondary schools. Thirty-two years later...
But on this particular TGIF, I am stuck guarding Zone A, at recess. I'm eating an apple. Several teachers scurry by on their way to the refuge of the staff room. "Now don't throw that apple core!" They all say words to that effect; wagging fingers. Hilarious.
I'm already attracting student attention. A couple of big boys gawp at me and laugh. I resist flipping them the bird.
My problem? I can't ignore all the blatant littering going on around me when there are three big green bins in the immediate area.
Girls are generally more discreet than boys. Girls gather in groups on the very expensive and quite aesthetically pleasing fake lawn. (Seriously, this stuff works.)
They cross their ankles and lower themselves effortlessly to the ground as thirteen year old girls are wont to do. Some hands are thrust deep into those little multipack snack bags. They blithely drop empty bags by their sides and let the breeze have them. Or they stand simultaneously and walk away, leaving a circle of tetra packs, orange peel, half eaten apples and sandwiches.
"Girls! Pop your rubbish in the bin, thanks!" I have to shout over school yard noise but my tone is polite.
"That's not ours. It was there when we got here." They're all stunned by my rude accusation. "Is she serious?? Oh my god!! Get a life!!"
"Put it in the bin! Now!"
They sullenly comply, casting me filthy looks, muttering.
How dare I demand that they put their own rubbish in the bin? Clearly I'm deranged and a Big Bitch to boot.
If I have somehow communicated that this school yard interaction is benign, it's not. You have to really stand your ground. Doesn't affect everyone like this, but my little heart will be thudding in my chest. It's a battle of wills. Yes, I know. I could just ignore it, and often I do. But yesterday I was stuck there.
That was when a portly boy strolled down the steps. He threw the lid of his icecream cup vaguely towards the bin. Suppose I should have just given him credit for trying and picked it up myself. But I didn't.
"You missed," I say. Well, he's had eye contact with the hapless teacher on fruit watch. What could I do? "Go back and put it in the bin."
He keeps swaggering towards his group of mates, all the time, eye-balling me.
I step towards him to block his path. "You can either pick up your own rubbish, or you can clean up this whole area."
Reluctantly he backs up. leans down and hurls the lid into bin, snarling at me now. He stomps to his group who've been watching the show, which unfortunately must go on. He scoops a huge spoonful of icecream and plops it onto the fake lawn.
"Clean it up."
"No." He's huge; towers over me. The crowd closes around me and Mr Plop, who continues to defy me.
My hackles rise as I'm taunted by twelve year olds, none of whom I can put a name to. My arms are out now, clearing a space around me. I order them off.
"Coordinator's office. Now." Mr Plop stands his ground. I reach behind him and steer him in the appropriate direction.
"Get your hands off me!" this gruff giant threatens.
"Yeah, what are you going to do?"
Without further physical contact I barrel the kid along the gauntlet of year 7s who part in front of him, with his melting strawberry swirl in one hand and his plastic spoon in the other.
He sits outside the coordinator's office and I feel ridiculous explaining the situation to the twenty-something male coordinator - who's in his second year of teaching, BTW, but, you know, he's the Year 7 coordinator; he has power - and a shitload of work that he's welcome to.
Mr Plop, true to form, denies any transgression.
"So you're calling me a liar?" I demand.
"Yes," he sneers.
"Leave it with me," says my young champion.
I trail off back to fruit watch, dragging my dignity behind me. Definitely didn't win that one.
Bet Mr Plop is in my class next year.
First world problems.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)