Baby Steps

Today was one of those days.

If I had a nickle for every time I asked a first grader to sit on his pockets, put a bubble in her mouth, or listen while Ms. Berg is talking, I'd retire tomorrow. My kids were in perpetual motion. I looked at my line while walking back from lunch and I had three kids moonwalking, one jumping in place, and two engaged in a shoving match. The rest were looking anywhere but in front of them, weaving back and forth down the sidewalk. My class was a motley crew today and we looked the part. I started making a list of new careers in my head as I tried to accomplish the nearly impossible task of getting my scholars situated in their desks after lunch. I'd gladly take the job of brain surgeon after being responsible for the well-being of 19 wiggly first grades. Bring it on :)

Although today was full of frustration, there was one glimmering bright spot that left me smiling. During our reading lesson, my students were unsucessfully following Superstar Scholar Rule #4: Listen while your teacher is talking. We had two minutes of "Think Time" to brainstorm solutions to our problem. While sharing out, Kaliah stood behind her desk and delivered this passionate speech in an abnormally loud first grade stutter:

"Children (Yes, my first graders call each other children) y'all know how to be good. I know you have a heart inside you. Think deep inside and find it. You want Ms. Berg to be happy. You're Superstar Scholar's and y'all know how to make gooder choices. You know that we need to show Ms. Berg respect and treat her how we want to be treated. If y'all are talking while Ms. Berg is talking we can't learn and our brains won't grow. Y'all got to start listening and making better choices."

Thank you, Kaliah for reminding me why I'm here.

On days like today I wonder if anything I'm saying sinks in. I literally feel like I'm beating my head against the wall when I look out and see 75% of my class lost in another world far away from our classroom. I feel like I'm wasting my time until a Kaliah opens his or her mouth and reminds me in their own words that something is getting through. My kids didn't come to school knowing how to treat each other. Their idea of conflict resolution is punching the other person until they shut up. They are slowly beginning to understand that hitting doesn't accomplish anything, and being a good problem solver is a lot more effective in our classroom. When asked what a good choice was at the beginning of the year, they responded "Be good." Now they can answer, "Keep my hands to myself on the carpet. Treat my friends like I want to be treated. Keep a bubble in my mouth when I standing in line so I can help other classes learn by staying quiet." Little by little, piece by piece, we'll get there. I can't wait to see my scholars at the end of the year. Until then, I'll keep up the head banging until progress is made.

Updates from 1st Grade

After one day of training this summer, I quickly realized that my ambitious goal of weekly updates to my blog was not feasible. I apologize for dropping off the face off the earth over the summer. I'm slowly, but surely reclaiming what's left a normal life and with this transformation will hopefully find time to blog about my adventures in 1st grade :) The past three months have blurred together into a cloud of new experiences and lots (and lots) of busy, sleep deprived days. However, despite the craziness that is my new life in Louisiana, I'm so thankful for the new opportunities this adventure has afforded. Here are the past 3 months in one blog post: (Get excited!)

Phoenix: I spent the majority of the summer in Phoenix, AZ, a lovely desert location with dry heat that I can best describe as being blasted in the face with a blow dryer. I spent 5 weeks in teacher bootcamp teaching a kindergarten class and going to classes on all kinds of teachery things. The days were long, but I learned more than I thought was possible in a five week period. I felt pushed to my limits many times, but was amazed at the fact that at the very moment my strength gave out, God was there supplying me with energy I didn't know I had. Kindergarten was a different world, but by the end of my five weeks with five year olds I found a new found appreciation for all things kindergarten. I learned how to pick my battles, laugh at the little things, and celebrate small victories.

New Roads, Louisiana: I'm currently living in a quintessential small town off a picturesque lake in rural Louisiana. I'm adjusting to the slower pace of the South and learning that a Super Wal-Mart is a luxury not everyone enjoys. (Our Wal-Mart- notice the lack of "Super"- closes at 9...) I drive along the main road, past beautiful antibellum houses that Scarlett O'Hara would have been glad to call home, stop at one of our two stoplights and look out over the lake. New Roads could best be described by the adjective "adorable." However, this apparent beauty masks a lot of deeper problems that weren't readily apparent to me at first. Our town is literally divided by race and a set of railroad tracks. I didn't know places like this still existed. Race is very much a dividing issue here and it amazes me at the drastically different opportunities you are provided based on the color of your skin. Of course there are exceptions to every rule, but the majority of the students at my Title I, at-risk school, are African American. If you go to the other side of town and the private Catholic school, you will see mostly white skin. It's an interesting and horrifying observation to make.

First Grade: I honestly thought I was ready for whatever school would throw at me. I just completed four years of teacher education, went through student teaching at a Title I school, and survived five weeks of intense teacher training. Bring it on, first grade, bring it on... Nothing could have prepared me for the challenges real teaching have brought my way. After getting back from Phoenix, I had a little over a week to get things ready for the first day of school. The day before school I was scrambling to get desks and chairs for my room. I hit the ground running at the beginning and I feel like I've barely come up for air since. I spend my days at school and my nights planning for my nineteen toothless six and seven year olds. There are days I wonder why I'm here. There are moments when I feel like I'm pounding my head against a brick wall. Will my students ever sit still on the carpet, walk in a straight line or sit quietly at lunch? Will we learn that a period goes at the end of the sentence and not three times in the middle? Will we learn that fifteen comes after fourteen and Wednesday before Thursday? I come home exhausted, discouraged and tired of being called Ms. Berg.

However, first grade has taught me how to celebrate small victories. We may not conquer the period or the short /i/ sound in a day, but D will sit quietly for five minutes during a story he loves, K will correctly write her own name (a significant feat for someone who should be in third grade and is still struggling with first grade material), and M will tell me that respect means "treating other people like you want to be treated." We will laugh together at a funny story, work together to figure out how to problem solve being loud in the bathroom, and make Ms. Berg smile because we'd rather play spelling games at recess instead of playing outside. There are still days where information seems to be lost in a black hole, but slowly, very slowly, we're making baby steps in the right direction. We have a lot to do, but I know we can (and will) get there.

Our Classroom Needs: Our school doesn't have extra resources or money to provide my students with extra things for our classroom. You can help! :) I created two projects on Donor's Chose, which is a non-profit organization dedicated to getting resources into at-risk public school. Even $10 can go a long way in our class. Check out our projects:

Read More, Learn More, Change the Globe

We Can See Clearly Now

Closing Thoughts: Words truly can't express how thankful I am for all of the love and support I've been shown throughout this incredible adventure. The moments I've felt at my weakest, I've had countless phone calls, letters, texts and prayers sent my way. I couldn't do this without the love of my incredible friends and family. Thank you, thank you, thank you! I'm taking this journey one step at a time, learning how to let God's perfect strength be shown through my weakness, and celebrating the little things like crooked, toothless first grade smiles :)

Inspiration

This is quite possibly the best speech I've ever heard. It was given at our induction for TFA.

Hello.

Nine years ago, when I was sitting where you're sitting right now, I felt like a huge fraud. After a week of icebreakers and workshops and job fairs and getting lost on the way to…well, everywhere, after seeing how impressive and confident everyone around me looked, I felt mediocre, unprepared, and dreadfully homesick. It almost made it worse that my new colleagues and I had been personally thanked by a string of important people simply for our presence in their state, as if we were superheroes who represented the last hope of some crumbling Gotham. Maybe it was just that being from a long line of Yankees, I didn't know how to handle a warm welcome back then. But I think there was more to it, to my discomfort with this undeserved hero's welcome we received. I don't know if any of you have a similar feeling right now, but if you do, I'd like to suggest that it might actually a good thing.

So, doubt and guilt hovered over me throughout institute, even as I worked through half the night trying to become the pedagogical superhero I thought the people back in Baton Rouge expected me to be. It grew when I returned to Baton Rouge and learned that my English degree would be put to use teaching special education science. And when I showed up to Glen Oaks High School with my beautiful handmade posters and meticulous lesson plans to learn that I had neither classroom nor students, I thought that maybe I had been found out, maybe this was a sign from the universe, a sign that I ought to just go home. I collected such signs from the universe throughout my first month teaching. I did what was asked of me, sitting in the back of another teacher's classroom and making sure the SPED kids didn't disrupt class. And it was about a month in to this most self-indulgent of existences that I was finally able to set aside those doubts. Trying to ease my mind, my principal finally leveled with me: "Look. These kids can't learn science. We'd be lucky if they learned to spell science. But, the law says we have to let them be in the room."

Thinking about what it meant to be on the receiving end of messages like that for the better part of one's life led to my first moment of clarity as a teacher. My current insecurities notwithstanding, I realized that from the moment I was born, I had been receiving messages about how the world saw me: everyone assumed that I would succeed, that I could learn quickly and well, that I would go to college, that I deserved to live a long and reasonably comfortable life.

And from the moment they were born, the students I was supposed to be teaching had also received messages about how the world saw them: they were uneducable, a drain on society, a problem needing to be fixed; they learned that the world would be more surprised to see them graduate from high school than to hear that they had died young and violently or been sent to prison.

Here's what I learned in that moment: this is not about me. And I will say it to you: this is not about you. No matter how many community leaders shake your hand and treat you like a hero, do not be lulled into believing that this is about you. No matter how many signs seem to point to "you suck, go home kid," resist this tendency to see the world in terms of yourself.

Because if this is about you, then every insult—and there will be many—will eat at you, will be an affront, rather than a symptom of what you're working to alleviate. If this is about you, you will become bitter, because you will expect a reward for your hard work. You will come to resent Louisiana and Teach For America and public education for asking you to do work that you will see as thankless and fruitless. Faced with failure, you will protect your ego by looking for explanations outside yourself. You might blame the system, your principal, your roommates, your program director, your textbook, the broken copy machine—anything but you. You may even take up the most convenient and insidious mantra of the frustrated new teacher by blaming parents who "just don't value education." Worst of all, thinking in this way, you will come to resent your students, for, focused on your own discomfort and discouragement, you will see them as nothing more than an obstacle standing between you and your success.

Take a moment now, please, to revel in the absurdity of that. Tell yourself that this will never be you.

In the coming months, remember this moment and let it shield you from ever subscribing to those poisonous and destructive myths. Accept now that you will sometimes fail, that you will even more often feel like a failure, and that this is nobody's fault. Moreover, fixing it is nobody's job but yours. And you must fix it, however you can and no matter how hard that is to do.

Another thing I learned from my principal that day was that my kids were right to resist their teachers, to mistrust me. If—having spent the majority of their lives in a system that told them repeatedly that they were impossibly stupid—they still enjoyed school, still obeyed the people who sent them those messages, well I think that would have been fairly stupid. Their resistance was so far from personal insult, I realized; it was, in fact, evidence of their brilliance. I realized that it would be my job to tell them this a thousand times, and more importantly, to devise ways to let them see it for themselves, and while we were at it, to prove to anyone who doubted them that they were indeed the proud owners of brilliant young minds; to demonstrate that they could learn science; that they deserved to learn science; and that to fail to teach them science--or anything else, for any reason—was, simply put, a crime.

****

Okay: so if this were a movie, we would now cut to a musical montage with scenes of me jumping around the front of the classroom using revolutionary teaching methods, while students fall, slowly but surely, under my spell, until they finally realize that I am the best thing that has ever happened to them. The scene would culminate at a ceremony in which I am named Best Teacher Ever by the President of the United States, and my students and I would, in slow-motion, jump up and down and hug each other with tears in our eyes, and the credits would roll and the audience would cheer.

But here's the thing about that: I hate those movies. I really do. For one thing, they're all about the glorious teacher and her heroic efforts, and as I've already told you: this can not be about us. I feel like half the disappointments of new teachers can be traced back to dreams borne of those movies, to a desire to be Jaime Escalante or to inspire a Dead Poets' Society. I imagine teachers across the country standing at the front of their classrooms daydreaming about whether they'd rather be played by Michelle Pfeiffer or Hillary Swank, and being disappointed when all that happens is that their students learn.

Worse yet, I can't stand the fact that the students are the antagonists in these movies. The teachers save them from themselves and their families and their communities and their cultures. They teach the unteachable children, tame the dangerous minds, redeem the irredeemable thugs. They're not teachers; they're demigods—and what a dangerous set of assumptions that breeds. It's a set of assumptions that brushes up against the old tales of White Man's Burden far too closely for me to want anything to do with it—in that movie world, students and their families are hopeless, aimless, worthless until a charismatic outsider comes along, savior-style, and gives their pitiful lives meaning.

So please, let's take another moment right now to revel in the absurdity of such arrogance. Bathe yourself in disbelief that we ever swallowed such stuff.

And now choose: for the next two years, you can either indulge your own Stand and Deliver fantasy, or you can become a great teacher. But know this: the two are incompatible. A great teacher would make a lousy movie star. He's relentlessly in the background. When you walk into his classroom, he's not in front, jumping up on the desk with barbaric yawps or shredding textbooks. He's not blowing children's' minds. No: his students are in front, blowing his mind. He orchestrates, he choreographs, he works insane hours behind the scenes, but he never, ever stars in that show. We all need to learn, and relearn, and cultivate that humility. This is the Zen of teaching: it is not about me.

So to return to this moment, to your vivid present and my nine years' past, it's worth noting that all this is a pretty big shift from our recent lives as college students. Those four years were entirely about us—I was bathed in praise for my brilliant essays, you for your incisive comments in class, she for her meticulous lab work. That constant recognition can be a great source of energy. And it's one you can no longer count on. I don't know whether I expected to be celebrated and praised as a teacher, but I certainly wasn't, and this forced me to learn a second lesson: that the communities of South Louisiana have far more to offer to me than I could ever offer them. That Louisiana doesn't need saving, by me or anybody. On the contrary, it can save you if you let it. During what will perhaps be the hardest thing you do in your life—it remains so in mine—this state can give you the energy, joy, and reward you will so desperately need.

Now, you'll meet lots of people who haven't let that happen, and you'll come to recognize them almost instantly. They like to focus on how this place differs from whatever better places they've lived or been. They're quick to remind anyone who will listen that there's no good movie theater here, that the folks in the coffee shops don't know how to make a real macchiato, that we're #12 on the Forbes list of America's most violent cities, 2^nd in new cases of HIV, that over 1/4 of adults in BR lack literacy skills, and that the Mexican food here is mediocre at best. Oh--and that the air smells funny sometimes because of the paper mill across the river. They seem to revel in the fact that their students lose relatives to violence at a staggering rate, as if this is somehow evidence of their own street cred as a quote-unquote "inner city teacher." It's just like in the movies.

Now, you'd be wrong not to notice these things, and I'm certainly not asking you to don rose-colored glasses during your time here. The mistake that these unhappy people make is that they notice only these things, and that's a recipe for hopelessness and cynicism, neither of which makes a very good teacher. Louisiana is magic, and I genuinely hope you'll be open to that magic. You won't always see it unless you look for it, and you won't look for it if you fall prey to the illusion that you are here to save this state. Don't get me wrong: our public education system is a source of unutterable injustice, and I am glad that you have come to join the thousands of others who are determined to change that, who have already made progress in that direction. But that doesn't erase the fact that this place is magic, and that to be welcomed to this place, as we all have been—whether it was at birth or a just few days ago—is a gift. The communities in which we teach and live are vibrant places in which poverty is only one factor, one that we too often let blind us to the many others: Sunday afternoons, when every other front porch is crowded with people. Tailgating at Southern and LSU where strangers will ply you with the best food you've ever tasted.

Shoot—once, up on Plank Road, a hard-looking guy in a custom car noticed me admiring his rims, and then saw my out of state plates. He rolled down his window at the red light and said, "Welcome to the Dirty South. Do you like cookies?" He dug in the grocery bag next to him, opened a bag of Chips Ahoy, ate one, and passed a handful out the window to me. I mean, that just does not happen where I'm from, and that's what I revel in about this place. That's also what I think about whenever those closed-off-to-magic people talk about the menacing ghettos in which they star in their imaginary movies.

Church congregations greet heathenish strangers like me without reserve. Festivals celebrate everything worth celebrating and plenty that you might think isn't. My neighbors know my name and turn my water back on when I forget to pay my bill. Tangerine trees drop fruit while my family back home shovels snow. Just yesterday, my students groaned when I told them there were only five minutes left in class—they wanted to learn more about Gandhi—because here, as everywhere, kids are born to learn.

Please notice these things. Seek out your students when you're not teaching. Watch them be kids. Explore your town. Speak to people. Look deeply at this place that has welcomed you, and work to understand just what it is you've been offered. Don't presume to know about it; but do undertake to learn about it.

*****

As for the rest of my first year teaching, it was more the stuff of dull memoir than music montage. We did succeed. I screwed up a lot. I felt tired all the time. I often felt angry and frustrated. I laughed like a twelve-year old more often than I had since I was a twelve-year-old. I loved my students so much it hurts my heart to even say it out loud. By the end of the year, they outscored the general ed kids on the science portion of the standardized test.

And as vindicated as I felt on their behalf, I can't say that it did much for them. It might have, but in the scheme of things, the science portion of standardized test was just a miniscule step towards the kind of vindication they really deserved. In subsequent years we took many more little steps, and I hope that those steps added up to something—I choose to believe that they did, but I also know that I need to do more this year, and next year, and the year after that. And I will tell you this: I have never been named teacher of the year, and Hollywood has yet to seek the rights to my story. I do keep a collection of nice notes from my program director, and my mom tells me she's proud of me. But lacking much else in the way of awards and honors, I am instead energized by what I keep learning. I came here, as I suspect many of you do, already knowing about hard work, but not understanding much beyond that. What I'm learning, and what empowers me more than anything else—what I hope you learn, because it will empower you—is humility, is how to be a gracious guest in a phenomenal community. Once you learn this—and perhaps you already have—you will be freed from the doubt you might be feeling right now, from the need for recognition or thanks, from the burden of preconceived notions about the kids you teach and their families. Then, you will be ready to become a great teacher. You will also see that two years from now you will not be finished with what you've just started, but you will be fortified to continue with more skill, more passion and more joy.

So I was right, nine years ago, to think that it didn't make sense for me to be thanked for coming here. And if it doesn't quite sit right with you either, then I'd say you're on the right track. Perhaps you already sense that South Louisiana will give you more than you could ever hope to give it. I hope that you accept those gifts. Your students will shine beyond all the stereotypes and self-fulfilling prophesies, because I know you will expect them to, and I trust that you will put your hard work in behind the scenes and shine the spotlight on them. In the end, when you stand where I now stand, looking at a new group of talented individuals sitting where you now sit, you will feel as lucky as I do to have been invited to this place and to be entrusted with its children. You will know, as I do, that our work as corps members and alumni of Teach For America, our work of guiding students toward significant academic gains, is nothing like heroism—it is merely the rent, to borrow from Shirley Chisholm, that we each pay for the privilege of living in this incredible place.

Thank you.

3 Days

3 days until Baton Rouge...

8 days until Phoenix...

Keep posted for updates, the big adventure is almost here.


This is a link to a video about TFA and it shows one of the schools I could work at in South Louisiana...yay!

Teach For America on ABC

Dear First Grade,

Dear First Grade Friends,

Today you made me want to pull every hair in my head out. I would have loved five minutes without being interrupted, listening to tattle-tales, being touched, and having to ask you to remember to use your level one voices or stay on your pockets. I'm not sure why you felt compelled to stick markers up your noses or smear glue on your pants. I left school feeling grouchy and in need of a nap. However, as I write this after school, I cannot wait to see your crooked toothed, lopsided first grade smiles tomorrow morning. I can’t wait to hear about your adventures after school and get my guts squeezed out by your hugs when you come into class. Teaching you has been the most challenging job I’ve ever undertaken, but I wouldn’t trade my six months with you for the world. I want to thank you for being the world’s most fantastic first graders. I want to thank you for changing my life.

I know my job was to teach you the curriculum and make sure you’d mastered reading, writing, and math grade level expectations before second grade. However, each one of you has taught me so much more than I could have ever crammed into a lesson plan. You humbled me and taught me what true courage is. When I was six, I never came to school after spending the night in a hotel when a fire burnt down my house. I never knew what it felt like to have bruises on my body and bite marks on my arm from an abusive parent. I never felt the heartbreak of blaming myself for a divorce. I was never called a shithole by my dad and I never wondered if my mom would be in jail when I got home from school. I never felt the pain of hunger from missed meals or the embarrassment of not having a coat or new shoes in the winter. I didn’t feel the sadness that comes from having a mom addicted to meth. I didn’t know what it was like to lose electricity from not paying the bills or sleep under the dining room table because there simply wasn’t enough beds. You deal with these things on a daily basis, and still arrive at school eager and excited to learn. Your little hearts are breaking, but you put on brave smiles and learn the sounds that –ch, -sh, and –wh blends make. Your courage and optimism inspire me. My world would crumble if I encountered even one of these tragedies, yet you all handle them with more grace and maturity than I could ever imagine.

On my worst days, you were there with missing toothed smiles and big hugs to heal my hurting heart. You were quick to ask if I was okay and offer your first grade wisdom. One of you told me to “Learn more and grow bigger.” I will always be learning, friend, but hopefully not growing bigger. Your funny comments always made me laugh and reminded me not to take life so seriously. Thank you for making fart noises on the carpet (although I hated it at the time) and reminding me that it’s okay to lighten up and have fun. Thank you for keeping me informed of the latest updates in our first grade dramas. I could always count on you to keep me abreast of the latest news and I’m not sure I could have slept at night without knowing the latest boy who wanted to marry Brianna. Thank you for drawing me beautiful pictures, reminding me that I was your favorite teacher, and telling me that you loved me.

You have been the center of my world these last few months. I frequently find myself praying you’re okay on the weekends, finding things that remind me of you at the store, and brainstorming ways to help you remember tricky concepts. You have kept me awake at night and have been the cause of many an early morning. I’ve stayed late after school working to make sure you could learn to your full potential the next day. You caused me quite a few headaches, but also made my stomach hurt from laughing. You made me cry, but also gave me a ridiculous amount of smiles. You make me excited to wake up and come to school in the morning. You make me love being a teacher.

Thank you for being patient with me and putting up with my rookie mistakes. I know I wasn’t always patient with your mistakes, yet you allowed me multiple errors. I loved being a part of your learning. Thank you for allowing me to be there when the light bulb went off in your head and you fully grasped a new concept for the first time. Your love of learning is contagious and I loved seeing your enthusiasm. Thank you for letting me see the magic that comes from reading a book all by yourself or figuring out a tricky math problem. Thank you for sharing your stories with me and begging me not to make you stop writing for the day. Thank you for crawling up in my lap after school and sharing a book with me. These moments made all the hours of lesson planning worth it. You made learning come alive for me.

I get tears in my eyes when I think about leaving you in two weeks. I wish I could follow my fantastic first graders to second grade. I wish I could continue to be a part of your journey. You will forever hold a very special place in my heart and I could never forget each one of you. It has been an honor to work with you this past year and you have truly changed my life. Never forget how special you are. You have amazing potential and I’m expecting great things in the future. You are talented, funny, beautiful individuals who can (and will) impact our world. Thank you for being yourselves and allowing me to be a part of your lives. I will miss you, but I will never forget the lessons I learned with you. Thanks for everything, my first grade friends.

Miss Berg