Can't Get Out of the Classroom

I just can't seem to get out of the classroom. Don't get me wrong. I've graduated, three times; high school, undergrad, and graduate. But, as a new school year begins, I find myself in front of yet another group of bright (or sleepy), shiny (or dirty), smiling (really?) faces. Let me explain that I am a retired Special Education teacher. This November 2 marks my third of the "golden years." Yeah, right, that lasted about four months. Then I was back to subbing for my local district. Some weeks, I am in a different school each day. I am getting ahead of myself. I started this as an account of my memories of all the varied roles and experiences I've had in a classroom.

As a student, I vividly remember my kindergarten room. It was in the mid-fifties, so we're talking about a few decades ago. I was four years old. You could start early in those days, depending on your birthday. But, the curriculumn was much more basic back then. The whole neighborhood walked the few blocks to our elementary school. Most kids went home for lunch. I was different. My mother worked outside the home. It was certainly not the norm for the 1950's. I remember one afternoon, another girl stole my sack lunch. I was in tears. But my teacher took me around to a few classrooms gathering a sandwich here and a snack there from the other teachers.

Another memory stands out. All parents were involved in the school. Everyone knew each other, if not from school, then from the neighborhood. Each year, the parents put on a program as a fund raiser. One performance my parents starred in took place in the South. In one scene, they were suppose to portray being tarred and feather. They must have been convincing actors, because I became hysterical. I was sure my mom and dad were being tortured. Then there was the year my mother and her girlfriends did the Can-can. Talk about embarrassed, I think I crawled under my chair.

I could go on, but what I take away from all these memories is that this world does not exist anymore. The school building has been torn down and everyone we knew has moved from the neighborhood. More important is the loss of community. Kids are bussed to schools from all over the city. Parents have no idea who lives next door. It is a struggle to get mothers and fathers to parent-teacher conferences. If something is going on down the street, people are more inclined to close their doors. It's not my business, so it's best to stay out of it; seems to be the prevailing attitude. Gone are the days where any mother had the God-given right to yell and discipline any kid who got out of line on the street. How about going back in the house when the street lights came on? Doesn't happen, the kids are already inside playing video games or texting.One last ancient memory I'll share is if you got in trouble at school, you were sure as shooting were going to get it worse at home. These days, teachers have to be damn sure  Johnny or Jill was in the wrong, 'cause mom will be up in their faces, exclaiming;not her little angel! Good, bad, or indifferent, things certainly have changed.

As a teacher, my experience was a complete 180. I grew up in a solid middle-class, baby-boomer neighorhood in a suburb of Detroit. Fathers were mostly  blue collar workers in the auto industry. Almost all mothers stayed at home, were active in PTA, and had a direct pipeline to all the gossip of the neighborhood.

I began and ended my thirty year teaching career in Pontiac, Mi. For those who are unfamiliar, Pontiac is a very old suburb of Detroit that has undergone a drastic transformation in the past fifty years. Once the site of summer homes for affulient city dwellers, it is now on the verge of collapse. The population is now mostly African-American, Latino, and Vietnamese. Unemployment has skyrocked since the closing of the local GM plant. Gangs rule the streets. Crime is the norm. The rate of graduation from high school is about twenty-five percent. Pontiac Central High School was one of the first to have a metal detector and armed police on duty. Teaching children in this environment is a challenge.

My first teaching assignment was at a middle-school. To give you an idea of what teachers faced on a daily basis, I'll relate the history of one family. They lived a block from the school and mom was a known drug dealer. She had two sons, a year apart. Both were in Special Education classes and barely able to read or write. But each Tuesday, we all knew the boys would be MIA from school. You see, that was the day mom would travel to Detroit to pick up her supply of drugs and boys were at home guarding the house. They were seventh and eighth graders. The last I heard, one of the boys ended up in prison and the other in the cementary.

I eventually transfered to the high school. You know what they say about jumping from the frying pan into the fire? Well, I still have the scars to prove it. Each Monday, the teachers would gather and discuss the weekend. No, not what we did, but which of our students had been jailed, shot, or murdered. First hour was usually spent talking about what had gone on in the neighborhoods. It was necessary to "get it out' first, before any kind of teaching could take place. Our days were frequently interrupted with a lock-down. That's when the administration believes a weapon has been brought in school. Once a gun was found to be in the possession of my students. I was called out of my name more times than not. "White bitch" or the more colorful "mother-fucking white bitch" were not uncommon. I quickly developed a poker face and a thick skin. The same student might, in the next minute, be crying in my arms over something that had happended at home. Teachers had to be flexible, approachable, fearless, and still teach.

More times than I can count, my fellow teachers and I would supply winter coats, hat, and shoes to students who had none. Every year as the weather became colder, a few students would show up on a snowy day in torn tennis shoes and a t-shirt. We would pull them aside and then discreetly get them what they needed. Buying supplies for our classrooms was a necessity. Books were cast-offs, dug out of dusty storerooms. But, still we strived to educate, inform, and be a role-model. Were there good memories, great kids, and sucesses? Of course, I will always take with me the love and appreciation I was fortunate to earn from some of my students. All my students made me a better teacher. An educator who does not learn from her students has failed herself and them.

For the past three years, I have been a guest teacher in my local school district. I live in a rural area that is known for it's horse stables. The faces you see are mostly white. Considering the former head of the KKK lived near by, it's not surprising. The families are upper middle-class. The schools are equiped with more technology than I could ever hope to understand. I haven't been sworn at once. I have taught at all grade levels in subjects from Algebra to kindergarten Music. I am enjoying every minute. Is it a different world than I'm use to? Oh, you betcha.

All of my experience has taught me a few things. Teachers need to listen to their students with their ears, hearts and minds. Look beyond the child you see in front of you. Search out that one who always sits at the back of your room. Learn to laugh at yourself and admit your mistakes. Let your students see you are human. Be flexible and recognize all teachable moments, even if it's not in your lesson plans. Love what you are doing or get out. A classroom is no place for those who are not dedicated. Lastly, stay strong and  remember, you are making a difference in a child's life.