Working on the Puzzle - March 2008

     I tend to be terrible when it comes to remembering dates. I used to drive Al crazy because he’d always be asking if I remembered what ‘anniversary’ it was (the day we met, the day we officially were a couple, etc.) and I never knew. I vividly remember the events themselves but I couldn’t tell you if it happened in May, July or September. I partially blame California because the weather is too consistent. Growing up in Chicago I could count on the weather to help with remembering dates. I could at least get it down to a season. It was easier to date an event if I could associate it with frostbite because it was 100 degrees below zero or if my skin was peeling off because of a nasty sunburn. I could really nail it down if the event occurred at the peak of fall colors or spring blooms because, well, spring and fall in the Midwest usually only lasted a few weeks. In California, however, seasons don’t help all that much. I remember being laughed at, or perhaps they were laughing with me, when I proclaimed that the only way I could tell it’s winter in the Bay Area is that the days are shorter.

 

     I remember that it was February when I flew home for my dad’s funeral. Nothing about the California weather aided my remembrance; it was the dreary, late-winter Chicago weather that cemented the date in my long-term memory. There had been a fair amount of snow that winter but by the time I had arrived most of it had melted. All that was left was the charcoal gray mounds of what were once mountains of snow. Lawns revealed matted, lifeless grass spotted with half decomposed leaves and the remnants of a winter’s worth of Fido’s quick trips to the backyard. Displaced mud coated the sidewalks, driveways, and streets waiting for the spring rains to wash it away. Wisely, the residents don’t bother to try clean it up themselves. With the possibility of a March or April blizzard always looming it makes no sense to clean up early. Mother Nature has a devilish sense of humor and it’s shear lunacy to try and guess what she’s up to. Easter in the north can be an opportunity to don your shorts for the first time or you may have to allow an hour before church to dig the car out of the twelve inches of newly fallen snow. That trip brought back to mind how ugly that time of year can be in areas that have four seasons.

 

     Since that February I refrained from planning any trips to the north in the late winter/early spring. But this year there is no avoiding it; I’m living in the middle of the mess. In Maine the road crews mix salt and sand to spread on the roads during snow and ice storms. Now that the snow has melted along the roads we are left with a layer of sand that gets tracked everywhere. Looking at the floor of my car you’d think I just spent a week vacationing at the beach. Reminds me of the time I took my class on a field trip to see the tidepools. Coincidently, the trip occurred about this time of year only in California it meant that it was sunny and in the 70’s (actually it was Valentine’s Day and I dragged Al along to help chaperone – well, at least I remembered one date). As the kids crossed the beach they came across a trickle of water crossing the sand on its way to the ocean. A warm sunny day, a beach, a tiny river and thirty eight-year-olds - you do the math. My first instinct was to try and stop the melee, but they were having so much fun and had been very well behaved up to that point, plus the parent chaperones didn’t seem to mind, so I just let them have at it. Except for the little drama queen whom, while standing in the middle of the stream cried that the water was making her wet, everyone had a great time. All the excitement made them quite hungry and the whole way home (over an hour) they chanted the names of every fast-food joint that we passed – McDONALDS! McDONALDS! McDONALDS! PIZZA HUT! PIZZA HUT! PIZZA HUT!  Meanwhile they dried off and their coating of sand worked its way down to the car seats and floors. By the time we got back to the school the cars were a mess. The parents didn’t seem to mind considering how successful the day went, and I had rented a van for the day so I didn’t care. Funny how we make associations: a cold, dreary day in Maine takes me back to a warm sunny day on a California beach because of a build up of sand on the floor mats of my car.

 

     In my eyes there are really six seasons – the usual four plus two unnamed seasons. Ones people try to pretend don’t exist but are very much a part of the annual cycle whether we like it or not. They’re the dreary times between fall and winter, when the leaves have fallen and the daylight hours dwindle to few hours a day, and between winter and spring when increased daylight only serves to illuminate the carnage of winter’s reign. It flies in the face of our image of four lovely seasons, each with its own particular, eye-catching attractions, but it’s important to recognize them and their influence on our psyche. Without those depressions would the white sheets of the first snow seem as crisp and clean; in the spring would we be as aware of the tiny little buds popping out on the trees or would the spindly little shoots in the ground seem as magical?

 

     Without any consideration for the seasons, I chose April as the time I would make a decision as to where I would plant some roots for the next year or so, if not longer. I started this journey in late summer. It started with a vacation, wandering around in the warmth of August and September. In the fall I shed the leaves of life as I knew it and prepared for hibernation. Winter has been spent quietly tucked away in state of reflection and self-analysis. Now I’m anticipating spring. I’m ready, and anxious, to get back to life again. I am trying to wait patiently for my future to unfold because, like spring in New England, one’s just not sure when the next phase of the cycle will begin.

 

     The one thing I have decided is that I want to continue with teaching. After listening to me go on and on, my career counselor (as if you don’t realize that’s a euphemism for therapist) declared, “You are a teacher!” It’s not my passion for the career that’s changed; it’s the profession itself. Creativity and compassion in the field are being replaced with testing and liability. My teaching, despite all my experience and effort, was being judged on how well my class did on a single exam. Being that I struggle with the idea of teaching to the test, my kids did ok but not great overall; I guess that makes me a so-so teacher.

 

     The conflict between my enthusiasm for teaching and the impersonal direction the field seems to be heading in came to a climax over the last few weeks. A couple weeks ago I took a test that will determine if I am qualified to teach in Maine. Now I’m not being judged on how my students perform on a standardized test; my future rests on how I do on a 120 question, multiple-choice exam. And to be honest, I’m not sure how I did. The test had little to do with teaching methods and practices; it was a content-knowledge test. It consisted of four sections. The math and language arts sections were pretty easy and I feel confident I passed those. However, the social studies sections had a lot of very specific questions about US and world history, not my best area, and I had to guess at some of the science questions. The closest place to take the test, without having to wait too long, was in New Hampshire, over an hour away. I had to be at the university at 7:30 AM and, of course, it was snowing pretty hard that morning. I got to the campus at 7:35 but then couldn’t find the right hall. None of the buildings had numbers on them and it turns out the one I was looking for was behind another and not directly accessible from the street listed as its address. I ended up flagging campus security down and he led me to the place. By this time it was 8:00. Upon entering the room the proctor apologized and said I would have to reschedule. Well I started pitching a fit (in my somewhat reserved manner) and probably started to scare the poor lady. Fortunately, she was way behind schedule herself and finally conceded and allowed me to take the test. Not the greatest way to start but at least I was in. Language Arts and Math came first and I flew through them. But then I was starting to get a little tired and much less sure of my answers. The tension began to build again.

 

            I decided I wouldn’t worry about the test for the time being. I gave it my best shot and there is nothing more I can do for the time being. I should get the results some time around mid-April. My trip to California in late April could simply be a vacation or it could be a job-seeking excursion. Actually, I would like to give Maine another year before I decide to stay or go. This has been an odd year and I don’t feel like I’ve given the area a fair shake. There are things about both California and Maine that appeal to me but I don’t think I have enough information to do a fair comparison at this point. The situation reminds me of my ordeal with the Peace Corps in Africa. Things didn’t work out as I had hoped and I was torn between trying to work through the problems or going back to the life I had before. I chose the latter and things worked out fine but there is that lingering notion that I missed out on something that could have been very powerful. Moving to Maine the way I did was a bit erratic – that was ok, even somewhat exhilarating, but any rash decisions at this point could mean missing out on an opportunity or be an all-out disaster.

 

            After a slow February, my work schedule has picked up in March. I was getting a number of sub jobs and now I have an ed tech job that will take me till mid-May. This situation is an improved version of what I was doing in the fall with the first-grade bolter. This time I’m with a second grader who also has self-control issues and a tendency to run off. Several things make this situation better. This is a full-time position instead of half-time; the teacher seems much more comfortable having me there; and, after only two weeks, we’re seeing significant progress in the child’s ability to get a grip on his anger before it escalates into a problematic situation. My work in this classroom plus some of the sub jobs I’ve had at this school have made a good impression that could ultimately lead to something more steady next year.

 

            It was once suggested a non-threatening ways to divide a class into groups is by eye color. I didn’t work in my old school because over 90% of the children had brown eyes and it won’t work here because the same percentage has blue eyes. Point being that this is a very different environment and it will be interesting to compare teaching in this district to my old one, if I do get a job. I’d be switching from a lower income neighborhood to an upper-middle class area and I have mixed emotions about that. It’ll be nice to be in a school that has all the services you could ask for and a highly-educated, parent population that tends to be very involved in the children’s education. Testing fever has hit here but not nearly as hard as it has in California; there isn’t that overwhelming push to shove information into the poor little guys to get them ready for tests. On the other hand, I miss the diversity and I was energized by the challenges of working with disadvantaged kids. It’s draining but it’s also very rewarding. Despite the differences, it doesn’t take long to see the similarities as well. Kids are kids and there are plenty of children with special needs here too. I see the same range of abilities and personalities in both places – it’s more the environment that’s different. I suspect the difference between the haves and have-nots will become very apparent – a trend that seems to be getting worse and worries me greatly. It’s not that I don’t think I’ll be ‘needed’ as much in this district, I’m just not sure I’ll get the same satisfaction as I got working with the children at Palma Ceia.

 

It’s funny how the years alter our memory of different students. The ones that seemed to give us so much trouble are often, not always, the ones we remember the best. Not because they were so much trouble, but because we didn’t give up on them and in some small way we got through. My second year of teaching I taught third grade and got a little guy that came with a warning from previous teachers. He was a handful but we got along pretty well and there weren’t too many serious incidents. I could have cried when a few years later, as he was finishing up sixth grade, I saw him in the hallway and he thanked me for being the only teacher that was nice to him. School was hard for him but for one year he felt good about being there and I helped make that happen. Did he pass the standardize test? No, should I feel like I failed him?

 

That was the same year I took the class to see the tidepools. I keep going back to my first few years of teaching because there was something there that I would like to recreate. I was inspired to be creative and take chances. I love exploring the outdoors and took the kids on some wonderful field trips. My first year, I took my class to Angel Island. To get there parents drove to the station, we took the train into San Francisco, a bus to the pier and a ferry to the island. The trip was more about modes of transportation than it was about the island itself and the kids had a great time. Unfortunately, I doubt I’d be able to pull that off again. Liability issues have made it very difficult to plan that type of activity. We moved away from using private vehicles. Instead we have to pay a lot of money for a school bus and you have to wonder – are the children really safer on those buses? So my challenge is how to maintain the energy and enthusiasm for teaching within the confines of the current trends in education.

 

 A number of possibilities exist for next year. I will look for a teaching job in the area. I also have an interview for a math coaching position this week. I’m also looking into taking some math classes so I can get a single-subject certification and possibly move up in grade level. As you might expect, the process is different for Maine and California but they do both involve taking a test (a different one for each state of course). We really need a national system for certification. This is not to say I wouldn’t consider something else but I don’t see myself starting from scratch with something new after committing so much time and energy to this field.

 

As winter winds down I’m feeling the transitional blues. I’m ready for the warm weather and the colors of spring to brighten up the neighborhood. I want to get outdoors and hit the trails again and maybe try something new like kayaking. Likewise, the adventure of moving is over. I want to move on with my life and I’m getting a little frustrated waiting. I’m ready to clear the debris and start planting my garden, curious to see what grows and what doesn’t. I’m learning a great deal about myself but I’m still trying to piece together what prompted me to take this journey. I’ve stirred things up, now I’m trying to figure out how to put the pieces back together again. I have a lot of patience with my students but I don’t always give myself the same consideration. I’m getting anxious – my relaxation CD is getting a lot of play these days.

 

Last weekend I worked on a fairly complicated puzzle with some friends; a puzzle we started a month earlier. It had a 1000 pieces and was a complicated picture with very subtle changes in color. I got it in my head that I was not leaving until it was completed and they were ready to be done with it as well. Besides the complexity of the puzzle there were other challenges: bending over a table for extended periods, getting in each other’s light and the fact that the cat hid several of the pieces when we weren’t looking. I decided to take a more methodical approach. I would analyze each piece carefully, try to find the tiniest identifying mark, match it to the picture on the box cover and establish exactly where the piece went. It was a slow process but it worked pretty well. In some ways if felt like cheating but, for me, it was more productive than trying to match colors or shapes on the finished sections. We did get the puzzle finished and found most of the missing pieces. There are still a few unaccounted for but it doesn’t diminish the sense of accomplishment and relief that the project is over. It seems an appropriate metaphor for where I’m at right now. The sections are taking shape and now I’m looking at individual pieces to see how they fit and tie the whole thing together. It’s a slow, arduous process that takes a lot of time. Obstacles will get in the way and some pieces are still hidden. I’ll need to find the fortitude to stick with it, get it done and not shove all the pieces back in the box. My friends’ home is floor-to-ceiling antiques, books, pictures and other treasures they’ve collected over the years. I don’t know that we’ll ever find those last few pieces amid all the bric-a-brac and that’s ok, it still feels complete.