rebeccaseattle

[rebeccaseattle]

Greg Chang(Names have been changed)

The colorless of linoleum floor made me feel cold as I looked at my computer, gathering what information I could about Greg Chang, 15 years old, in preparation for his annual IEP which I would be directing. 

On paper, Greg looked like one of the most promising students on my caseload. Greg had straight A’s, with a couple of A- and one B+’s thrown in. Greg had a couple extra curricular activities he did well in. Despite having a learning disorder and an IEP, Greg was in all general education, even some AP classes and appeared to be thriving. Most of the students on my caseload were failing so this kid felt like a dream. 

“Should be a pretty straight forward IEP” said one of my colleagues, who was helping me learn how to read and write IEPs. The public school process around holding IEP’s is and was a very messy, complex, legal business, and I was knew to it this year. However, I actually enjoyed the this part of my job the most. Not writing IEP’s, but really delving deep into who my students were, what they needed, and creatively figuring how to get their diverse needs met at my school. I wanted to dig deep with Greg. It was my first year and in terms of paperwork, legalities, and district work, I was a baby. But my interest and skills in analyzing and helping my students were all I had and for the most part thats what made my parents and administrators happy, not to mention the students. 

Despite teaching special ed classes daily, I never actually taught any of the students on my caseload. I had gone out of my way to meet Greg, who was a polite, quiet, respectful and studious person, but I had virtually no opportunity to see how he functioned in class. I pretty much had only data and word of mouth from teachers to learn about him. I tracked down his teachers and learned all I could from them. 

The results were interesting.

“He works very hard, but he often doesn’t follow directions. It’s very arrogant, but he’s always so polite so I let it slide.” 

“He does an excellent job, but he has a temper.”

“I’m really worried about him, he full on broke out in tears the other day in class. Still, he composed himself and insisted on finishing the assignment.”

“He gets really angry in class and clearly has some issues.” 

“He works very hard and does well on all his tests.”

I read that his two older siblings had both gotten into prestigious universities. His parents were dumbfounded when they had learned, over a decade ago their youngest child had a learning disorder and weren’t sure how to handle it. 

I thought for hours and hours about Greg, what he needed, what was going on for him, and what I could get the school to do help. 

What I was hearing about Greg struck a chord with me. He reminded me of myself more than any other student. 

Unlike Greg, I never got good grades in school. The first time I did well was in junior college, where I worked very hard. I worked while in high school as well, but it never seemed to earn me decent grades so I gave up. I wasn’t really diagnosed with a learning disorder until I was 30, and even now my diagnosis is controversial as not everyone in the medical community accepts it as a real diagnosis. But my struggles learning and functioning in school were very real. What I did learn to do, was work hard. “Something is seriously wrong with me” I remember thinking at age 10. “If I work really hard my whole life to learn this stuff, maybe I’ll be normal.” Overcoming a learning disorder was a very difficult process for anyone, let along a child. It requires a great deal of maturity, insight, hard work, strength, emotional support, and perspective. Not many adults I know have that kinda maturity and resources to accomplish this, and to place that on a child is very traumatic. Most likely children who overcome learning disorders, like myself, carry deep scars about who they are, truths about the world, school, and life. The comments above made me think that Greg may be carrying some of these scars, wounds unhealed and festering. They are a heavy burden. 

At the IEP I met Greg’s Dad. He was a very well-dressed professional looking asian gentleman. With his other kids at prestigious universities, I couldn’t began to speculate if Greg’s parent’s were “Tiger parents.” Parents who show their love and support by believing in their kids and pushing them to do their best. It’s possible given Greg’s culture this may be the case, I’m not sure actually. But what came out of Greg’s Dad’s mouth shocked me. 

“My son needs to relax. He studies way to much. He devotes to much of his time to school work. My wife and I both strongly agree he needs to learn there is more to life than academic achievement, hard work, and success. I want him to relax and have more fun. We need to make this very clear in the IEP.”

I realized in some ways the Dad was looking at this as a hopeful intervention for his son. 

Greg came to IEP as well. Greg wants to attend MIT after he graduates. Greg is joining the Dragonboat rowing team. Greg had ideas on how he can improve his grade in PE to an A from an A-, if only he had more access to PE equipment. 

I read Greg the comments from his teachers. 

“He works very hard, but he often doesn’t follow directions. It’s very arrogant, but he’s always so polite so I let it slide.” 

Greg often doesn’t understand directions. His disability is audio processing, so he honestly doesn’t follow verbal directions well. He very much takes on leadership roles when doing group work, so he makes his best guess on what the directions were and using context clues figures them out, but sometimes he gets them wrong. 

I reflected how Greg’s disability here is ignorantly interpreted as arrogance, a common mistake. I too have been overly polite to teachers and other figures because my own learning disability has been interpreted before as arrogance. 

“He does an excellent job, but he has a temper.”

“I’m really worried about him, he full on broke out in tears the other day in class. Still, he composed himself and insisted on finishing the assignment.”

“He gets really angry in class and clearly has some issues.”

“He works very hard and does well on all his tests.”

“Son, I see how hard you work everyday, and I know it’s taking a tole on you.”

Said his father. 

Greg got quiet. He looked sad. He looked angry. 

“Let me tell you something” Greg began. 

“Tomorrow, I am taking a math test. Today in class I spent the entire class practicing the review sheet. I listened the to teacher, like I do every day. I redid the review problems 3 times. I found more review questions and learned them. Today after school, I will go home and enter a bunch of questions onto an online quiz program, and practice for 2 hours. Sitting next to me in class today is my friend Tony. Tony finished the review sheet in 15 minutes, did not listen to the teacher and spent the rest of class goofing off. Tomorrow, he and I will take the same test, and we will both get the same grade. Each of us will get an A. This is my life. This is what I live with. Is this fair? No, it’s not, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to quit. This is why I am angry.”

When Greg said this, my heart sank. Greg if you haven’t noticed is quite intelligent and insightful. It takes both of these traits to learn to overcome a learning disorder. Greg is right, this is not fair. I don’t blame him. 

Learning to live with a learning disorder is not fair. Learning to achieve academic success is wonderful, but it requires more strength, more development, more maturity, more hard work than other kids. We discussed then how this process is unfair, but in the end Greg will develop and mature stronger than his peers. It will be years, if every if Greg’s peers will catch up in work ethic, self-discipline, metacognition, problem solving, creativity, and even executive functioning Greg has achieved. Greg isn’t your standard overachiever, he’s more like warrior. A veteran who came back from a war with tons of skills in battle, but also scars and painful truths about our world. He lost the innocence of being a child, even a teenager, long ago. 

We set up counseling services for Greg, everyone agreed this is what he needed most, including himself. There are no easy answers for Greg, he’s right, this is unfair, but that didn’t mean he was going to give up. How to handle this truth of the world, is a lot to put on anyone. Most adults I know can’t even handle it. They’re just glad they aren’t him. Greg is forced to accept a concept to painful for most people to even hear, but he is not one to backdown from a battle.

My student, was in dire need of support despite his straight A appearance, carrying invisible scars and strength from a battle hidden from others. 

[rebeccaseattle]

I’m trying not to be racist; realizing my own ignorance

I waited about 5 minutes to meet her, my new hopeful roommate. I waited in the shade outside the gate of the “gated community” she lived in. I was nervous. What if she didn’t like me? What if she saw how homely I was and decided I wasn’t classy, professional, nice enough for her? What if she saw how fat I was and secretly was biased against that? I dressed in a way that I felt honestly depicted myself as a person, but also made sure I was clean and groomed well.

She came up the hill and greeted me. I liked her immediately and quickly felt at ease. She wore the kinda dresses I loved, was similar in weight and size to myself, and had a friendly, cool demeanor. 

We talked about teaching, boundaries in the home, parking, the apartment complex. I had never looked at getting an apartment at a place like this before. It was clean, too clean almost. One of those complex where everyone has the same lay out, every wall is painted neutral tan, everyone has a parking spot with a number. She pointed out the lovely geraniums and explained the little side gardens were maintained by professionals who were nice people and fun to talk too. I realized there was no chance/no need for me to attempt to start my own personal little garden, it was all done here. 

Inside, the lay out was very predictable. Everything was quiet. There was nothing unique or interesting about the building, clearly modern. The walls, landlord white. The carpet, tan, again. The windows, lovely view of the of the tan wall next door, again. Standard sliding door out into the parking lot, standard new kitchen, dishwasher: generic, predictable, but immaculate and clean. It reminded me of my in-laws place, only less decorated. Clean, safe, generic, where the personality of the place lay in the people, in friends and family, not in the walls or the architecture. All that was need was a an empty place and the people are the ones who made the home beautiful. 

She was cool as she showed me around. She showed me a sliding hall closet full of beautiful traditional Mexican dresses, and explained she was in a dancing group at her school she worked at. She talked about how she felt more seen at the school than the school she grew up in, since there was this dancing troupe she was in. Since she was into Mexican dancing, I showed her the video I had taken of graduation of my own school that had traditional Aztec dancers. They were very different than what she did. 

“Sorry” I found myself saying. “I don’t mean to lump all latin culture together.”

“They’re both Mexican!” she replied to me. And I knew this, she was talking about one type of dancing from Mexican culture, I was talking about another. But she never explicitly told me she was Mexican specifically, and I didn’t want to assume she and the art she practiced were the same, it felt presumptions and ignorant of me. She had described herself as Latina, and never got specific, but clearly, she was Mexican. She talked about a night club where there was 4 different types of Mexican dancing on different floors, and immediately I wanted to go with her. 

She told me about her recent breakup, and that lead me to opening up about mine. I found myself explaining the details of separation from my husband. I then found myself wanting to be very honest with her about myself and my life. I mean if we were going to be roommates, if this was going to work, I needed her not to blind to me and who I am going into it. She had great empathy for what I was going through, on a very authentic level. She told me about her own recent troubles, a head injury she had that slowed her life down as recovery was a process. It clearly had shaken her world. She spoke up about a point of view around teaching that I found really helpful and insightful. I realized she was very self-aware, insightful, introspective, intelligent, and that’s what I wanted in a roommate. I also realized she needed home to be a safe, quiet, clean, environment she can use to recover from the day in. 

I felt like I could be more honest with her than others, and I needed to be if this was going to work out. So I asked her:

“Do you have any reservations about me being your next roommate?”

She thought for a while and expressed some concerns about me returning to my marriage, but also, in a very polite, diplomatic way, she explained that essentially, I might be too white to be her roommate. She currently had a white roommate, and could have another one, but it was clear she was hoping for something else. I realized with horror, my last name, taken from my Mexican husband might be misleading. 

As a white lady, immediately some part of me was on the defense. No, I’m progressive, open minded, and all these other excuses came with some knee-jerk reaction about how I AM NOT A RACIST!

I listened to her explain though: she did think I was ahead of the game and mentioned things I had said that to her that sounded very progressive and aware for a white person. 

“But you can be the most educated, self-aware, white person, but will still never know what it’s like to be not white.”

I couldn’t argue with that. And truth be told, I knew somehow it wouldn’t work for me to live there with her. It wasn’t what I needed. The colors were to mono-chromatic, the place was strangely, too clean (and I like stuff clean). It felt sterile, too bare. She was interested in letting me hang some colorful art up and add to the environment, but I didn’t like the tan walls, the tan carpeting, the generic feel. I hated the dull, the no-work garden, the sliding door, my perspective bedroom, I hated all of it, and I could tell it was comforting to her. 

“Wait a minute” I thought to myself. “Open your mind a bit, stop being so racist! Just because she has a different life style than you doesn’t mean it won’t work, you can adapt, you can grow out of this, you can LEARN from her!” Suddenly I felt this was the right thing to do. I wanted to mention to her that my current roommates weren’t white, but black and asian. I even mentioned that I had spent 15 years living with a Mexican person, my husband whom I was freshly separated from. We lived harmoniously for 15 years together and he taught me a lot about his culture. As if somehow living previously with others who are different colors than me somehow made me pass a test and now I’m down with people of color everywhere and totally safe and overcome all racism in my own background. 

I realized, one tendency I tend to do as a white person, is somehow put POC in roles of ambassadorship. Yes, I have a black friend, now I’m not racist see? He approves of me, how can I be racist? I had a white friend tell me once I can’t be racists because I was married to a Mexican person. Yes, apparently all Mexican people everywhere are exactly the same and if one approves of me, then well I have all of Mexico on my side arguing “she’s not racists!” (facepalm emoji here).  

It sort of reminded me last summer at a teaching professional development I went too where we encouraged to write our own ethnic biographies. Two of our teachers shared theirs. One was a woman whose family had immigrated here from Africa a generation ago, another the standard white male from the US. They both shared their own ethnic biographies, but I found myself silently groaning internally as the white dude went first. His ethnic biography felt too familiar to me, not interesting enough, and too privileged. He was the standard white male, and it felt like his story was heard all the time. ALL THE TIME. Why did he take the stand first? Why was his story so celebrated and put up front and center while the black woman waited patiently? Then when the 2nd teacher went, her story did have lots of insight for me on racism, she mentioned though she chose to go 2nd and not talk first. She explained that people of color are often put in positions where they’re expected to educate others and are pushed to share things that are hard for them, and she wanted other POC in the group to know she didn’t expect or put that kinda pressure on them, and they don’t have to be in that role. 

That changed my thinking, a lot. As a white person, I didn’t want to be racist, and was willing to learn and be open to learning about racism, and I wanted to learn from those who had been oppressed and give them the microphone, since my culture tended to silence them. And at many times, that does seem like the right thing to do. How often have we ignored the voices, accomplishments, contributions to history of non-white people? Is that not a huge aspect of oppression; making them invisible? I wanted them to have a voice. But there’s a difference between that and immediately placing the first non-white person I see into a role of a teacher. Just expecting someone different than me to teach me about my own racism, putting that responsibility on them, really was quite entitled, ignorant, a form of tokenism, and actually dehumanizing. It wasn’t the job of this prospective roommate to help me overcome my own ignorance. It was mine. 

The distinction between giving people of color the microphone and letting them feel heard, and presumptuously expecting them to educate me, is a huge difference, but for me felt like a fine line that I can’t always see the boundary for. And it’s my own ignorance and background as a white lady that prevents me from seeing that distinction. 

Further more, expecting one person to educate me, then somehow having a good relationship with however many POC is not some sort of proof that I’ve completed my degree in “not being a racists person.” They are not my teachers, unless they chose that role themselves. They are my friends, family, community members and they don’t speak for the entire complex world of racism, cultural differences and relations around that. 

Cool! I found another way I’m racist and something else I need to learn. It’s always a bit painful for a white person when we realize an area we are ignorant too. I have this phobia of Rose Parks herself coming out of the wood work, pointing her finger at me and yelling “RACIST! You’re racists!” at me. It’s very humbling and scary facing my own ignorance. However, that fear, prevents me from honestly looking at my own prejudices, ignorance, and tendencies, and really doesn’t help it. So I need to own it, and admit it. My ex taught me the best way to do that, is actually through laughter. “If you can’t laugh at yourself, you’re taking yourself to seriously.” 

Yes, my ignorance is a rather serious issue to me, but it makes it a lot easier to face when I laugh at it. I haven’t quite got it down yet, how to laugh at my own ignorance, but when I have it really took the fear out of it, and made it easier to face. So, here’s to me, the silly-assed white lady expecting this poor woman to turn her home into my personal growth experience!

Anyway, my prospective roommate was really cool, and explained she was though seriously considering me as roommate, but had a couple others to interview. I looked around though at the tan carpet, the safe, colorless walls, the standard dull medium gated community, and part of me wondered if this made her feel safe here, and if that is interwoven with her specific personal culture and history. Who knows, maybe? I couldn’t jump on board though, I needed more color, more antique charm in a building, more quirky features in a room. She needed a place to relax after a long day of teaching. She probably has to deal with racist white ladies all day long as a teacher, should she really have to come home to rest and deal with another one? She considered me progressive and less racist than others, but still. So as she walked me up the hill to the gate, I realized that I wouldn’t be happy as as her roommate either. We just each needed a different type of home, and where our preference began and culture ended, was just to complex to unweave. And I can face and admit that without trying to somehow justify that “I’m not a racist,” but it’s hard for me. 

While I re-read this, everything I’m saying feels so obvious, and I can’t help but laugh at how stupid I sound, finally realizing my own ignorant thoughts and behavior, in my attempt to overcome them. So, I feel pretty stupid. Thanks for not judging me to harshly. 

So, thanks for reading. 

Crazy white lady quote: “I WENT HOME AFTER THAT TO MY BLACK ROOMMATE AND MY WHITE ROOMMATE AND DID JUST FINE, SO SEE PERSON READING, DON’T JUDGE ME, I’M NOT RACISTS, THEY SAY SO!” 

#white priveledge #confronting my own racism roommate hungting

[rebeccaseattle]

Fuck School

#teaching #shool #rebel teacher fieldtrips trauma

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FUCK SCHOOL

#school teacher fieldtrips trauma

[rebeccaseattle]

Stand and Deliver

I am, practically speaking a math teacher. Technically speaking, I am a mild/moderate special ed teacher, but I teach math, to special ed kids, mostly.   

Growing up, one movie I saw over, and over, and over again in school was Stand and Deliver. It was played almost every day we had a sub or the teacher didn’t have a plan, etc, etc etc. Then, my senior year my school theater program (of which I was highly involved) decided to do the play version. I essentially memorized that film. If you don’t know the movie, is carefully based off a true story of the famous math teacher, Jaime Escalante, an immigrant from Bolivia, whose teaches/coaches/mentors a handful of underserved high school students from a gang-ridden Garfield High School in LA into taking and passing the AP Calculus exam. These students success is so impressive, that they naturally are accused of cheating and the students have to retake a harder version of the test to indeed prove they do know math that well. 

Anyway, now that I am working math students, I asked myself, should I show the movie to my students? Somehow no one in my school seemed to know about the film. I’m sure things have changed in the 15 years since my own high school experience, and I’m in a different demographic. So I researched the movie carefully and how different educators felt about it. 

I ended up reading a lot about Jaime Escalante and the true story the film was based on. It was actually pretty close, a lot closer than your usual Hollywood films, it’s inaccuracies were few and not to dramatic. 

I found one fascinating blog post all about why teachers should not show this film to their students. One major point was, while Jaime Escalante was clearly an amazing educator who lead his kids to success, he was very controversial. Not only at Garfield high school as is portrayed in the film for pushing his kids so hard and setting high expectations for him, but also for later in life as he supported “English Only” movement in education. Many had the opinion that such an outlook is oppressive to students learning English as a second language. Most of the blog readers I read who said this, were like me, white, and native English speakers. I found this fascinating. I don’t necessarily agree with the English only movement, I don’t have an opinion and don’t think it’s my place to form one at this time. However, I think it’s possible to separate one person’s endeavor from another and appreciate one without the other. For example, I do in fact like Einstein’s general theory of relativity, however Albert was a huge jerk to his first wife, Meliva (whose name appears on one of the early drafts as its often said she helped with the math involved) and left her penniless with 3 children he refused to support for over a decade. Still Albert Einstein did do an amazing job of figuring out, testing, and working on this theory and that’s still amazing and inspiring. So I don’t think that was a valid reason to not watch it. 

Another educator wrote that Stand and Deliver was in the same spirit of “Dangerous Minds” which is definitely a movie about white saviorism. That movie, whose title alone offends me, also based on a true story, is about a white lady who comes to a gang-ridden high school and teaches English to underserved populations and like reduces gang violence or something (it’s been a while). That of course is a theme I need to avoid at all costs, savorism is a horrifying myth I seen projected onto my job, more on that later. For more fun we can watch the SNL skit “Pretty White Lady.”

However, Stand and Deliver is not the same as Dangerous Minds. The teacher is not a white person, but an immigrant himself who is technically classified as Latino. Okay, yes Bolivia is a very different country than say Mexico, or the other countries my students, or his, may come from. And I’m sure they don’t speak the same type of Spanish is Bolivia then say other countries, but still he’s an immigrant literally speaking the same language as his students. 

Also, the other factor I had to point out, is the math in Stand and Deliver, is actually very real math. In college I learned an excellent short cut to integration by parts, that my professors learned from the movie. Today things are a lot better, but in that era, the math in movies, was actually quite fake, and bad. The math that is done in SD, is actually quite accurate. It’s real calculus, algebra, and trig. I figured if nothing else I could show it to my kids purely for them to try to recognize the math happening in the movie. 

So I played the movie for my students and kept an open mind. I tried not to lecture or get to preachy toward them, I just wanted to be open to how they responded and then figure out if this was an advantageous movie for them to see. I did tell them to be aware of the various math tricks that happened in the movie. 

Also it was my first time watching the movie since I learned calculus and was very excited to revisit these scenes and examine the math. 

So here is the results:

1. My kids loved the movie. If for nothing else, they liked watching a movie in their math class. They would much rather watch movies then do math. It didn’t matter that the movie was nearly half a century old, still better than doing a worksheet or something. 

2. One thing that I noticed is that a number of my kids liked that the movie was about latina/latino students. A number of my students have a lot of pride in their ethnicity. While there are a number of white people in the movie, they show up in minor supporting roles. Much like the reverse of what we see in Hollywood today. The movie really is about Latin Americans and they seemed to appreciate that they were in the foreground. The minute it started, one of my students who had never spoke to me before then, told me about one of his favorite old movies, that was casted completely by latino actors. 

Furthermore, while Escalante is central, and he is portrayed as a hero, the real heroes of the movie are actually the high school students. It was very much a movie about kids in high school that delved into their family lives, dating issues, career decisions, conflicts with friends, etc. So it’s also a movie about high school kids. 

3. In addition, despite the movie being around 40 years old, there were a couple of cultural elements my students seem to relate to. For example, the way my students greet each other and their particular hand shake (which I can’t do, but am learning, growth mindset) was done in the movie by adults. In the scene when Guadalupe was putting her brothers and sisters to bed, one of my students, who identifies as Mexican, called out, “That’s a Mexican household there. That’s my cousins” My students commented on what food was being cooked in scenes and compared it to their friends and families’ cooking. In the conflict scene where Escalante confronts the college board representatives about the accusations, they were super engaged, predicting, accurately what Escalante would say next and how they would have handled it. They pointed out to me we have the same desks as the students in the movie (facepalm here). They even explained to me, the subtext of the gang violence around Angel in the movie. This is something I didn’t see or understand when I was a kid.  Of course this wasn’t the whole movie. A lot of the scenes culturally didn’t make sense to them, they were outdated, not relatable, or relevant. 

4. They liked that the movie talked openly about racism. Going back to that scene where Escalante confronts the school board, they were super engaged. They got very excited when Escalante confronts the college board representatives, and the fact that they were sent out because of their distinct ethnic backgrounds. They liked that the racism was being called out rather than everyone turning a blind eye and closed mouth. Most of my students, regardless of ethnicity were engaged in that part. 

Some of the kids though just spaced out, or were on their phones. I still have mixed feelings about the film, and would welcome other’s opinions about showing stand and deliver as a math teacher. It could be they were just grateful for a chill day. 

For me, I noticed a few things. 

1. The math is very accurate, and there are a couple of really cool math tricks happening in it. Namely integration by parts and the trick to multiply by nines using the fingers. 

2. I liked that Escalante pointed out the Mayans understood the concept of zero long before europeans did. I personally also like pointing out white people did not invent algebra, middle easterners did. I think the history of math is important, but is often whitewashed to be just about the Greeks and Romans. Often in history, only white history is told and the accomplishments of groups is silenced. 

3. The only math flaw I saw in the movie was when Escalante read ln(x-1) as the words L N. Any Calculus teacher worth their weight would of course read it as “The Natural Log of x minus 1. 

4. There are all sorts of subtext I understand now as an adult, that I didn’t as a kid. The fact the Ana leaves the test early so others won’t be accused of cheating off of her, or that Guadalupe doesn’t have a place or time to study when she’s at home. 

5. There is a honestly, the kids are clearly treated unfair by society and the movie points out this truth. The kids rise above by having to work extra hard to retake the test. I don’t know about the message of having the kids to work extra hard, I don’t want to get to preachy in my profession. But at least it acknowledges the unfair, racist elements the kids deal with, rather than be in denial or victim blaming I often see. It does have the message that the the kids are up to the challenge. They may have to work harder, but they are certainly underestimate by those in power over them. That makes an interesting point, but I’m not sure what it is yet. 

Anyway, I showed the movie this year, and I would love other’s thoughts about it. 

#stand and deliver #Jaime Escalante Math Class White privledge

[rebeccaseattle]

OMG I am a teacher now.

I really hated school as a child. All of it. I mean there were parts that I enjoyed. Halloween is always more fun with kids, and the younger the better. 

But aside from that, I hate being in school. I’ve always thought that the worse job I could possibly have, is being a teacher, because it would put me back in that exact environment I was stuck in for so long. But it was more than that. I looked at all the things happening around me in school, and saw problems; Lots and lots of problems with no easy solutions. I saw kids heckeling and being cruel to teachers. Kids cruelly bullying each other and hiding it so the wouldn’t be caught. Kids working very hard in class, and not learning anything. I saw inconsistency from one class to another, cheating, disengaged teachers, and worst of all my self esteem get pulverized and my confidence shrivel. 

School was a big awful mess with nothing to be done about it. Maybe one day someone smarter than me would come around and fix it, but until that day, I’ll just survive the process, do what I can, and get the fuck out of there. 

And I did. I went and studied a subject that I was told was in great demand in the work force (and it is), overcame a lot of problems, developed myself as person, healed a lot, and then found myself becoming a teacher despite so many attempts to do the exact opposite. 

At first, it was simple. I could always get part time work tutoring, it paid well when I was younger, and I was surprisingly talented at it. I liked it, I found ways of teacher that worked, but more importantly, I loved the colorful brains of my tutees. 

Then I found myself working in little colorful learning centers, after school programs, leading fun study group type of things. They were always these soft, warm, colorful places where kids could relax and be themselves. They were therapeutic places where I felt safe learning, and so did my kids. “I’m not a teacher” I’d say to myself “I’m doing this other supportive thing instead.”

Soon I was working in various alternative schools, set up to help the most challenging of kids in warm, therapeutic places where I saw the scars of trauma of public school healing, both in me and my kids. These became nicer and nicer, and soon I was working for the for-profit school industry. I loved how safe these places where, but hated they were almost only servicing a very rich privileged wedge of society. 

I showed talent and developed a lot of skill around serving some of the most difficult students, and soon developed the skills of a special ed teacher. I loved the work, Autism, discalcuila, ADD, ADHD, non-verbal learning disorder, dyslexia, I loved all of these disorders and the beautiful workings of my students minds. I loved understanding them, their fascinating way of connecting to the world, and building bridges to them and various academic subjects. it was a wonderland to me. I fell in love with nuerodiversity, the fact that people think differently is a good thing in our society. My students, often labeled with “learning disorders” always had more insight, perspective, and thoughtfulness that I found working with them to be more intellectually uplifting than others. In other words, their nuerodiversity made them smart, and whilst connecting with them, they took me on journeys and showed me more about life then the average bear. 

Then one of my close friends, a school administrator who understood my talents, kept pushing me to work for the local school district. There’s a program where they could help me earn my SPED credential and I could be teaching all kids, not just the very rich. I told her how traumatizing I found public school, and didn’t want to go back. She responded that this exactly why I need to be there. People like me have the ability to understand what kids in my position are going through and have the sensitivity to actually help. At the same time, my current beloved school was about to fall apart. I saw the writing on the wall, and knew it was only matter of time before I needed to get out of there. This happens you know, schools rise and fall, rise and fall, they get better, get worse, experience rennesainces, fall apart, etc. My school was amazing, but was clearly about to fall totally apart into something I didn’t want to stay and watch so I applied for the program. 

It was actually very competitive, but I got in. I did some scary-ass student teaching over the summer (more of that later) and tada! I now teaching in a wonderful public school, earning my SPED credential in my spare time, and suddenly the dam is broken and tons of emotions around school trauma have resurfaced here. 

I know I am strong enough to try to sort this stuff out, I will get through this. And I know I’m a good enough teacher to do an excellent job here. I’ve been getting great feedback. However, everyday I freak out and wonder “How the F did I end up here?” My own trauma around school has returned, and I have to process it, understand it, heal it. It’s a process. I realize now, that maybe this is the reason why I’m in education. They say trauma repeats its self until it is resolved. I think I might just end up teaching forever, in scarier and scarier situations until I am able to heal the trauma in me. 

Meanwhile, I feel the need to write like crazy about all of this. 

Thanks for reading. 

RebeccaSeattle

[rebeccaseattle]

Dear Lory (An open letter to one of my students. Names and details have been changed)

Dear, Lory, I’m so sorry you lost brother in such a violent, brutal, unfair way. I know this will sound ridiculous, but you’re still a child. 

I see you, putting the pieces together here, of your life, of who you are becoming. I see you forming your self. 

No one needs this Lory. It’s not okay. It’s not okay your brother is dead. You shouldn't have to go through that. 

People will victim blame this situation. Part of me is asking why? I want to logically grasp, I’m scrambling for a reason to make sense of a world that allows this to happen to you, ya know? 

It feels so messed up and wrong to me. It’s totally unfair. People, including myself will search for a reason. Why was your brother in a situation where he was shot and murdered? You said to me “We all grew up in the streets.” You said it calmly, your eyes looking at nothing, softly, yet matter-of-fact. You weren’t trying to milk my empathy, you were just quiet and you. 

I don’t think you chose this Lory. I doubt your brother would have wanted to chose this fate, for him or for you. 

I see you trying to chose your own life, here. 

I see you dancing with the Pacific Islander club. Are you pacific Islander? I honestly can’t tell. Don’t matter anyway, they’re inclusive, friendly and will take you. You’re making friends here. You’re joining clubs. Apparently you’re in flag, softball, and volleyball you say. 

You have personality, sass, you made fun of me once when you caught me taking leftover food home to my family from the cafeteria. You ridiculed me when the fruit broke my backpack and rolled all over the floor. Did you think laughing at me in from of your peers would make you seem cool to them? 

You told me I was to in your face when I quietly tried to help you in class. You were new after all, came in the middle of the semester. I figured you needed a hand. 

I get so annoyed when you spend class time putting make up. OMG pay attention please! I’m trying to freaking teach you!

You talk about me getting a makeover, getting me to dress up and going to prom, in pants. Gwad it feels like I’m in high school again. And I guess I am, as a teacher though. 

But when you saw your progress report, I saw your face. Sad, innocent, and honest when you saw your F. You shook a little, asked me if this was your final grade, and if you could do anything about it. There is, you can change it, you can improve your grade Lory. 

I saw you dance at the assembly. It made me cry how lovely your community performed. That’s special. 

I saw you that evening at the culture night, I came because my friend went, and there was free food, and I wanted to stay late to get caught up on my work. I was at work that day for 13 hours, and I left before you all danced again. 

You were crying when you asked me for extra credit. A friend turned it in for you. You were away at the funeral. 

You have a look of pain when Ms. Larson comes down hard on you in class. That’s her way you know, she’s too rough and I’m to soft. Don’t take it personally kid, were just each doing our best. I think it stings in you a little though. 

I’ll try not to take things to personally too; like when you talk during my explanations, put on make up when I’m teaching, or txt your friends in class. Larsons is pissed when you do this. I think you’re just trying to form yourself though, establish your community, assembling your personhood. I just glare over to you, you say “my bad” and pay attention for a moment or two. 

Larson and I, we put your seat next to a wall, and Greg. He’s too quiet, keeps to himself. We wanted to open him up a bit. You fixed that fa sure. He’s slowly starting to trust me a little. Like you do. 

Ms. Larson was pessimistic, but you came to my room after school, stayed for nearly two hours, retaking quizes and doing extra credit, learning math. 

We had visitors, everyone wanted to come say hi to you. They love you. 

You worked very hard, for one day. And I may have to have fudged it a little, it took a lot of points raising your very low F to a D, but you did it. 

Lulita was happy I reached out to you. I’m slowly earning her trust, she’s doubtful of me; I’m a white lady. But she knows a little of what I’m about. She called me “Hella smart” last week. 

I love you kiddo and I see you putting pieces together, slowly forming your life. It’s hard. You can do better you know. But I’m glad you try. Hope is my middle name for you. I’m super proud of you. 

I’m sad about your brother though. It’s the weight you have to bear, it’s hard for me to accept. I’ve supported kids who are working out trauma before, I know I can do this. I don’t want to become an enabler, but I do want to strengthen that part of you that does care about your grades. I want to support it, build it up, and help you learn that you can improve things in your life through hard work. But most importantly, I want to support you as you become the person you are. 

-Your math teacher